Tales from Kalgachia - 13

From MicrasWiki
Jump to navigationJump to search

The village of Gettwich was located on the western slopes of the Splatterhorn klippe in the Lieutenancy of Katarsis - an area only lightly touched by the many civilisations which had coloured it onto their maps over the millennia. The current Kalgachi regime seemed no exception; its investments in the Bergburg/Katarsis/Jollity area had been generous, but Gettwich lay some fifty kilometres outside this triangle, on a lonely road which did not even have the decency to terminate in the village; the few travellers upon it were invariably tourists and military trainees who continued on to the ski slopes in the next village of Underhorn, a charming little resort nestled at the foot of the Splatterhorn itself. For all that the inhabitants of Gettwich had wished it over the centuries, Underhorn had stubbornly avoided getting wiped out by an avalanche and continued to condemn Gettwich as little more than a grotty waypoint on the way up, deprived of all worthy consideration by travellers and government planners alike.

Occasionally, however, Gettwich got lucky. On this occasion, the first winter snows had rolled in unseasonably early while Underhorn's snow plough still lay in a thousand pieces in its maintenance shed. The local road clearance protocol, as laid down by the Abbot of the Splatterhorn March, stated that each Parish was responsible only for clearing those roads leading downhill from it. Gettwich's snow plough was in working order, and duly cleared the road down to the adjoining parish of Triweggs. The task was completed in a morning and a gentle trickle of travellers began to arrive in Gettwich, prevented from continuing to Underhorn by the thick snowdrifts which still blocked that stretch of road. Some were equipped with snow shoes and asked the Gettwich partisans to guide them to Underhorn on foot, a request which was refused under a flurry of pithy excuses. From previous experiences, the partisans knew what was good for Gettwich; the visitors, loaded with Kalgarrands and wishing to stay until the road was cleared, would fight to outbid each other for the six rooms of the village's only guest house. Once that was filled, the inhabitants of the adjoining cottages would suddenly experience an outbreak of charity and open their own doors for similarly inflated fees. The oppurtunity did not arise often and it had to be taken whenever offered.

As before, a detachment of partisans from Underhorn negotiated the blocked road on skis and arrived in Gettwich to request the services of their snow plough. As before, the request was denied. As before, Underhorn's partisans threatened to contact the Abbot of the March and have him order Gettwich to release its snow plough. And as before, the Credent of Gettwich called their bluff and told them to do precisely that - knowing full well that neither Gettwich nor Underhorn had telephone lines, and the enraged partisans would be forced to undertake the long and arduous journey to the Abbot's monastery which lay conveniently distant on the other side of the Splatterhorn itself.

Adlai Eberbaum was unlucky arriving in Gettwich a little after sunset, under a fiery pink skyscape prematurely ended by the fluffy grey onslaught of an incoming cloud bank which would doubtless dump more snow when it struck the mountainside. He had hitched a ride on a brewery truck from Katarsis City which dropped him off at the guest house - but the old lady in charge of the establishment could only shrug her refusal when he tried to obtain a room. The place had long since filled up, and Adlai followed her suggestion to go knocking on doors. Around the rapidly-darkening village he was met with a mixture of polite refusals and curse-laden exhortations to leave - all the houses were either full, or unwilling to take guests. As the first flakes of snow raced in on a sudden wind, Adlai became aware that he would need to catch the brewery truck before it left Gettwich; he would have no luck staying here. During his wanderings he had seen it parked on a gravel track at the top end of the village and now he began the stomp uphill to its location - only to be blinded by its headlights as the driver, trying to escape the village before the snow got too thick, wheeled hastily downhill. Adlai's waving and shouting was either unseen or ignored, and in a matter of seconds the red glow of the truck's tail lights had disappeared into what was fast becoming an all-out blizzard.

Stood on the freezing road as the snow plastered his black pea coat into speckled white, Adlai tried to quell his panic at being stranded - then he had a realisation.

The brewery truck had not delivered to the guest house - there would have to be a tavern of some kind where it had been parked. Taverns sometimes offered rooms. Adlai struggled up the slope and searched for the place, looking over the row of granite-brick cottages for a signed frontage. In the end he found the place by sound - it had no signs at all, but emitted a hum of music and the muffled cackling of tipsy conversation from those within.

The door emitted a cacophonous creak when he pushed it open, causing a dozen eyes to swivel and aim at him with unabashed irritation. Thankfully the music continued from an antiquated jukebox in the corner, a booming selection of nursery rhymes rendered in bawdy folk tones for adult consumption - the area was inhabited mostly by ethnic Lywallers and they knew what they liked. Alas it seemed they did not like Adlai, their eyes following him every step of the way to the bar which was barely big enough for the barkeep to stand behind. At this moment there was no barkeep, but a small hand bell stood the counter. Adlai rang it - the soft tinkle caused the tavern's patrons to groan with a cacophony of hissing, head-shaking and muttering at Adlai's brash impatience in actually using it. Sure enough, the proprietor of the establishment stuck his head through the curtain of beads behind the bar. His gaze was no less hostile than that of his patrons. He stepped forward, looking at Adlai's pea coat and its film of fresh snow, now melting onto the carpeted floor in steady drips. He angrily nodded over Adlai's shoulder to a row of coat hooks, hidden in a recess by the front door.

"Oh, forgive me," said Adlai, sliding the coat off and raising it to one of the hooks.

"Not that one!" snapped an old man sat alone at an adjacent table, nursing a drink with the appearance of stale urine. "That's Mister Merry's hook, an' he'll be here any minute."

"What about this one?" Adlai indicated the hook next to it.

"That's Mister Chortall's."

"This one?"

"Young master Mirgul... he'll knock yer block off if he catches you usin' his hook. He gets punchy after a few Schlepogorskayas, like."

"Have you thought about getting labels fitted?"

The old man hissed, a mist of saliva exploding from his mouth. "Why should we? We all know who's is who's. The guest hook is the one on the end... the broken one. Hang it up gently so it don't fall off again."

Adlai did so. By now the eyes of the other patrons were off him, but the barkeep, a stockly man of middle age, studied Adlai up and down as he returned to the bar. "If you're coming here to get out of the snow", he said. "You'll be buying a drink. This isn't a bus shelter."

"But of course," Adlai flashed a weak smile as he slid out his wallet. Three figures appeared close behind him, as if he had summoned them by magic.

"Eh, Bratok!" trilled a musty breath uncomfortably close to Adlai's right ear, laden with alcohol fumes. The accent was unmistakeably Laqi. "You know we have, ehh, traditions here? Mmm? Look at you, with your Yehudi nose. You Bergburgers, you are all about the traditions, yes? So maybe you would like to learn about ours?"

Adlai winced, well aware that he did not appear to have a choice. "What tradition would that be?" he smiled as innocently as he could.

The man on his left erupted in a drunken howl, his accent similarly Laqi. "Whennn a new person, he comes into our tavern... he buys drink for..." he swept his hand across the tavern with an almost sensual flourish. "...for everbody! For everybody in this place. Eh?"

The first Laqi leaned into Adlai's ear again. "And you know you are lucky, Bratok. It is a quiet night tonight, so... no excuses, eh? You Bergburgers, never short of Kalgarrand. We know this. We three will be drinking Schlepogorskayas, doubles all round. But first you will ask everybody else in this place, all of our friends here, what you will be buying for them."

A heavy hand landed on Adlai's shoudler with a thud, from the third man standing directly behind him. Adlai looked around the tavern in a quiet panic; his wallet would not cover drinks for them all, especially if they were inclined to abuse his charity. He looked plaintively at the barkeep. "Is this man right?" he said. "About it being a tradition of yours?"

"Ukhti!" growled the Laqi to Adlai's right, seizing his shoulder. "You are calling me a liar? Eh? Is this what you think I am?"

The barkeep, who seemed unusually engrossed in the glass he was polishing with a towel, muttered without looking up. "Leave him alone, gentlemen."

"Leave him alone, he says!" cackled the Laqi to Adlai's left. "Perhaps we should drink at home, eh? Drink with our home brews, instead of coming here every night and putting our Kalgarrands behind this bar. Eh?"

The barkeep said nothing, polishing his glass with a renewed intensity.

"The thing is, gentlemen," said Adlai. "I'm a charitable man, I really am. And it's true, I have some Kalgarrands to my name... you've got me on that old stereotype. But I don't think I have enough on me right now, to buy drinks for everyone in here."

The Laqis around Adlai burbled harshly at each other in their native tongue. Then the one behind him growled in a lower vice than the others. "You will show us your wallet, so we can check this..."

"Can't you just take my word for it?" said Adlai. "Actually, listen, I'm obviously not wanted here. So if you don't mind, I'll be on my way..." he turned and took a step towards the coat rack, only to be shoved violently back against the bar by the Laqi behind him, whom he now noticed to be of a very large build.

"Your wallet, Bratok," said the large Laqi, his dead brown eyes glaring at Adlai over alcohol-reddened cheeks. "Now..."

Adlai's vision of being imminently beaten into a bloody pulp was suddenly interrupted by the squeal of the front door. Everyone, including his assailants, turned to regard the newcomer - a well-attired Nezeni with a drooping moustache and beard composed of thick black vibrissae. At the sight of him, the grip of the Laqis on Adlai's shoulders was immediately loosened.

"Evening all!" chirped the Nezeni, whose eyes fell on the scene in front of him. "Ah... I hope you three aren't roughing up my friend Mister Eberbaum here..."

The Laqis let go of Adlai entirely. "Not at all, Bratok!" said the one who had first accosted him. "He is welcome guest here. Most welcome, eh?" He landed a reassuring slap on Adlai's back and muttered something to his two companions, before all three retreated to the corner of the tavern whence they had come.

"Heh," said the Nezeni, hanging up his coat and standing beside Adlai at the bar. "Luck's with you this evening, Mister Eberbaum. Not many come out of their first encounter with the Shakhmatov brothers with their face in one piece. I certainly didn't."

Adlai was uninterested in the observation, being more occupied with the fact that this complete stranger knew his name. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure," he said.

"Leron Sat," said the Nezeni, extending his silver-hued hand. "Credent of the Parish."

"Ah," said Adlai, his confusion only worsened by the sight of the village's most senior official in this dive bar. "Well met then, brother Credent." he shook Sat's hand. "And how did you come to know of my identity?"

"Madam Phusspott at the guest house," said Sat. "Told me she'd turned away a latecomer. Remembered your name from the documents you showed. It's too late to get out of the village in this weather, so I came to find you. Doesn't look good on the Parish if we let visitors freeze to death, you know. We have enough problems as it is."

"Well it's nice to be looked after by someone," said Adlai. "I wasn't going to get it from anyone else here, by the look of it." Restored in confidence, he spoke loudly enough to make sure the barkeep heard.

"Oh they're a decent bunch really," said Sat. "No different from you or I, when it comes down to the essentials. They're just a little catty around incomers. Call it an inferiority complex."

"I see," said Adlai, opening his wallet. "Well, for sparing me the cattiness of those charming three brothers over there, can I buy you a drink?"

"Oh put it away," said Sat, producing his own rather fatter wallet. "The Church has deeper pockets than you ever will." He snapped his fishlike fingers at the barkeep. "A double Stalemate Gin for me, and for our guest here...?"

"A Kossarstadt Slivovitz for me, thank you," said Adlai. "I can't say I know all the scripture, brother Credent, but I remember the passage that says it is easier for a Tee-al to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Garden Ketheric." He smirked provocatively.

"Quite so," said Sat, flicking a coin at the barkeep and picking up his drink. "But not if he's riding the Tee-al." He winked and raised his glass. "Zinta hatte."

"Zinta hatte." Adlai echoed the Yiddish toast and clinked his own glass to Sat's, knocking back a mouthful of the spirit and letting its warm fumes sink through him. "Although I'm only a Bergburger by blood. I was born and raised in Katarsis, back when it was called Highshoot."

"A rare native, then!" said Sat. "I gather the place has filled up with migrants since the Shrub's day."

"Well it's not a village any more, put it that way."

"So what brings you to Underhorn?"

"How did you know I was going there?"

"Because nobody ever stops in Gettwich. Do tell."

"I'm an epidemiologist for the DHPW. I've been assigned to Underhorn to make... an assessment."

Sat's bristly eyebrow lifted. "Of...?"

Adlai sighed, and looked around to make nobody was in earshot, and whispered in Sat's ear. "Technically I'm under orders to keep this confidential, but as you're a Parish Credent... have you ever heard of Dayanitis?"

Sat smirked. "Only during confession."

"People get it here in Gettwich, then?"

"Sometimes," said Sat. "I gather it's not too serious a condition, though. It's more the stigma of sexual transmission."

"Unless it's untreated," said Adlai. "True, the symptoms are restricted to genital itching but it does become steadily more intense with time. it's been known to drive people to suicide."

"So," said Sat with a squint, "are you saying they've got it in Underhorn?"

"Are you kidding?" said Adlai. "The amount of cases we've had reported to us, you may as well call the place Overhorn."

Sat laughed. "That'll wipe the smugness off their faces," he said.

"It's a serious matter," said Adlai. "If it continues to spread, you'll have another outbreak down here soon enough."

"Zaftig Zella," said Sat, gazing into space with an involuntary nod of the head.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Zaftig Zella", repeated Sat. "Everyone knows her. During the season, she dresses classy and plies her trade for visitors in the fancy apres-ski bars up in Underhorn. Out of season, she dresses down and services rather less prestigious clientele. Some say she'll do it for free if you catch her in a good mood. If her fancy clients knew who else she went with, they'd have a heart attack. If you're looking for a Dayanitis vector, I say look no further." He giggled again, shaking his head to himself.

"Have you met her yourself?"

"Even the clergy aren't perfect, mister Eberbaum. Suffice it to say that our last meeting was a long time ago. The collapse of Minarboria was... a very confusing time."

"It was almost extinct, you know."

"What was?"

"Dayanitis. It was a big problem in the Nohsis' day. It spread from a cluster around what was then called Mazeltov... Jollity these days. But in the intervening years, when it was called Sepulchre, the place was depopulated except for Lord Toastypops and his band of undead minions. The disease had no hold on them and the core of the infection area was broken... the fringe clusters would have died off, but then Minarboria collapsed and this whole region was filled with living migrants again. Millions of potential hosts. Now a new main cluster has formed, with Underhorn at its heart."

Noticing the smug grin spreading across Sat's whiskery face, Adlai continued:

"As much as you may want to spread this gossip, it'll be traced back to me if it gets out. So I'll do you a deal. You keep a lid on this, and I'll forget what you said about your experiences with Zaftig Zella. Although your information about her high-class business is much appreciated... it would explain the secondary Dayanitis cluster in Oktavyan."

"You drive a hard bargain, mister Eberbaum," said Sat. "You're more of a Bergburger than you think." He flashed an amiable wink. "But it's a deal."

"Anyway," said Adlai. "I have more pressing matters to think about at the moment. Does this tavern offer accomodation?"

Sat shook his head, fishing a small iron key out of his pocket and putting it in Adlai's hand. "Did you see the chapel on the way in here?"

"I did."

"That key opens the vestry door. The staircase from there takes you down to the underground rectory. The first room to the left off the lobby is a spare bedroom. There's a bathroom opposite. I would accompany you back but I'm feeling quite comfortable sat at this bar. So unless you want to stay until closing..."

Adlai glanced at the clock over the bar, the time upon its face provoking an involuntary yawn from him. "I'd better turn in actually," he said, "It's late and I've come a long way. I appreciate you helping me out like this, though."

"The Garden remains, and the Garden provides," said Sat, his voice taking on a soft gravity as if he were delivering a sermon from his pulpit. "If the road isn't clear by midday tomorrow I'll have the partisans guide you to Underhorn on foot. Sleep well, mister Eberbaum."

"Drink well, brother Credent," said Adlai, fetching his coat off the rack.

"Oh I will," said Sat, calling over the barkeep as Adlai swung the front door open and stepped into the icy night.

The blizzard had lessened to a few flecks of sleet. Adlai had made it halfway to the chapel across fresh snow when a familiar, and very unwelcome voice called from behind him.

"Ehh... Bratok..."

Adlai froze and turned around. The larger of the Shakhmatov brothers lurched out of the darkness, now more drunk than ever and swaying on his feet. His two brothers also swaggered out and the trio surrounded Adlai, shuffling ever closer.

There was nowhere to run. Adlai flinched as the larger Shakmatov got within brawling range and raised his hand - only to wave a small, shiny object which dangled from his fingers - it was Adlai's gold watch, which at some point in the evening had migrated off his wrist.

The big Laqi cackled with a moaning, drunken eruption of mirth. "This, watch, Bratok. It is yours, yes? You seem to have dropped it..." He lifted Adlai's wrist and pressed the watch into his hand, offering him a friendly slap of the shoulder. "Eh? Hehe... heheheh..."

"Ah," said Adlai, sliding the watch onto his wrist with a trembling hand. "Uhh, thank you."

Another of the Shakhmatovs leaned on Adlai's shoulder. "You know, Bratok," he slurred into Adlai's ear, "in the past there were four of us brothers. But that Credent Sat, you do not mess with him. Poor Lazar, his aggression was the end of him. And we would like to remain three brothers, so you go in peace, eh Bratok? Eh? Hehe..."

The three brothers joined together in drunken cackling, and they parted to let Adlai go. By the time he looked back from the bottom of the road, they had already stumbled back into the tavern.