A World Without Heroes - Brandon Mull [58]
The man and the door spun out of sight. When he came around again, wind ruffling his hair, the man held a meaty arm outstretched. Jason caught hold, and the man swung him through the portal.
“The lady also, I expect?” the man asked.
“Yes, please.”
Inside, Jason found a single large common room, with a circular bar curved around the center. Tables and chairs were fixed to the floor. Rafters strewn with glowing kelp added a turquoise radiance to the sunlight flashing through the moving windows.
Only a few patrons sat at tables, a few more at the bar. Two of the men seated at tables were dressed as soldiers. A pair of barmaids navigated the room with trays, leaning expertly to keep balanced. Here by the door the outward pull was difficult to resist.
Rachel came through the door, supported by the square-faced man. “Look at this place,” she murmured.
“I’m surprised there isn’t more puke on the floor,” Jason mumbled back. He strode to the bar, noticing how the pull lessened the closer he came to the center of the room. Rachel joined him at the bar, where the sensation was minimal.
“What can I do for you? I’m Kerny.” The bartender, a lanky man with a huge overbite and hair visible in his ears, introduced himself.
“Why is this place spinning?” Jason asked.
Kerny blinked. “An underground river turns a wheel far below us.”
“Does it ever stop?” Rachel asked.
“Only if the river does. The speed varies with the season. We’re going round pretty good right now. Takes some folks a little time to get accustomed, like earning your sea legs. The Tavern-Go-Round put us on the map. Back when maps were legal.”
Kerny turned to a man squatting on a nearby stool. The man mumbled something, pulled a copper pellet from his pocket, and handed it to Kerny. Jason began rummaging through his satchel.
“What food do you serve?” Jason asked, after Kerny had placed a bowl of stew before the man.
“All kinds of seafood. Best we serve is puckerlies. We keep them alive in a tank. You ever had puckerlies?”
“No,” Jason said.
“Nothing beats a platter of puckerlies served live.”
“How much?”
“Three and a half drooma. But worth it.”
“Did that guy just pay a drooma for that stew?” Rachel verified.
“Yeah. It’s really hearty.”
Jason and Rachel glanced at each other indecisively. At least Jason now knew that the copper balls were each a drooma. The bronze ones would hopefully be worth more.
“Can’t we get parasites from raw seafood?” Rachel asked the bartender.
“Not every puckerly is fit to serve,” Kerny said. “We’re selective. We don’t get complaints.”
“Haven’t you had raw fish?” Jason asked Rachel. “You seem like the type who would eat sushi.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Of course I’ve had sushi. How it’s prepared matters a lot.”
“How’s this,” Kerny offered, clapping his hands down on the bar. “I’ll let you each sample a puckerly. If you like them, order the platter. Agreed?”
“Sure.” Jason said.
Kerny returned quickly. In each hand he held a black thimble-shaped shell roughly the size of a plum. Jason accepted one and peered at the squirming, multicolored tissue inside. Rachel was right that raw seafood could be dangerous. He remembered his biology teacher expounding on the perils of consuming raw fish. Jason glanced at Rachel. “Ladies first.”
She gave him a snotty grin. “You’re such a gentleman when it’s convenient. I vote you be the guinea pig.”
Jason was acutely aware that Kerny was waiting and listening. Now was not the time to argue. Mutely dreading the unseen parasites about to turn his body into their vacation resort, Jason raised the shell to his lips.
“Squirt a little pulpa oil in there to loosen it up,” Kerny interrupted. “Otherwise you’ll have to suck like a tube-billed mud strainer.” The bartender held out a glass vial with a tiny mouth and inky blue liquid inside.
Jason tipped the vial above the puckerly, wrinkling his nose as the colorful flesh writhed at the contact from the dark drops. Tossing his head back, he dumped the contents of the shell into his mouth, disturbed that it kept squirming.