Universe Twister - Keith Laumer [93]
"None of that," Lafayette reproved himself sharply. "Daphne is as true-blue as they come, even if she is a little deficient in prudery. Why, she'd knock the ears off the first slicker who made an improper advance!" She swung a broom for enough years to have a solid punch, too, and she'd kept that trim little figure in shape by plenty of riding and tennis and swimming, once she was promoted to the ranks of the aristocracy. Lafayette remembered her, neat and curvaceous in a scant swimsuit, poised on the end of the diving board—
"None of that, either," he commanded. "Keep your mind on the immediate problem—just as soon as you figure out what the immediate problem is," he added.
The town's main street was a crooked, unpaved, potholed path barely wide enough for a cart to navigate, well dotted with garbage heaps featuring old fruit rinds and eggshells—no tin cans here yet, he noted. Dim lights shone from oiled-parchment windows. One or two furtive-looking locals eyed him from the shadows before slinking into alleymouths even narrower and darker than the main drag. Ahead, a crudely painted sign creaked in the chill wind before a sagging door set two steps below street level. The device was a misshapen man in gray robes and tonsure, holding out a pot. YE BEGGAR'S BOLE was lettered in crooked Gothic characters above the figure. Lafayette felt a pang of melancholy, comparing this mean dive with the cozy aspect of the Ax and Dragon back in Artesia, where he had once been wont to spend convivial evenings with a group of cronies . . .
Leaving Daphne at home alone, the realization struck him anew. "At least I hope she was alone," he groaned. "What a fool I was—but as soon as I get back, I'll make it all up to her . . ." He swallowed the lump in his throat, ducked his head, and pushed through the low door into the public house.
Greasy smoke fogged the air, stung his eyes. An odor of sour beer struck his nostrils, mingled with the effluvia of charcoal and burned potatoes, plus other, less pleasing additives. He made his way across the uneven dirt floor, ducking his head under the low beams from which strings of dried leeks depended, to a sagging counter behind which a slim female in gray homespun and a soiled headscarf stood with her back to him, rubbing at a soot-blackened pot with a rag and humming under her breath.
"Ah . . . do you suppose I could get a bite to eat?" he said. "Nothing elaborate, just a brace of partridge, a few artichoke hearts, and a nice light wine—say a Pouilly-Fuissé, about a fifty-nine . . ."
"Well," the woman said without turning. "At least you got a sense o' humor."
"Well, in that case just make in an omelet," Lafayette amended hastily. "Cheese and tuna will do nicely, I think—plus some hot toast and butter and a hearty ale."
"O.K.," the woman said. "Rib me. I'm laughing, ha-ha."
"Could you manage a ham sandwich?" Lafayette said, a hint of desperation in his voice. "Bavarian ham on Swiss rye is a favorite of mine—"
"Sausage and small beer," the serving wench said flatly. "Take it or leave it."
"I'll take it," Lafayette said quickly. "Well done, and no rind, please."
The woman turned, tucked a strand of pale hair behind her ear. "Hey, Hulk," she shouted. "Saw off a grunt, skin it, and burn it, the gent says."
Lafayette was staring at her wide blue eyes, her short, finely modeled nose, the uncombed but undoubtedly pale-blond curls on her forehead.
"Princess Adoranne!" he yelped. "How did you get here?"
Two
The barmaid gave Lafayette a tired look. "The name's Swinehild, mister," she said. "And how I got here's a long story."
"Adoranne—don't you know me? I'm Lafayette!" His voice rose to a squeak. "I talked to you just this morning, at breakfast!"
A sliding panel behind her banged open. An angry, square-jawed, regular-featured, but unshaven