The Fourth Elephant's Egg by Robert Reginald

Author:Robert Reginald
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fantasy, wizard, science fantasy, adventure, terry pratchett
Publisher: Wildside Press
Published: 2011-07-11T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“THE ROTTY-GUTS AND THE WIGGLY-WORMS”

It was obvious to even the casual observer that Zezament had benefited substantially from the incursion of the Volúcris into this sector of the Fifth Circle. Everywhere one looked in Zazzou City, merchants were busily gathering goods from other worlds, and redistributing them for great profits to those of their fellows who were now interdicted for political or other reasons. The Bird-Men had been very good for business, since they tended to restrict visitations to their own sphere of influence.

I also noticed a heavy security presence throughout the town—something that I presumed was repeated on all parts of the globe. The Zezamentors may have been small in stature, but they intended to secure their hard-garnered wealth with blatant force, if necessary.

Lodgings were difficult to find, but the guide Revou “knew some people,” and for “a few ounces more,” secured us pleasant if unspectacular accommodations at a boarding house in the Etou-phou Ward. “Madame Lou-Tou runs a clean place,” Revou told me through Scooter, “and so long as you pay on time, you should have no trouble. She’s not like Prou-Krous-Tou, who makes his customers fit his beds, whether they wish to or no. She actually caters to you ‘Big Ones.’ Ha—say’s you’re less trouble, if you believe that.”

“What about someplace to eat?” I asked.

“You might try The Old Goat,” he said through my translator. “It features some exotic excrement they call food, but I’m told you foreigners masticate such things.”

Well, Madame L.T.’s establishment at least featured full-length beds and clean sheets, and the proprietress was a jolly lady of perhaps three-and-one-half feet in stature (if she stretched), always laughing and having a good time—and she knew passable Tyrosian.

I asked her about the Goat.

“Ha!” she said. “That boob Revou! His cousin owns that place, and if anyone there could actually cook, why, they’d draft him at the Royal Palace. Old King Bou-Bou xxxi is always looking for someone with a cuisinal talent.

“No, no, no, you don’t want to eat there—you’ll just get sick with the rotty-guts and the wiggly-worms. No, try The Beastly Burp or Touny Macarouny. They feature native dishes that can safely be eaten by you lot, and also have the Tyrosian fare with which you might be more familiar.”

I thanked her for her kind assistance, and suggested to the rest of my party that we bathe, change clothes, and then venture forth to one of the local eateries, using several of the taxi-bikes. We voted for the “Touny,” whose name was just a trifle less offensive than the “Burp,” and which was located closer to our establishment than the other—a major factor for us, given the heavy gravity—but also discovered, to our great delight, that the seating had been constructed in such a way that the eatery could accommodate both large- and small-sized patrons, and that the menu was equally flexible.

The restaurant offered deep-dished meat pies whose savory flavors reminded me very strongly of Old-Town Paltyrrha, strong, lusty ales, huge loaves of dark,

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