Milnam, proprietor of the Stumbling Ox, forced his way through the patrons, grabbing empty mugs and tankards. He could hold half-a-dozen in hand, build a tower on top of those, and push his way through a drinking crowd without any dropping or his elbow bending. With both his hands full he counted two score and more ales that would need replacing. Add his curfew tariff and that made a good weight of coin about to be added to his pile.
“If ye ain’t be drinking, be at the bar or be on your way!” he bellowed.
It was well past curfew and no patron wanted to be evicted.
“I ain’t got enough for an ale nor enough for the bell.”
The saddest sentence a drinker could utter. By proclamation all establishments outside the castle wall must sound a bell whenever curfew was broken. The ringing warned nearby homes that trouble was on the street and gave the town guard a chance at catching delinquent drinkers, and the guards were eager, for the sport and the share of the fines. Pass a small coin to the bellman at the door and he would miss his strike and your exit would be silent.
The spend-alls would huddle over their empty mugs, pretending to drink while trying to cadge another. When their mugs were snatched, and they were to be expelled, one would rush for the door and the rest would follow, trying to beat the bell and scattering clumsily into the dark street, staggering, colliding with one another, tripping over lifted cobbles and cart tracks. At least one was sure to fall to the ground and so into the arms of the guard, giving the rest the duration of a good beating to stumble away.
When a Hill-on-the-riverite declares the best ale house is the one closest to your door, this is the experience from which he speaks. Having your ale declared to be worth a beating is high praise to a publican and worth coins under the floorboards. But a publican with a talent for brewing can do better. In Hill-on-the-river ales tend to be judged by the punishment the drinker would endure for a mug full. By tradition the finely graduated scale started like so: a beating, a beating in spring, a wake-up in the lock-up, a sit in the pit. These were followed by lengthening periods of incarceration until a serious devotion to ale spoke: a stout hanging, a slack hanging, on the hangman’s first day, by the hangman’s apprentice. The ultimate compliment was a willingness to be hanged twice and left for the mice. This was generally accepted as the most one would, or could, suffer for a drink. And so talented brewers kept the town guard firm in the arm, the lock-up full, and the hangman, and his apprentice, employed.
On his way back to the bar, Milnam spotted a fellow taking up the end of a bench and with no mug in front of him. Having his hands full he kicked at the seat under him and smacked his back with his mugs.
“Where is your drink? This is no boarding house! Out the door with this fellow!”
“Leave him be, Milnam. I have his drink here.”
Milnam turned to see a lad, barely a man, fresh in the face and with the curly hair of a young girl. He wiped his wet grin and dropped a mug full of ale in front of the surprised fellow, splashing much of it over his face and shirtfront.
“Well, where be yours now?”
“Back at the bar. Couldn’t carry two through this crush. Haven’t got your practice.”
The lad turned and stumbled back through the crowd towards the bar. Milnam sniffed and battered his own way through the crowd, banging the empty mugs against the back of anyone who stood in his way.
“Publican! Make way! Make way! Move yourself, Waldal, you lump. You take the space of three, drink but a half and act likes it twice.”
He dropped all but a handful of mugs in their barrel, and with a quick dip into the keg of ale filled those he held and set them dripping on the bar in front of the waiting patrons.
“Who be next? Show me your coins! One for ale, one for curfew!
“I say, Milnam.”
It was that curly haired lad again, squeezing between two wharfies like a lamb between fence posts. He was not holding out any coins and there was no mug in front of him.
“A lady’s wine. In a glass, if you have one.”
Like two boulders shifting, the heads of the wharfies rolled on thick necks to peer down at Greefin.
“Let me see your money,” said Milnam. “It will be three for the wine, one for the curfew and eight for the glass. You’ll get five of those back when you return the glass. Twelve, boy.”
“I’d get an ale, lad,” said the wharfie on his left.
“Save your money, and you might wake up with some whiskers on your chin,” said the wharfie on his right.
“It’s the wine making your hair curly,” said the wharfie on his left.
“The wine is for a lady, friends. Let me put some whiskers on your chins. And two ales for these fellows plus one for myself.”
“Fifteen,” said Milnam.
“Well?” said Greefin.
“I am not pouring until I have fifteen in coin.”
Greefin reached under his cloak. He was still for a moment, then brought up his hand and slapped the coins on the bar.
“There is your fifteen. In milord’s coin. Certified by his mint. His royal face stamped deep in the pure metal taken from the royal mines. True in heft and color.”
Milnam swept it off the bar and into his apron pocket, spill and all. He had ales to sell and no interest in letting this lad waste his time. He slid three fullish mugs along the bar to stand in front of the men, then produced a thick-walled glass the color of river water and set it on the bar in front of Greefin next to his mug. He rolled a quarter barrel of wine off the back shelf and along his arm to rest in his wide palm. Like cracking an egg into a pan he pulled out the cork and with a dip and rise he filled the glass, then replaced the cork and returned the barrel to the shelf. Without another glance at Greefin he moved along the bar to the next patron.
After a quick toast with the wharfies, Greefin extracted himself from between their bulk and fought his way to the side room here he had left the delectable Betty Garters with that old and most unworthy merchant, Stiltet.
He found them with Betty’s hand trapped between both of Stiltet’s and her ear in danger of his mouth.
“I return! Sorry, old fellow, I did not have enough hands for yours, but it waits at the bar for you to fetch it.”
He held out the glass with wine to Betty and, after a few tugs and a sharp glance, Stiltet released her hand so that she might take it.
“Thank you, Greefin! What shall we toast?”
Greefin sat down across from Betty and leaned in towards her. She also leaned in towards him. The merchant sat back and pondered his situation.
“We should toast your beauty,” Greefin said. “But we must wait while our friend Stiltet fetches his drink.”
“Never mind fetching,” said Stiltet. He reached into his silk coat and drew out a small silver flask.
“One never knows what a boat carries and you soon learn to bring your own drink when you travel.”
Betty sat back from Greefin and eyed the flask.
“What have you there, Stiltet? Have you been keeping secrets? Buying me house wine while you keep your fancy draught to yourself!”
The merchant laughed and waved the flask around.
“This little thing? It’s nothing. It’s not worth a secret and it is not fancy.”
“It is so small! What is it?”
“A very tidy spirit. A strong liquor that takes an iron stomach and strong constitution to handle.”
Greefin stood up to get their attention. While they watched he drank down all of his ale and wiped his mouth. Neither he nor Stiltet noticed the contents of Betty’s glass disappearing between already sodden floorboards.
“Then it is no surprise it is not empty, Stiltet. For you appear to have neither.”
“Oh, young diviner! Are you saying you have both?”
“Both and more than you ever had.”
Stiltet crossed his arms.
“This is just a trick. You want another drink and hope to have mine!”
Greefin laughed at him.
“And that is your trick. Accusing me so I will not show you and your liquor to be feeble.”
“I don’t know who to believe,” said Betty, “but either way I am in need of another drink. Who will fetch it?”
“Do not give Stiltet an escape. A taste, Stiltet. Pour a taste in my mug. I will answer honestly to the strength of your liquor.”
The merchant unscrewed the top from the flask and let a small dribble fall into the mug.
“So little! That will just soak in and not pour out! Lift that elbow higher!” Greefin cried.
Stiltet poured a small stream and replaced the cap and returned the flask to his jacket.
“That is a little more than I would recommend, lad. Especially since you have already been drinking.”
“Nonsense,” said Greefin. “Too much for you is not enough for me.”
He up-ended the mug and shook it and made a great show of pulling it away from his mouth and letting the last few drops be seen falling into his mouth.
Stiltet figured it would take a minute or so for the sleeping elixir to work, but the young diviner surprised him, and Betty, by dropping almost immediately.
“It tastes like wrinkled tree nuts,” he said, and with his mug still raised he fell sideways onto the floor and began snoring.
“My! What strong liquor, Stiltet,” Betty said. She kicked Greefin with her delicate shoe. “He is quite gone.”
Stiltet took her hand yet again.
“Indeed, milady. And we should be gone, too. My boat drops oars at dawn and it would be a shame to waste those hours in this place.”
“Aye, and I must return before Madame Velvet retires. Let us go, but we cannot leave Greefin to the mercy of the publican.”
Filled with the magnanimity of a mature sire who has achieved victory over a young buck, Stiltet agreed. On their way out he waved Milnam over, dropped a few coins in his hand and had a word in his ear, ending with the barest of suggestions that the lad required a beating.
Waiting at the door for the merchant, Betty gave the bellman a coin.
“Not for me,” she whispered, “for the tangle headed diviner. He is no state to run from the guard.”
