The Drawing of the Dark

their belts, so that their hands now had to be occupied with holding their clothing together. They left The room, red-faced, accompanied by howls of laughter.

'Mr Duffy!' Shrub cried, waving from atop the bar.

'In a minute, Shrub,' Duffy called, for on the other side of the room a suddenly irate merchant was slapping his wife and calling her vile names. Muttering a quick apology, the Irishman snatched up a brimming mug from a table he passed, and then dashed its foaming contents forcefully into the face of the misogynist shopkeeper; the man had just been filling his lungs for another burst of abuse, and was choking now on a couple of ounces of beer he'd inadvertently inhaled. Duffy lifted him from his chair by a handful of hair and gave him a resounding slap on the back, then slammed him back down into his seat. 'There y'are, sir,' said the Irishman cheerfully. 'We don't want any of our patrons choking to death, eh?' He leaned down and said more sharply but in a whisper, 'Or getting their ribs kicked in, which will happen to you if you touch that lady again or say any more insulting things to her. Do I make myself clear? Hah? Good.'

'Mr Duffy!' Shrub called again. 'There's a man to see you -The table on which the shepherds were dancing collapsed then, spilling the three fuddled jiggers against the bar, which fell over against the wall with a multiple crash. Shrub leaped clear, but landed in a dish of roast pork on another table, and had to flee from the wrathful diners.

A little while later Duffy saw Bluto edge through the front door, and waved. The Irishman opened his mouth to shout that he'd squared it with the serving girls about Bluto's free beer, then decided that such a statement, shouted across the dangerously crowded room, could only cause a riot. I'll tell him when I can whisper it to him, Duffy decided. I wonder who this man is that Shrub tried to tell me about.

A youth with black curly hair was slouched against the wall, and pulled his hat down over his eyes as Duffy sidled past. That's what's-his-name, the Irishman thought, Jock, the lad Aurelianus sent out last night to keep an eye on that precious king of his. I'd swear I've seen him somewhere outside Vienna. Where?

Duffy tried to pursue the memory but was distracted by the necessity of rescuing one of the serving women from an old priest turned amorous by the evening's heady brew. After encouraging the clergyman to recall the dignity he owed the cloth, Duffy lifted a mug from a passing tray and drained it in two long swallows.

'Here, here! Pay for that, sir!' came a voice from behind him. He turned and Bluto grinned at him.

'Hello, Bluto,' Duffy said. 'I've told the girls you're to get free bock till ten.

'Till ten? What happens at ten?'

'You start paying for it.'

'I'd better get busy then. Oh,' Bluto spoke more quietly, 'I finished checking the stores this afternoon. There's about a hundred pounds of black powder missing.'

The Irishman nodded. 'Nothing else?'

'No. Oh, maybe. One of the old forty-pounder siege bombards seems to be missing, but the armorer probably miscounted them when he made the list back in 'twenty-four. I mean, how could anyone carry away a gun like that?'

Duffy frowned. 'I don't know. But I'll keep my eyes open. You haven't seen Shrub around, have you?'

'Yes. He's in the kitchen. I saw him peeking in here a minute ago, looking scared. Where are your Vikings?'

'In the stable, drinking and singing. I'm hoping that if I keep sending beer out to them they'll stay there, and not try to join the party in here. Oh no, what are those shepherds doing to that guy over there?'

'Baptizing him with beer, it looks like.'

'Excuse me.

Twenty minutes later Duffy sank exhausted onto a bench in the corner and signalled to Anna for a pitcher. He had put down so many uprisings in the still noisy room that people within earshot of him - not a great distance, to be sure - kept a wary eye on him; the rowdier drunkards were shaken and, in some cases, pulled down from chandeliers or out from under tables and told to stop it by their more sober friends.

Shrub edged his way nervously through the crowd, leading a tall, dark-faced man who wore a heavy cloak and a wide-brimmed hat. 'Mr Duffy,' the boy said before darting out of the room, 'this gentleman wanted to see you. He's a Spaniard.'

He looks more like a pirate than a gentleman, the Irishman thought, but I may as well be civil. 'Yes, sir?'

'Can I sit with you?'

Duffy's pitcher arrived then, giving him a more tolerant outlook. 'Very well,' he said, 'pull up a bench. Have you got a mug to drink from?'

The Spaniard swiped an empty one from the nearest table. 'Yes.'

'Then have some beer.' Duffy filled both their mugs. 'How can I be of service to you? Uh, the boy was mistaken, I assume, in describing you as a Spaniard.'

'Eh? Why do you say that?'

'Well, you're stretching your vowels, but your accent's Hungarian. Or so it seems to my possibly beer-dulled ears.

No, damn you, you're correct. I'm Hungarian. But I think it's your eyes that are beer-dulled if you don't recognize me.

The Irishman sighed, and with some effort focused his attention on the man's shadowed face, expecting to recognize some old comrade-in-arms who would probably want to borrow money.