Through Darkest Zymurgia!

Lyricum Town sits at the extreme southern tip of the Lyricum Peninsula, as it has done for thousands of years. Its position on the shore of the sheltered Bay of Biscotti makes it a natural harbor, secure from the winter storm surge; its position at the center of the Sea of Dogs makes it a natural center of trade. A fishing village at the rise of the Paloman Empire, it soon became the chief port of entry for Serosan grain and the prop of the imperium. The Palomans had little use for the sea, however, and it was over a thousand years before Lyricum Town, now in truth a wealthy and prosperous city, became the commercial and political capital of all Lyricum.

It is a distinctive city, perhaps because it is built in no one style. Classical temples, with their vaults and fluted porticoes, sit by Orthic cathedrals from the time of the Regeneration. Palatine villas are cheek-by-jowl with Neo-Orthic hotels and civic buildings. The harbor district has the finest collections of Grottic warehouses in the Known World, lined up in ranks along the wharf.

That line of warehouses shone under a fine yellow sun as we entered the Bay of Biscotti. It was midmorning on the 22nd of Scone, and the Bay was filled with shipping. More kinds of craft than I can name lined the long wooden docks or sat at moorings out in the bay. We floated at the point of entry for some time as we waited for the harbor pilot. I was resigned to a distant mooring and a long pull in the ship's boat to the wharf, but Captain Halvorsen told me not to worry. He had a few quiet words with the pilot, and somehow dock-space was found for us near the center of the row of docks, just a hundred yards from the mouth of the Dolce Vita. Again I was led to wonder about the connection between the Spaniel and the Earl of Luton.

The work of Lyricum Town is done on the docks and in the warehouses, but its life is lived in the neighborhoods surrounding the Promenade, the square where the Dolce Vita intersects the Via Palazzo. Accordingly, upon reaching dock, I gathered up Carbuncle and Philpott, and hailed a caleza. Soon we were skimming down the broad, tree-lined avenue which runs, straight as an Anglish ruler, from the harbor to the sleepy village of Paloma, a hundred miles to the north. As it was nearing midday, I proposed that we should lunch at La Mortadella, a splendid restaurant on the Promenade, and then wander through the stalls and barrows of the Market district. In the meantime, I settled back into the caleza's leather upholstery to enjoy the sights and sounds of a summer's day in Lyricum Town.

Presently I noticed that young Philpott seemed in the grip of some kind of intermittent seizure. He would bob his head up, turning in his seat at as he stared at a wagon of freshly caught fish or a dockworker in pantaloons and rope sandals, and then he would huddle down over something in his lap for a few moments. The process repeated every few seconds.

"Philpott," I shouted, for the rush of air made conversation difficult, "What in the name of Prudentius are you doing?"

"Taking notes, sir," he shouted back, without ceasing his activity. "I don't want to forget anything."

"Well, I do wish you'd stop, you're giving me the twitch." Clearly, Philpott was taking his fieldwork too seriously.

In due course, however, we reached the Promenade, with its cafes and Pineapple Fountain. The caleza driver brought his beasts to a halt directly in front of La Mortadella. Had we more time, I would gladly have explored a few more of those hundred streets and avenues and taverns and inns, but under the circumstances I was inclined to be choosy. La Mortadella's offerings exceed anything to be found anywhere in Angland.

As the others were shown to a table, I sought and was granted the use of the restaurant's speaking orb. My arrangements were quickly made, and I soon joined them for an excellent lunch of rigoletto alfredo. We finished with a capital bottle of Don Giovanni; the vineyards of the Lyricum Peninsula are justly famous. I should perhaps be more precise, as befits a scholar; Carbuncle and I finished with a capital bottle of Don Giovanni. Philpott lunched with a good appetite, but then resumed his bobbing and scribbling.

"What, young Thaddeus," said Carbuncle, "You're not having any wine with us?"

"Hmmm? Oh, no, not today."

"The Don Giovanni doesn't suit your fancy?" I asked. "How about some Vivaldi, then?"

"What? Oh, no, thank you," said Philpott. "I mustn't."

"Mustn't? And why not, young Thaddeus?" asked Carbuncle.

"It's all right for the two of you," said Philpott. "This is just a pleasant excursion for you. But this is my first chance at some real fieldwork. Drinking wine could only erode my scholarly detachment."

"Well, it's a pity, so it is," said Carbuncle. "You'll not taste a wine like this until we pass this way again on the homeward voyage."

After lunch we parted. Carbuncle went off to visit an old friend of his, a maker of precision phantasms. "They'd call him a work-a-day phantast back at the University, but he's the finest craftsman I know," he said. "I want to try out some ideas on him. I'll see you both back at the Spaniel tonight."

"You won't be joining us for the opera?" asked Philpott.

"Ask him," Carbuncle replied as he sauntered off, smiling. "He'll never have gotten a seat for me." And it was true; I hadn't. Nor does Carbuncle require that I catch, clean and cook snapping trout when we visit High Bastille, though I'm quick enough to eat them.

As Philpott and I strolled across the Promenade, I pointed out the Grand Opera House, the Hall of Merchants, and other prominent buildings. Philpott had found it hard to take notes standing up, and was now bobbing and kneeling every few steps.

"Philpott, please, do stop that. It hurts me just to watch you. And anyway, people are staring."

He stopped, one knee on the tiles, pencil in hand, and gazed at me owlishly through his spectacles. "But I don't want to miss anything."

"Miss anything? You've hardly seen anything! How many blocks of warehouses did we pass on the Dolce Vita?"

"Um...seven?"

"Three. How many triumphal arches did we drive under?"

"Two?"

"Four. What was the color of our waiter's mustache?"

"Brown?" he asked, biting his lip.

"What an unkind thing to say! Our waitress was no beauty, but she had no trace of a mustache either," I said, pulling him to his feet. "Now close your notebook and open your eyes. And keep one hand on your wallet, if you wish to keep it," I added, for we had reached the mouth of the Market district.

Lyricum Town is a center of trade, and the goods that are stored in bales in the warehouses and sold in shiploads in the Hall of Merchants are available in smaller quantities in the Market district. Carpets and coffee from Seljurkia, inlaid boxes and blankets from Eporus, spices from the no-longer-so-fabulous lands of the east, and household phantasms from my own Anglish homeland; all were available, along with wines, breads, fresh fruits and vegetables, and were we so inclined, less pardonable things.

Persuading Philpott to close his notebook was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, he was no longer a source of eye-and-neck strain; on the other, he now had the leisure to make his observations verbally. I suppose I was fortunate that, knowing no Lyrican, he was forced to speak Anglish.

"Look at how friendly everyone is," he said, smiling at each stallkeeper in turn, "All smiling and waving at us."

I took his arm, not accidentally stepping on the foot of a small boy with light, experienced fingers. "Of course they are smiling at us, it's good for business."

"Oh," he said, "I'm sure it's more than that. Look at that one, waving at us to come and sit down with him."

"He's a tea seller," I said, not letting go. "One doesn't sit down unless one is willing to taste his wares, and ultimately to buy a pound or so. He's friendly, all right, at least until you try to get up without paying."

"Really? How mercenary!"

"This is the Market district, after all. What did you expect?"

In this way we passed the afternoon. I bought a few bags of oranges and other treats, and Philpott bought a large dog while my back was turned. I'm not entirely sure how it happened, and Philpott's explanation was unenlightening. I gather he saw the dog, a handsome black retriever, and knelt down to scratch it behind the ears. A man smiled at him, and said something in Lyrican, and Philpott smiled back, and said "What a fine dog," or something of the kind, and the man smiled more broadly, and asked a question in Lyrican, and Philpott said, "Yes, what a fine dog indeed," nodding, I suppose, and the man held out his hand, and Philpott stood, and shook it, and then turned to go. Or so I gather. The first I knew of it was a high-pitched "Dr. Thintwhistle!" When I turned, a burly stallholder had Philpott backed against the wall; the stallholder held the dog's leash in one hand and was rubbing the first two fingers of the other against his thumb. He must have looked quite fierce to young Philpott.

"What seems to be the trouble, my friend," I inquired in Lyrican.

"This man is the trouble," the stall holder said in the same language. "200 fiacres he owes me for this fine hunting dog."

"I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding, my friend. Philpott here doesn't speak Lyrican, you know."

"Misunderstanding, bah! He understood enough to make a deal with me. We shook hands on it."

"Oh, dear," I said in Anglish, and turned to Philpott. "Did you shake hands with him."

"Yes," he said, looking from me to the stallholder and back again, "Yes, I did."

"I'm afraid there's no help for it then, Thad. You owe the man 200 fiacres."

"For what?" He still looked puzzled.

"For the dog, of course."

"But I don't want a dog!"

"Evidently you do, or you wouldn't have shaken hands with this gentleman. Get out your wallet."

It was gone, of course. I paid the man myself, and stopped him as he was removing the dog's collar. "Just a moment, my friend," I said. "200 fiacres is an absurd price for a dog, no matter how fine it is."

"We shook hands on it," he replied.

"And so you did, and so you have your 200 fiacres. And so we have our dog, and his collar, and his leash."

"20 fiacres for the collar and leash."

"Come now, my friend...I am sure the Hall of Merchants takes a poor view of fleecing foreign visitors quite so flagrantly. Were I not teaching my young friend here an important lesson in ethnomonotony, I'd still have my 200 fiacres, and you'd still have your dog."

"Very well." He glowered at me as he handed me the end of the leash.

"I'm sure the dog is healthy; nevertheless, what is your name," I asked, "In case I should need to find you tomorrow?"

"Bruno," he answered, scowling--a scowl that would last only, I was sure, until we were out of sight.

"Well, now," I said, in Anglish, to Philpott. "Let's take Bruno here back to the Spaniel. Captain Halvorsen can't very well complain about sailing with a dog on a dog on the Sea of Dogs, now can he?"

"I guess not," said Philpott, taking the leash and scratching Bruno behind the ears once more. "He's a fine dog, after all. A retriever like this is hard to find. I wonder where that man got him."

"He stole him, of course. Some rich man's kennels are a dog short today," I said, as we turned toward the harbor. Bruno fell into step beside Philpott.

"Shouldn't we try to return him, then?"

"After paying 200 fiacres for him? Surely you jest."

We hailed a caleza after regaining the Promenade and spun back along the Dolce Vita to the Spaniel. Bruno stretched out his head, as dogs will, and let his tongue flap in the breeze of our passage, barking at the other calezas. It was only fair play, as I'm sure the passengers of the other calezas were commenting equally on the two Anglish madmen with their dog.