Chapter 4

The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty; not knowing what comes next.
—Ursula K. LeGuin

Scrod came into view.

It wasn’t much to look at. The only reason Scrod existed was that there needs to be a point X between points A and B so people Y don’t have to go the long way around, by C.

It was twilight by the time Ryan and Josie plodded into town. They had been walking for two days, with nothing more to stare at than endless desert.

They looked for an inn, and lo, there it was.

It was utilitarian; it had few windows, and a lot of smell. The sign overhanging the door said: The Happy Flan. What in the hells? wondered Ryan.

Despite his misgivings, he pushed the door open and entered. It was far worse than the pub at Forque.

For starters, there were no cunning lights; there were no lights at all, besides a few lamps behind the bar and whatever the clientele was smoking that evening. Oh yes, the clientele was another bad thing. The few lights there were served only to gleam off the eyes, watching, and a wide assortment of metallic objects, waiting.

Ryan, calculating quickly, counted 27.333[1] eyes.

He sighed, and held the door open for Josie as she stumbled in. Raised in the desert or not, she was not in shape for miles of walking.

There was a change in the texture of the air when she came in. It practically said “Hur, hur, hur.”

Oh gods, thought Ryan. Well, let’s get this over with…

He walked over to the bar.

“Barkeep?”

A figure dissolved into vision behind the counter.

“Yur?” it communicated [2].

“Lodgings, please.”

“Hur, hur, hur.” The creature leered at Josie. “Youse can have room 5… The suite.”

Ryan ignored this.

“Thank you. We’ll check out tomorrow.”

Somewhere in the depths of the murk in the inn a voice said, “Yeh, right.”

Ryan had been expecting it, and had already planned what to do. He turned to the man next to him, sized him up (which was not easy to do; he appeared to have been sized up until he was the size of a door), and punched him in what was left of his ear.

As the man went over, he grabbed Josie, who appeared to have fallen asleep while standing up, and elbowed (as well as kneed, chinned, and foreheaded) his way through the crowd to their room.

He bolted the door and barricaded it. Normally he wouldn’t have bothered, but it looked like Josie needed some sleep; it would be best not to wake her up.

Ryan laid her out on the bed. She started to snore.

The sand and wind had essentially scrubbed their skin raw; all of the make-up caking her face had been sacrificed to the desert. She had swapped her, er, “professional” clothes for practical desert wear.

Ryan stared at her. She was… Beautiful.

He shook himself. By the sounds in the hall, the tavern brawl had just started to heat up. Ryan sighed, unsheathed his sword, and moved the lone chair to face the door.

[1] You'd rather not know.
[2] “Said” is too strong a word.