Fiddlenose, sitting in the shade of the big fern that grew just in back of Goodman Uesto's granary, yawned a yawn that for his wee size threatened to transform the whole of his face into a single pit of pink throat ringed by fine white teeth. He could veritably swallow another brownie half his size-as if brownies were inclined to go around swallowing up their own kind. He was bored, and the big yawn was just one way he had to show it. As if part of a flowing wave, the yawn descended into a sour pucker of pinched irritability.
Where was that baleful cat?
Fiddlenose the brownie was tired of wasting his morning like a dull huntsman squatting in his blind. This was supposed to be fun-a prank and revenge on old farmer Uesto's calico torn. The twice-, no, thrice-cursed beast was the spawn of night terrors, the very hellion of farm cats, who managed to ruin all good, honest Fiddlenose's peace. Every night it howled, prowled, hissed, and spat till there wasn't a hope of either rest or joy for a proper house brownie. Too many times, it had smelled him out just as he was creeping indoors for a taste of grog and jam, or scared him out of his haymount nest as it went springing after the barn rats. Poor, suffering Fiddlenose couldn't stand it anymore. With the proper logic of an irate brownie, he had devised a revenge that was all out of proportion to the crime.
Only that cursed cat wasn't cooperating. He'd waited all morning with his twisted vines and stink-plant bladder, and still that feline monster hadn't showed. The shade under the fern was thick and stale, and Fiddlenose's eyes were steadily drooping into nap time.
Elsewhere, in a dingy ordinary in the meanest ward of Ankhapur, Will o' Horse-Shank, brownie by blood, opportunist by breeding, was in a sulk.
Fate's against me, he railed-venting in his own mind so no others could hear him. Two nights before, he was certain this morning he'd be in silk breeches and drinking firewine. It was sure he was a made man, and all by the wit of Mask.
This morning, though, he perched on a rickety old bench in Corlis's wineshop, still wearing the tattered hose he'd stolen from a child's laundry. Clutched like a great outlander drinking horn in his tiny hands was a battered pewter mug, half-filled with the cheapest sack old Corlis could pour-a pretty mean drink. Still, with no more than a ha' copper left in his purse, it was already more than Shank could afford. The brownie was not much heavier than a fat wharf-rat and barely up to a small man's shin, and the drink was already making good progress on his wee wits in these morning hours.
For the twentieth time, or at least as many times as it took to drink half the mug, Shank bemoaned the vile spin of Tymora's wheel that had reduced him to this treacherous state. For a week, he'd cozened an outlander merchant with a tale of dishonest captains, wreckers, smuggled goods, and a galley named Swiftoar, foxing the fool into letting Shank play the broker for the imaginary cargo. All it needed was another day, and the coney would have passed all his coin into Shank's hands and-heigh-ho!-that would have been the last of this little brownie!
But did the game play that way? No-the greedy fool had to talk around about his coming good fortune and that let out the truth. There was no captain, no Swiftoar, no cargo and, most of all, no coin for Shank to spirit off. Instead, Shank got curses and blows when he came to close the game-and all unjustly of course. It would have taught the outlander a proper lesson if Shank had made off with his cash.
He moaned it all again, even though there was no use in it, and swigged down another gulp of sour brew. The taste reminded him of the empty jingle in his purse. Corlis would be wanting coin for the drink, and Shank didn't have any. What he needed right now was for a quick and wealthy mark to walk through the door, something not very likely at this squalid ordinary.
"Too much joy or too much drink? Or a little of both?" a chipper, thin voice probed with just a touch of peevishness at having missed the fun.
Maeve stopped in the marbled hall, caught unawares by the stealth of her interrogator. Stealth wasn't that hard, considering the shadowed gloom between the pillars and the fact that the voice came up from somewhere around the height of her waist.
A halfling, fine-dressed in the gaudiest work the court tailor could tolerate, was suddenly beside the wizard, materializing seemingly out of nowhere. His garb was a garish mismatch-harlequin hose gartered with red silk and a rose and teal velvet damask doublet of intricate pattern, trimmed with more lace than a banquet table. It screamed of a soul utterly blind to taste… until one noticed that the blindness was actual. The little fellow's eyes were covered by a thick band of black cloth, and he clutched a short cane
Maeve was like to have leapt up in surprise before she realized it was only Sprite-Heels-or rather the Honorable Lord of the Watch Sir Sprite-Heels the Clever. (King Pinch's reward for loyal service was to put his fellow rogue in command of the city guard.) The knave had crept up on her yet again. For the years that she'd known him, the wizard was still not accustomed to the halfling's cat-footed ways. Blinded only twelve-months before, the half-ling still got himself about with surprising silence and ease.
Td say," Sprite drawled as he tipped his head to hear her echoes, "that's your poxing laugh-the one you make after you've just shook hands with some popinjay. You wouldn't be up to old tricks now, would you, Maeve? What would our King Pinch say if he heard his old gang was laying curses on his subjects?"
"He'd probably say I had my cause-and you would, too," Maeve sniffed back. "They got what they had coming."
"Don't they all!" The tap of Sprite's cane hurried to keep pace with her as the halfling fell in alongside. "Them wizards again?"
"Yes-them wizards." Maeve's face flared up redder than her usual cheery drunk-red. She hustled down the hall, a tornado of indignation. "They had no right saying all those things-not after all I've done for Ankhapur. Not a one of them there was ready to fight Manferic or do any of those things. / did and they weren't mocking me then. A pox is only the least of what that lot deserves."
"Of course, you're right, Maeve," the halfling said with a cynicism that masked his genuine sympathy. "Still, now, you go poxing every one of them, and people are bound to start asking about it. You could get 'em believing there's a plague here." The click of the cane's metal ferrule on the slippery-smooth stone of the floor set Sprite's words to a lively cadence.
"Ill pox every whoreson one of them."
"Maybe me and Pinch ought to go into the cure-all business." Not all that often did she latch on to an idea so fierce, but when Maeve did, Sprite knew there'd be sparks and smoke before it ended. "What'll Pinch say, Maeve?"
"A pox on our King Pinch, too!"
"Might be interesting," Sprite smirked.
They walked a bit farther. Their conversation had run out, lingering on the image of their lord-as much as they'd admit he was-covered with foul sores. It was morbidly amusing, but they both knew neither could bring it to pass.
"Drink?" With uncanny sense, Sprite tapped down a side hall toward his rooms. "~ "Why not?" Maeve agreed, resolved to be damned and determined even if it was almost dawn. There was always time for another drink.
With barely a fumble, Sprite undid the latch to his apartment and ushered her into the darkness beyond.
It was a full bottle (or two, since neither was keeping count) later when the wizard and halfling had come back to the question of respect