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11.1: RELATIVE VALUES (part 1)

In which various things fall apart.

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Getting directions in Barthane was not an easy task. Winkton began by asking various passers-by where he could find the nearest reputable inn. This led to one of three outcomes.

1) The passer-by wouldn't answer, for a variety of reasons. These included, in no particular order: indifference, spite, the passer-by having no tongue, and the passer-by turning into a wolf.

2) The passer-by would answer obligingly. They would follow the directions. They would end up at a dead end. Winkton would poke his head out of the carriage window just in time to glimpse someone disappearing round a corner, stifling a laugh. In one instance, he poked his head back into the carriage window just in time to avoid having his throat slit.

3) The passer-by would, again, answer, giving directions to an inn of local repute. They would follow the directions. They would indeed end up at an inn. They would discover, however, that local repute was very different to Winkton's idea of repute. Or Fang's, for that matter.

So it was not until Winkton started asking directions to the most disreputable inn in town that they managed to find anywhere suitable. By the time the coachman had manoeuvred them through the market square (an experience neither the coachman nor the occupants of the coach ever wished to repeat) and down a side-street towards the sign of BEAMER'S INN: COME REST YER SLEPPY HEID, Fang's patience was stretched so thin it would have made a high-pitched twang if it were possible to pluck such abstract notions.

"Almost there, sir," the coachman called down. "Beamer's Inn."

Fang drew back the coach's curtains and scrutinised the sign of the inn ahead. His lip curled at the atrocious spelling.

The coach rolled to a halt.

"Have we arrived?" asked Winkton.

"No," said Fang.

"What's this then?" Winkton demanded of the coachman. "Why have we stopped?"

"Something blocking the road, sir," the coachman shouted back. "Looks like a... I don't quite know what it looks like, sir."

"What do you mean, you imbecile?"

Fang leaned further out of the window. He could now see the obstruction, and understood why the unimaginative coachman could not find words for it. If Fang had attempted the description, he would have said it looked as though someone had thrown the contents of their kitchen out of a top-storey window. That included the furniture, and the food.

If you would like a more accurate picture of the scene, it looked exactly how a cart carrying barrels of apples and oats might look if the pegs holding it together had been loosened and it had tried to move off, only to find it couldn't on account of it falling to pieces.

"What is it?" Winkton demanded.

Fang sat back and granted him a cool stare, delivering the most efficient answer: "See for yourself."

Winkton shot a dirty look at Fang—who met it with a perfectly impassive expression—before opening the door and stepping out onto the street.

A handful of inn-workers were scrambling about, trying to clear the clutter, when Winkton strode up to them. "You there! What is all this? Don't you realise you are blocking both the roadway and access to the inn?"