Chapter 5
Since we didn't have a chance to finish dinner, and were in dire need of a few stiff drinks after our ordeal, Hexe and I hailed a centaur and decided to go to the Two-Headed Calf. During the ride, Hexe didn't have much to say, and seemed lost in thought. From what I had gleaned from the conversation between him and his mother, there was considerably more family drama going on than I previously realized. Hexe had never mentioned his dad before, and I had assumed that Lady Syra was either a divorcee or a widow. Now it was becoming clear that things were far more complicated than just a messy divorce. Still, despite my curiosity, I refrained from asking any further questions concerning his father. I decided it would be best if he told me the story on his terms, instead of having it pried out of him piece by piece.
The Two-Headed Calf was situated a couple blocks down and over from the boardinghouse, and had been in business continuously since before the Revolutionary War. Above the entrance was suspended an old-fashioned wooden pub sign depicting its namesake: the left head goggle-eyed, tongue-lolling drunk, while the right head contentedly munched on a daisy. As Hexe opened the door for me, a cloud of cigarette smoke wafted out to greet us.
One of the more unpleasant aspects of Golgotham that I had been forced to get used to was the fact that damn near every Kymeran smokes like a clogged chimney, especially in public. Whether by sorcerous design or genetic fluke, they are not susceptible to cancer, so their attitude toward tobacco and other carcinogens is considerably different than that of human society. I counted myself lucky that Hexe didn't indulge in the habit, but I still had to deal with secondhand smoke whenever we went out on the town.
The Calf was jumping when we arrived, the bar elbow to elbow as a live band played in the back to a raucously appreciative audience-a good number of which appeared F the ady Syra to be human.
"Who are they?" I asked, pointing to the musicians playing an earsplitting cross of punk and traditional Kymeran folk tunes on electrically amplified violin, hurdy-gurdy, and accordion.
"They're called Talisman," Hexe explained, speaking loudly enough to be heard over the music. "I went to grammar school with the lead singer, Polk. They're getting some interest from a major label. It's about time there was a real crossover Kymeran rock act. Bowie doesn't count."
A handful of college students sat in one of the booths, talking animatedly among themselves as they nursed tankards of barley wine and took pictures of their surroundings with their cell phones.
Lafo, the Calf's head bartender, chief cook, and bottle washer, left his place behind the horseshoe-shaped bar and came out to greet us. He was close to seven feet tall, and with his long, flowing, ketchup red beard and the elaborate tattoos swarming his forearms, he looked more like a pirate than a respected restaurateur. As he welcomed us, my hand was briefly engulfed by his.
"Good to see you two, as always," he said with a grin.
"Seems you've acquired a new clientele." Hexe nodded at the looky-loos and chuckled.
"There's a write-up somewhere online listing the Calf as 'The Weirdest Place to Get a Drink in New York City,' or some bullshit like that," Lafo explained with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "They've been pouring in like water all week. I appreciate the business, but by the sunken spires, what a load of whiny chuffers! They're always going on about the cigarette smoke and asking for nachos and light beer. Where do they think they are? Applebee's? Plus, now the regulars are pissed at me because I won't kick 'em out!"
As he spoke, the door to the Calf opened and another knot of young humans arrived, gaping at the bar's interior with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. As they entered, a couple of the regular patrons exited, roughly jostling the looky-loos on their way out.
"See what I mean?" Lafo grunted. "Some of my best customers have accused me of selling out. Ha! You'll know I've sold out the day you see cheeseburgers on the menu!"
"We were planning to stay for a drink and some dinner, but it looks like you're full up," Hexe said as he scanned the crowded room.
"I can fix that," Lafo assured him. The tavern owner walked over to a nearby table occupied by a couple of young college kids. "Hey, you!" he barked. "Go stand at the bar!"
"But we're sitting here!" the braver of the two protested.
"And I own where you're sitting. So you can either stand at the bar and finish your drinks, or you can show me some ID. Which is it gonna be, kiddos?" The students grumbled under their breath, but they still got up and took their drinks to the bar. "There ya go-best seats in the house!" Lafo said with a lavish flourish of his catcher's mitt-sized hand. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll send Chorea over to take your order."
"Oh-are she and Faro back from their honeymoon?" I asked.
"Well, she's back," Lafo replied. "I'm not too sure about Faro's whereabouts."
A few seconds later Chorea, one of the Calf's barmaids, appeared at our table, order pad in hand and a ballpoint pen tucked inside the wrea Ksid"3">A few th of ivy and grapevine that adorned her raven black hair. The looky-loos in the booth opposite from us snickered as they blatantly ogled the maenad's voluptuous body through her gossamer-sheer chiton. My cheeks burned with shame, not for Chorea but out of embarrassment for the behavior of my fellow humans.
"Congratulations on your marriage." Hexe smiled. "Faro is a lucky man."
"Not if I get my hands on him!" Chorea replied sharply. "Did you know that bastard ran off and left me on our honeymoon?"
"Oh, Chory, I'm so sorry," I gasped. "That's horrible!"
"He ditched me in Crete, two days after we were married." The maenad gave Hexe a suspicious look. "You wouldn't have happened to have seen him lurking about?"
"No, I haven't," Hexe replied. "But if I run into him, I'll make sure he knows you're looking for him."
"Fair enough," Chorea sighed, mollified by his response. "So-what'll it be? The usual?"
Within moments of our nodding yes, the barmaid had a pint of Old Hurdy-Gurdy and a glass of the house red sitting before us. As I lifted my glass to my lips, the person at the table next to us-a Kymeran man with long pumpkin-colored dreadlocks-lit up an elaborately carved meerschaum pipe, adding further aromatic billows to the already smoky room.
A young human woman wearing a beret and a disgusted look on her face leaned out of a nearby booth and tapped the orange-haired Kymeran on the shoulder. "Excuse me-sir? Sir?"
The dreadlocked Kymeran turned in his seat to scowl at her, but did not take the pipe out of his mouth. "What is it, nump?" he growled.
"Sir, do you mind not doing that?" the woman asked in a tone that made it clear she was making a demand, not asking a question.
"Doing what?" the Kymeran replied, continuing to puff on his pipe.
"Smoking!" she replied in a voice just short of a shout.
The entire room fell dead silent as every eye in the bar turned to stare at the defiant human. Asking a Kymeran to extinguish his cigarette or pipe on his home turf was right up there with burning a flag, in terms of cultural insult. The dreadlocked wizard took the meerschaum out of his mouth and studied it for a moment, then shook his head.
"I do mind, thank you very much."
The woman in the beret blinked, taken aback by the Kymeran's lackadaisical response. "Smoking isn't allowed in bars and restaurants in New York City," she said with overstated politeness. "What you're doing is against the law!"
"Who's gonna arrest me?" The warlock chuckled as he blew a lungful of Borkum Riff in her face. "You and your nump pals there? This ain't Tribeca or the Village. You're in Golgotham now, girlie. You'd best remember that."
The woman and her companions hastily gathered up their coats and left the bar, muttering profanities under their breath. The moment the door closed behind them, the regulars gave a ragged cheer and a few came over to clap the pipe smoker on the back and buy him another round.
Hexe, however, did not seem to find the incident quite so amusing. "C'mon, Tate," he said. "Let's go upstairs to the dining room."
Suddenly there came Kly ng. "C a high-pitched, yet somehow masculine shriek from the back of the house. "Put me down!"