After Hours: Tales From Ur-Bar Read online

  No pain shot up her leg. Not even a twinge.

  Laughter burst from her, a harsh sound, but triumphant, wild and exuberant. She took another step, and another, emerging completely into the sunlight. She flung her arms up to the sky, danced briefly, to the annoyance of the workers and merchants and shepherds trying to pass by, one with a ram in tow. “Bless you, Ninkasi! And curse you, Enlil!” She spat onto the ground, eyes narrowed in rage. “Curse you for cursing me. But I am released! I am free!”

  Behind her, Gilgamesh came to the alehouse’s entrance, began to step outside as he said, “What do mean? What are you say—”

  As soon as his foot touched the ground he roared in pain and flung himself backwards, back into the shadows of the alehouse, where Kubaba couldn’t see him. But she could hear him, fumbling among the tables and chairs as he regained his balance, as the pain in his leg began to fade into the tingling numbness she had grown to know so well. She’d stopped cackling and dancing in the street. She stood now, clear of the alehouse’s doorway, and watched its blocky shadow in silence.

  When Gilgamesh appeared again, balanced on his good leg, the numb one held carefully to one side, he said through gritted teeth, “What have you done, bitch? What have you done to me?”

  She snorted. “What did you think, once-king of Uruk? That immortality came without a price?”

  “You lied to me!”

  She shook her head even before his roar ended. His hatred was palpable, like the heat of the sun against her flesh. “I told you the conditions. You have your immortality, and you have the alehouse. You can never leave, can never step beyond its doorway. But the alehouse . . . and its keeper ... can never be destroyed. You will live forever, Gilgamesh. Or at least until you find someone like yourself, someone so desperate or so afraid that they will willingly take your place.” She paused, watched the rage roil in Gilgamesh’s eyes, and felt no pity. “I’ve left you the vial and the tablet. You have everything you need. The alehouse will provide the rest.”

  Then she turned, stared up into the sunlight through squinted eyes, then lowered them toward the city of Kish and smiled. She began moving into the city, toward the hills where the temples and the king’s palace lay. Behind her, Gilgamesh spat curses at her back, called upon the gods to strike her down, to slay her where she stood. But she ignored him.

  The gods had taught her something after all. Perhaps aspiring to be a god was too great a goal for now. She needed something more reasonable, something attainable, no matter what the cost.

  Perhaps if a king could become an alewife—

  Then an alewife could become a king.

  WHY THE VIKINGS HAD NO BARS

  S. C. Butler

  THE old man leaned on his staff. Yesterday, the longhouse had been abandoned. Today, through the magic of hard work and a little silver, it almost looked like a jarl’s mead hall.

  Maybe he could find a way to use the change to his advantage.

  A raven flapped down to perch on the peak of the sod roof as the old man crossed the yard. A second raven followed him through the door. In the shadows inside, the few idlers who were always the first to discover this sort of establishment drank their way through the afternoon. The sweet, sour, too-familiar smell of ale cloaked him as heavily as his own garment.

  He recognized the proprietor. Word of the man’s fate had preceded him, even here, where little was known of the world beyond ice and blood, and even less of the past.

  The question was, would the proprietor recognize him?

  He brought his staff down heavily on the plank table at the back of the hall. The raven settled in the rafters.

  “It’ll never work,” he declared.

  The proprietor ignored him, continuing to wipe the table. Like most of his type, he was stoic, but not bright.

  “What will never work?” the proprietor asked.

  The old man swept his staff at the longhouse behind him. “You can’t run a public ale house in Daneland.”

  The proprietor shrugged. “I have worked rougher towns.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “We shall find out soon enough.” Hanging his dishrag over his shoulder, the proprietor began setting out a fortune in small glass cups on his wooden bar. “To tell the truth, I have been looking forward to coming here for some time. You Norsemen have quite a reputation.”

  He laced his fingers and stretched ostentatiously. The muscles in his arms and shoulders rolled like whales on the surface of the sea. “I look forward to finding out if the reputation is true.”

  Despite himself, the old man was impressed. Even Thor would have his hands full with this one. Still, he liked that the man was so sure of himself. It would make him that much easier to use.

  “You like causing trouble?” the old man asked.

  “To tell the truth, I am starting to prefer the quieter towns. My name is not as famous as it once was. In Cordoba, only a few scholars recognized me. The last thing they wanted was to fight me. An interesting town, Cordoba.”

  A sow stuck its snout through the door. One of the men at the front of the hall heaved an empty bowl at it. The sow squealed, and disappeared.

  “Hedeby isn’t Cordoba,” the old man said.

  “I knew that before I got here.”

  The old man leaned forward with his hands on his staff, bringing his face closer to the proprietor’s.

  “You don’t recognize me, do you,” he said.

  He caused what little glamour he was using to fall away. The proprietor stared back at him stupidly. The old man threw back his tangled gray hair to reveal his empty eye socket, and summoned the raven.

  The proprietor shrugged. “I have met gods before.” He began piling his glass cups into a small ziggurat. “Your Norsemen will be no different from any other drunkards.”

  “That depends how drunk they get.” The old man held out a hand. The raven hopped from his shoulder to the end of a knobby finger.

  The proprietor shook his head. “It is always the same. In every place and every century, whether I serve beer, wine, or mead. Or ambrosia.”

  The old man pointed his staff at the small casks on the shelf behind the table. “What about those? You think it’ll be the same when you serve them?”

  The proprietor gave him a curious look. “You know about those?”

  “I do. We’re not all ignorant in Daneland.”

  “Care to try a glass? Your good opinion would make my establishment an instant success.”

  “No, thanks. I only drink wine.”

  “Will Andalusian do? It is the only vintage I carry.”

  The old man did not resist. He sipped the offered glass unwatered, enjoying its fullness. His thoughts drifted to the warriors he had left carousing in his own hall. They would like this place.

  “I could help you settle in, you know.”

  The proprietor looked at him suspiciously. He had some experience with gods, after all.

  “Why would you help me?”

  The old man shrugged. As usual, the lie came easily. “Hedeby could use a little sophistication. It might be good for my people to learn there’s more to life than blood and beer. But even you’ll find it hard to control them without my help.”

  “You wish to join me behind the bar?”

  The old man snorted, and drained his cup. When he was done, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, picked his nose, and offered what he found to the raven.

  “The last thing you need is me hanging around, stirring up trouble. A pretty woman or two would be much better. And good for business. A proper Dane or Gotlander likes to have a pretty woman pour his ale for him. Or whatever else he’s drinking.”

  “I like a pretty woman.” The proprietor winked.

  Yes, the old man thought, this one was still true to the type. A few more centuries might pound some sense into him. In the meantime, his predictability might provide some amusement.

  And some reward.

  “Uncle, is it true the Sons of Odin turn i
nto bears when they fight?”

  Abjorn looked down at his sister-son. Almost seven, the boy was old enough to learn the truth rather than the hearth-tales he heard from his mother and the skalds.

  “Calling the Sons of Odin bears is a kenning, Tyrvi. When the mood comes upon them, they fight more like bears than men. But they never actually turn into bears.”

  “Snurri says his father can turn into a bear any time he wants.”

  “Snurri is mistaken. Perhaps Snurri is not old enough yet for his father or mother-brother to tell him the truth the way I tell you.”

  Tyrvi poked the fire with his wooden sword. Thin gray smoke curled up toward the roof, where a patch of sky showed through a small square hole. Clearly the boy prefered being able to turn into a bear to the truth.

  “Snurri is two months older than I am,” he said. “He says his father told him he could turn into a bear. He says the Sons of Odin go into the woods at night and sing songs and eat mushrooms and then Odin One-Eye turns them into bears. And no swords can cut their skin, or anything.”

  Abjorn thought before replying. He did not want to say that Snurri’s father was a liar. At best, that meant Tyrvi would end up in a fight with Snurri. At worst, it meant that he or Tyrvi’s father would end up in a fight with Snurri’s father. Joffur was the largest man in Hedeby, the largest and strongest man Abjorn had ever seen. He was also one of the slowest-witted, and quickest to take offense at any perceived slight. The last thing Abjorn wanted was to spend a week avoiding Joffur until he and Leiknarr had a chance to ambush him. The notoriety would not be worth the trouble.

  Besides, Joffur was just ignorant enough to think he could turn into a bear.

  “Perhaps Snurri and his father know something your father and I do not,” Abjorn said. “But if they do, it is a secret, which means it might be better not to talk about it with them any more at all. If Snurri brings the matter up again, you should talk about something else. You could ask him how old he thinks each of you will be when you make your first voyage, or fight your first battle.”

  Abjorn hoped the boy was listening as Tyrvi swung his sword back and forth across the room. His imaginary cuts were so ferocious, the thin plume of smoke wavered before him like a coward.

  “When I grow up,” Tyrvi said, “I will be a Son of Odin. I will win a score of battles, and die fighting over a heap of gold.”

  Abjorn laughed. “Yes, and the Valkyries will carry you off to Valhalla, where you and I, and your father and grandfathers, and all our grandfathers before us, will fight and die again together like true men.”

  Tyrvi gripped his sword more firmly and attacked the fire pit even more vigorously. Abjorn watched him proudly. From the room next door he heard the sounds of his sister singing to his sister-daughter as they baked and churned. It was a good life they had here in Daneland. Farms and fields for wives and cattle, the sea close by for voyaging, and fresh lands to raid and settle everywhere. He was only just back from his own first voyage, silver pennies jingling in his pocket from the treasure he had sold to the smith and slaver, but it was good to be home again all the same. Next spring Hastein would call for ships to sail to Mercia, so that they could conquer that country the way they had conquered Northumbria, but in the meantime Abjorn could spend the winter at home. Tomorrow he would set off for his father’s farmstead, where his mother would make much of him, and his father would put him to work with his brothers and thralls in the fields.

  The door to the street opened. A blast of cold frightened the flames more thoroughly than Tyrvi’s sword.

  The boy attacked his father’s legs viciously as he entered the house. Leiknarr allowed his son his triumph, then packed him off to his mother with a smack on the backside. Helping himself to a bowl of ale from the cask in the corner, he joined Abjorn.

  “I have heard some interesting news,” he said. “A Frisian told me there is an ale-house south of town.”

  Abjorn fetched a bowl of ale of his own. “What is so special about an ale-house? The Saxons have scores of them.”

  “This is no Saxon ale-house. The owner is a Saracen.”

  “A Saracen?” Abjorn spat in the fire. “I do not accept drinks from thralls.”

  “The Frisian says this Saracen is no thrall, but a free man doing business like any merchant. Only his trade is not furs or slaves, but hospitality.”

  “Hospitality is no trade.”

  “If a man can buy a bed slave, why not a cup of ale?”

  “Why should I buy a cup of ale when I have good drink brewed by my sister right here?”

  Leiknarr looked at Abjorn over the top of his bowl. “Ale is not the only thing the Saracen offers.”

  “I have no need to pay for mead, either.”

  “It is not mead. The Saracen serves a special brew. The Frisian says he brought it all the way from Baghdad.”

  Abjorn’s eyes widened. Leiknarr had sailed with Bjorn Ironside when that brave jarl had sacked Algeciras and Rome, and had brought home many tales. As a boy, Abjorn had always enjoyed the stories of djinnis’ caves and magic rings.

  “Even you have never been to Baghdad,” he said.

  “It is called al-kuhl.”

  “Al-kuhl? It sounds like the name of one of their djinnis.”

  “Al-kuhl is not a djinni. Though from the way this Frisian describes it, like as not it was a djinni who first brewed it. He says it is a drink fit for Odin himself.”

  Abjorn waved a dismissive hand. “It is probably just some sort of wine.”

  “Whatever it is, I would like to try it. And if we do not hurry over to the Saracen’s establishment right now, we are unlikely to get our chance. Everyone was talking about it on the dock—they say the Saracen has brought a limited supply. You can stay here if you want, but I do not intend to miss the opportunity. Even when I sailed the Middle Sea, I never heard of al-kuhl.”

  Leiknarr wagged a finger, then placed it on the side of his nose. “They say it tastes like fire.”

  They started at once. The sun had almost fallen, and the sky had gone the color of steel. A breeze from the Schlie iced the town. The two men’s feet clomped heavily on the wooden boards that covered the half-frozen streets.

  The guards at the gate laughed when they saw them. “Better hurry up,” one said. “Half a dozen Franks just passed through ahead of you.”

  The other hiccupped and rubbed his head. “It was worth every silver penny I had, but you will feel like you spent the night inside of a drum tomorrow.”

  Abjorn and Leiknarr left the two guards arguing about who had drunk more and followed the road into the countryside. A pair of ravens pecked at the dirt in front of them, flying ahead whenever the two men approached too close.

  They heard the ale-house before they saw it. A crowd stood drinking and quarreling outside. Abjorn recognized most as the sort of men who rarely saw the inside of a jarl’s hall, let alone a king’s. Landless men not so good with their arms that they had won places for themselves in Normandy or Northumbria, but not so bad that they had been outlawed either. Though they were drunk, they knew better than to challenge Leiknarr, who had done great things in his day, or Abjorn, whom everyone knew would do great things in his. Instead they eyed the two men as they approached, and fiddled with their drinking horns and ear spoons.

  A maiden greeted the new arrivals at the door. Abjorn was surprised, as much by the fact that she was both beautiful and richly dressed as by her presence. So beautiful, in fact, that he almost lost his tongue. Her hair, pale as the whitest gold, was pulled back behind her head in long braids knotted like a crown. Her blue robe was richly embroidered, and the silver brooches that clasped her apron were intricately worked. Beneath her white throat hung a necklace of perfectly matched beads and stones.

  “Welcome, brave heroes,” she said. She offered them a smile and a golden bowl. “May my gift of ale grace you with strength, wealth, and manly vigor.”

  “Well said, maid.” Leiknarr took the bowl.

  Abjor
n sniffed its contents after his sister’s husband was done. “It is only ale,” he said.

  The maiden laughed. “In Gisl’s establishment the ale is freely given. The Saracen al-kuhl, however, you must purchase from Gisl himself.”

  Extending a graceful arm, she led Abjorn and Leiknarr inside.

  There was hardly room for them. A mass of Danes and Franks, Norse and Rus, Wends and Gotlanders, packed the hall as tightly as a hull full of Sami furs. Every one of them glared belligerently at the newcomers, cups and horns in their fists, daring them to pass.

  They parted for the maiden. Abjorn and Leiknarr followed in her wake. Past the fire pit, at the back of the hall, they found a large Saracen standing behind a wooden table ladling what looked like pure water from a small cask into tiny glass cups. He bore himself like a jarl, or a hero out of some tale more used to battling giants and draugr than serving beer. Nearly as tall and broad as Joffur, his neatly groomed dark hair and beard clung to his head in tight curls. Clearly this man was no thrall.

  “Welcome, heroes,” he said. He refilled the maiden’s bowl from a larger cask on the floor. “Have you come for the fine ale, or do you seek rarer tastes?”

  “We hear you have brought something new to the north.” Leiknarr eyed the smaller barrel.

  The Saracen tapped the cask with a thick finger. “One of the wonders of the modern world,” he said. “I have brought it all the way from Baghdad, the center of wisdom and learning. Frankish priests call it aqua vitae. The Arabians who invented it, al-kuhl. Would you care to try it?”

  “It is why we came,” Leiknarr said.

  “It is expensive. One silver penny will only get you enough to fill one of these small cups.”

  The Saracen held up one of the tiny glasses set out beside the cask. In his large hand it looked no larger than a thimble.

  Abjorn had seen glass cups at King Helge’s hall, but had never actually held one, let alone drunk from one. His mouth watered. The Saracen must be a wealthy man to display such treasure so freely, let alone share it. A silver penny, however, was a lot to spend for less than a mouthful of anything.