He sceptically took the glass from the bigger man. Tuok clinked his glass against Miro’s and yelled "To your health!" into Miro’s ear.
"To yours!" Miro yelled back, following Tuok’s lead by tipping the glass into the back of his throat.
It was like fire, burning acid that tore at Miro’s throat as it wended its way painfully into his chest.
"Ahh," Tuok’s mouth moved in obvious satisfaction, as if sipping at a cold stream after ten days in the desert.
Miro began to choke but kept from obviously spluttering. He kept his face carefully calm as sweat beaded at his forehead.
"Very nice!" he shouted at Tuok.
"Well done, young lord." Tuok grinned back.
Tuok leaned in to speak into Miro’s ear. "How much money do you have?"
Miro felt into the pocket inside his jerkin. He carefully recounted. "Three deens and fifty-two cendeens."
"Good! Your round — ask for two large measures of Whitehaven."
Beginning to feel the effects of the drink, Miro grinned and turned to the bar, pleased to have an opportunity to look at the serving girl.
~
THE first few drinks passed pleasurably. Tuok and Miro withdrew further into the back of the bar where they could speak more easily. It took some time but they were eventually able to beg two stools and seat themselves up against the wall where there was a thin shelf.
Miro asked Tuok when it came to his companion’s round to get him a mug of cherl. Tuok laughed and came back with a huge pitcher of a dark, almost black, beer, with a crest of white foam. Tuok bought himself the same.
"Try it! It’s called Rootslinger."
It looked and smelled awful.
Miro cautiously took a sip. It actually wasn’t bad. The white foam tasted creamy, almost milky, and the dark liquid was surprisingly sweet.
"Not bad!" Miro said.
"Get caught drinking cherl around these parts and you’ll be called a woodskin or worse!"
Miro laughed. He had no idea what it meant to be a woodskin but his head was buzzing and he felt warm.
The next drink was another beer, much lighter in colour and with a bitter, slightly sour taste. It was served with a rough chunk of lemon in the tankard.
They then drank a thin fluted glass of honeywine, sparkling like the foam churned up by the crystal clear waters of the Sarsen.
Three big men who obviously worked at the Gilded Remedy cleared a patch of floor raised slightly higher than the rest. Presently two sober-faced men arrived, bowed from the waist in the eastern manner, and sat down on two squat stools facing the crowd. One of the men carried an immensely long flute that rested its base on the ground, while the other carried an instrument with a single string. He lengthened and shortened the string using a series of clamps and levers, causing it to emit a high-pitched warble.
The crowd seemed to know many of the tunes, almost everyone making some kind of effort to tap along to the beat, whether it was stamping their feet on the ground, clapping their hands together, or thumping their tankards on the bar.
Miro smiled and clapped along with the rest, often missing the beat but laughing his way through the songs. He particularly enjoyed the trills and low notes of the flute, so different from the chiming music of Altura.
He noticed Tuok chatting amicably to a Tingaran, the man’s broad face and shaved head giving away his identity. Tuok seemed to be telling a story, both men pausing occasionally to laugh uproariously.
Then Miro’s attention was completely refocused when a weight landed on his lap. It was the brown-haired barmaid, undeniably pretty, with a twinkle in her green eyes. Miro fought valiantly to keep his gaze away from the cleavage displayed under his very eyes.
"Oh, my pardon, young sir."
"Quite all right," Miro said, with an attempt to sound gallant.
"I seem to have slipped. Hmm, it is comfortable here though, am I bothering you?"
Miro fought to keep his voice casual. "No, not at all."
She snuggled further into his lap, her round bottom resting close to his body. "Perhaps a drink then?"
"Ah, of course. A glass of honeywine would be nice."
She laughed — a soft, girlish, tinkling sound. Miro had never been happier. "No, silly. A drink for me?"
"Oh, I’m sorry."
She laughed again, leaning in to speak close to his ear, her sweet breath tickling him. "How much money do you have?"
He felt around in the inner pocket of his jerkin. "Umm. At least two deens."
"Good." She smiled. "My name’s Esmara."
"Esmara," said Miro. It was the loveliest name he had ever heard.
She waved at someone, Miro didn’t see who. Presently a thin man arrived, with white hair and a hooked nose. He looked Miro up and down, before handing Esmara two glasses of honeywine.
"Mmm," she said, taking a sip. "Aren’t you drinking yours?"