Eritopia

Myrtle Tavern

Later that day, in a small inn behind the main square of the city of Eritopia, a small, stocky man asked for a pint of Reducer Ale. He counted the coins for it onto a well-worn, wooden bar.

Myrtle Tavern was full of men. Some were labourers, or unemployed, but most were council workers. In Eritopia many worked for the King, in his Palace or for his Council. Myrtle Tavern was their favourite haunt.

Beetle picked up his pint and went to join his fellow drinkers at a nearby table, taking care not to spill a drop. As he sat down a thin, long-jawed individual, asked, 'Ow's that eldest of yours gettin' on at the Ministry?'

Beetle gazed into his pint before answering.

'Bleedin' brilliant,' Beetle said, wiping dew off the rim of his glass with a forefinger. 'Better than his brother.'

'Still not 'elping out on your patch?'

'Can't be bothered to get off his backside. Too busy messing about with that lot at the Brotherhood.'

One of the other men sniggered. 'The King's too lenient with those trouble-makers.'

'Anarchists,' said another. 'Better tell your boy to look out.'

Beetle paused and drank from his glass, placing it back on the table. 'He helps me all right, but it's a chore to get him down there, and he's always moaning 'bout it. Don't know what goes through his head 'alf the time.'

'That's the trouble with young 'uns today – got ideas above their calling.'

'Don't mistake me,' Beetle said in a rush, 'I don't begrudge 'im ideas.'

He looked over to a table by a small casement window, where a group of council workers sat in conference. Wisps of smoke rose from their elegant tobacco ciglets into the already smoky tavern.

'Who wouldn't want what they've got,' he said.

'Your youngest will get there one day,' said the long-faced man. 'He works a bit in the Palace don't he?'

Beetle nodded as he drank his pint. 'Part-time, when they're busy. The kitchens. It's a long climb up from there though. In all respects.'

He looked at the council workers by the casement. Fine collars on their shirts and proper tobacco. If only Martin could get in there, what a change of fortunes the family would have. It's not as if he weren't clever enough.

'Are we still on for Friday?'

'What's that then?'

'Jug night,' said the thin man, putting down an empty glass.

'Yeh, I'll be all right,' Beetle said. The Reducer was having an effect, and he debated whether he could afford another. Melancholy crept over him.

'And bring the boy, might do 'im some good to see 'ow real folk enjoy 'emselves.'

'Might do,' Beetle said. 'Might do.'

The swirling smoke in the tavern slewed and billowed. Mouths moved, and words meshed with each other. Fragments of chatter, mixed with the occasional laugh, the clink of a glass. The smell of the ale and the wood, the exotic camphor of the ciglets drifting over. He fumbled in his pocket for the price of another pint.

'Hey, you.'

Beetle looked up.

'Make way, make way there.'

Two forceful men, dressed in the uniform of the Guardia, bundled over a young lad near the front door. One kicked him as he struggled to get up. They escorted a third man past him to the bar. Tall, thick set, dressed in dark robes, and with a black beard and long black hair, the stranger exuded menace. They disappeared into a room at the back. Through the door Beetle saw the landlord, Jacobi Higgins, bow and wring his hands in front of the newcomer.

'That's the King's new Advisor,' said one of Beetle's companions. 'Name's Melos. What does 'e want here?'

'He comes to get away from the Palace I reckon, not everything is good over there,' said another.

'Mainly due to 'im, I 'heard, said another. There was nodding and grunts of assertion at this.

'I 'eard he put a spell on the King, who follows 'im round like a lapdog.'

'Like a bloody spaniel!'

They all laughed. Clanking of glasses. One of them got up and imitated a hunched figure shuffling along with bowed head. 'Ruff, ruff!' He barked. More laughter ensued.

Later, his third pint of Reducer finished, Beetle was out on the street. Passing into the square, he looked across to the Palace. The great iron gates were rusted and bent. Behind them a long tranche of concrete steps led up to the courtyard. Overgrown oaks shadowed it, and fallen branches littered its broken pavings. The grand facade of the main building was barely visible behind.

Beetle wondered if the King spent time looking out of its filthy windows. What he would make of the gossip on the streets and in the taverns? Would he approve of the rumours of discontent? Worry about the sufferings of his citizens, the atmosphere of revolt fostered in the bars? And what of this new Advisor, who seemed to wield more influence than he ought to?

Beetle turned up his collar and moved away. In truth he cared little for the thoughts of the King or the actions of the Guardia. As long as it didn't affect his family, or the small living he made from the local jug operations, all was fine. Turning the corner into Job Street a wind blew in his face, and crowds of leaves swirled around his feet. Autumn was not a good time, he knew too well, for those living off the land. Especially if you had secrets bound to it, and a suspicious and enquiring Council at your shoulder too.

He didn't know why, but a cold feeling crept up him from the knees as he stumbled along. And it wasn't only on account of the bite in the wind, or the holes in his trousers.

Or the time of the year.