Fiction River: Tavern Tales: Fiction River: An Original Anthology Magazine, #21

Foreword

Drink Up

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

When I sit down to read, I make sure I have a cup of nice hot tea on a nearby end table. Since this volume hits print in the middle of winter, I would normally recommend that you get something warm as well.

But for this volume, you will want a cup of your favorite poison.

Wait! Let me rephrase. Because this is an anthology of fiction, and you might take me literally.

I mean, find a libation—an alcoholic libation—of your choice, and settle in. Because we’re taking you drinking, figuratively speaking, so you probably want to enjoy a drink literally as well.

Editor Kerrie L. Hughes and the stellar writers of Fiction River have found every kind of bar in the universe—and I mean in the universe. Some bars are at the end of that universe (see Michèle Laframboise’s Closing the Big Bang) and others are in their own universe (Brigid Collins’ Killing Spree and Stefon Mears’ Quest for Beer, just to name two).

Other stories take place in our universe. Some are suspenseful (Ron Collins’ Hero #8) and others funny (Eric Edstrom’s The First Ingredient). Some even cross between universes (Lisa Silverthorne’s One Last Round at Cozy’s Tavern and Chuck Heintzelman’s The Hot Eagle Roadhouse).

But they all have something in common besides the drinks, the bars, the patrons. All of these stories are strong and different, and just a little unexpected.

Of course, you never find what you expect in a volume of Fiction River. Other publications cater to expectations. We cater to the adventurous reader. We know you folks can handle whatever we bring you, as long as the stories are superb, as all of these are.

We’re doing something else unexpected this volume. Because Kerrie doesn’t like writing the introductions to each story, I’m taking on the task. I’ll be signing each with a little KKR at the bottom so you remember that the I in the introductions is me, and not Kerrie.

If you want to know why Kerrie chose the stories she did, take a look at her introduction.

Got that drink yet? No? Well, this is a strictly serve-yourself establishment. Go fetch that beverage, find a comfy chair, and settle in.

You’re about to go bar-hopping without leaving your room—and how often can you say that?

Enjoy!

—Kristine Kathryn Rusch

September 12, 2016

Lincoln City, Oregon

Introduction

Belly Up to the Bar

Kerrie L. Hughes

I may be giving away my age by saying I’ve been legal to drink since I was eighteen years old but whatever, it was Kansas, and in Kansas they pretend to be pious Baptists while sipping spiked lemonade. Mind you, Kansas would only allow 3.2-percent beer for anyone under eighteen. Technically I’d been going to bars since I was fifteen with friends who would pass me their beers for a quick sip, but don’t tell my parents that, they still think I was out studying with friends. The near beer tasted awful…I preferred two-dollar wine back then.

The main reason to go to a bar was to hang out with friends while meeting new people and occasionally listen to a band. It all seemed so bizarre and forbidden back then…yet ordinary. No one really questioned teenagers getting drunk on the weekends as long as they didn’t get into trouble (trouble being pregnant or arrested) and stayed in school.

By the time I was nineteen, I decided to stop being a patron of seedy honky-tonks and became a cocktail waitress at a strip mall nightclub to earn some cash. The grabby and disrespectful patrons were a major factor in my development as a feminist. I decided to quit that job after less than two months and take a bartending position so I could place a nice clean counter between the drunks and me. I just made the cutoff age when the US raised the drinking age to twenty-one.

Soon after the drinking age was raised, New York State required bartenders to have a license, so I went to a professional school and got certified in bar management. My grandmother and parents were appalled that I would choose such a profession. My plan though was to bartend my way through cosmetology school, and then put myself through art school part-time. Obviously it didn’t turn out that way, but I did get a degree in fine arts before becoming a writer and editor.

Being completely sober on the professional side of the bar really taught me how stupid drunk people can be. I stopped tending bar within two years. It just wasn’t fun anymore. When you’re doing it right you’re basically a glorified babysitter, when you’re doing it wrong you’re overly involved in everyone’s lives. When you’re really doing it wrong you’re drinking with the patrons while getting overly involved. It was good experience, though, and I learned a lot about humanity and responsibility. I went from neighborhood bar, to bowling alley, to NCO (Non-Commissioned Officers) Club, to the Officer’s Club where wedding parties were held.

Once I stopped bartending, I didn’t step into a bar again until college, when I was dragged into an artsy dance club. An entirely different scene from the neighborhood bars, honky-tonks, and military clubs I was used to. I’d buy a bottle of water and watch people dance because I didn’t like cheap beer or hard liquor and had two left feet. The music was cathartic, but the general atmosphere was dull and pretentious. One of the few times I attempted to join the fun on the dance floor, I got clocked in the stomach by some asshat who thought the dance stage would make a good mosh pit.

I also went to a few Goth bars in Chicago, and a vampire bar in London. Italy had bars that were always attached to family restaurants. In the Yucatan I danced at an off-season disco bar, and met the locals who told me how the club supported most of the town during the off-season. Many of the taverns I went to had an atmosphere of quiet danger that was exhilarating, but I always got the impression that everyone was trying too hard to be something they weren’t. One of my friends fell in love with a guy from the vampire club, and I swear she was beginning to turn into one after she came home late with a nasty hickey she wouldn’t show me.

Then there were the pubs in Ireland and England. Those places each had their own flavor of local joviality laced with a sense of sharing. They were fun, but I felt like I was missing out on something because I’m just not into sports and I can never hear the conversations and everyone was a stranger. Not that they weren’t friendly, especially in Ireland, it’s just that a girl can’t be too careful while traveling.

Then I discovered the local coffee houses and microbrew bars—heaven.

These were the places that made having a drink with friends a good time. I could have wonderful conversations, enjoy some decent drinks, and meet new people. And each place has its own signature. Ah coffee, how I love thee. And tea. And beer. And wine. I could go on for hours about the adventures I’ve had that started—or ended—in the meeting places where people drink.

Essentially, taverns are where friends get together to tell stories, make merry and let the real world fall away. Some are dark and dangerous gathering places where clandestine meetings take place and revolutions are planned. A few are designated as neutral territory so peace can be negotiated or maintained. Or maybe that’s just in my paranormal fantasy stories. Many are the heart of a city, others are the meetinghouses in the countryside, a few are so isolated you have to know where you’re going to get there.

We can call them bars, saloons, pubs, lounges, cafes, tearooms, coffeehouses, and nightclubs, but really they’re an inevitable part of every culture, and I wanted this anthology to make use of taverns in all their incarnations as a setting.

I chose a few of the stories in this volume because they illustrate some important functions that taverns serve. Of particular note is Ron Collins and Hero #8, a story about doing what needs doing and being able to keep moving forward because you have a sense of community. On the flipside of that is The Kids Keep Coming by David H. Hendrickson; this one addresses what happens when our heroes aren’t as noble as we want them to be. I also included Wider Horizons by Diana Benedict and Girls That Glitter by Dayle A. Dermatis as a contrast to the progress our country has made toward equality for all genders and sexuality.

Some of the stories I included because they did an excellent job of addressing the different genres. Stefon Mears’ Quest for Beer is exactly how I imagine downtime in a fantasy world would be. I can also see Chuck Heintzelman’s The Hot Eagle Roadhouse as a real place where boasting is as important as family. Speaking of family, Eric Edstrom’s The First Ingredient and Jamie Ferguson’s The Next Dance has the quiet quality of truth and love. We know how important gathering places are to romance, and if you don’t know, you need to find better taverns and/or coffee houses.

And then there’s Anthea Sharp’s Grounds for Dismissal, a fantasy I have had about many a barista who prepares my precious coffee badly. I was a barista for a year, and woe to my co-workers who didn’t do the coffee well. I quit when my manager insisted I brew weak coffee rather than add a bit of hot water to a good strong brew for my customers who need their coffee on the light side. She didn’t care about those of us who like our coffee strong and perfect. But again, I digress.

I was particularly happy to get Freedom Unbound by Dory Crowe, mainly because I enjoy American History, and I think we need to tell everyone’s story and not just the people who wrote that history. The plight of indentured servants in our early years is a shame, slavery was worse, but female indentured servants had a terrible time akin to sexual slavery.

On the fun side of things, I chose Closing the Big Bang by Michèle Laframboise, Schrodinger’s Bar by Kim May, and The Gods Are Out Inn by M. L. Buchman. I have a deep-seated belief that laughter is vital to the well-being of humanity and these stories speak to the soul as well as entertain.

The finishing touches to this volume are Killing Spree by Brigid Collins, One Last Round at Cozy’s Tavern, by Lisa Silverthorne, and Death at the Pines by Annie Reed, because what anthology about bars is complete without a bit of haunting, horror, and murder?

Now that should be enough to complete an anthology, but then Brenda Carre actually submitted an epic poem called The Legend of Long-Bow and Short-Staff. It’s about monsters, cuisine, and treachery in the Great Northwoods. Of course I had to have it.

All in all, I’d say this is an excellent collection.

I want to thank all my authors, and with this being my final anthology for Fiction River, I will really miss you guys. I also want to thank the other editors at the workshop, Mark Lefebvre, Kevin J. Anderson, and Rebecca Moesta, series editors Kristine Kathryn Rusch and Dean Wesley Smith, and publisher Allyson Longueira.

Now let’s go get a beer.

—Kerrie L. Hughes

July 25, 2016

Green Bay, Wisconsin

Introduction to Quest for Beer

We start this issue the way so many people start a night out—with a Quest for Beer.

Stefon Mears has published sixteen books, including Half a Wizard and Twice Against the Dragon. His short fiction pieces have sold to magazines such as Fireside and Strange Horizons, and upcoming issues of Fiction River. He first appeared in these pages last summer, in Visions of the Apocalypse.

There are no apocalyptic visions in this quest. Stefon, an avid gamer, says, Taverns have been the launching point for more adventures than I could begin to count. Kidnapped princesses, quests into ancient ruins for lost treasures, urgent hunts for monsters harassing innocent villagers—all kinds of epic tales start with words spoken in taverns.

So do epic volumes of Fiction River. Please join a group of charming adventurers in their Quest for Beer.

—KKR

Quest for Beer

Stefon Mears

Maybe this time would be different.

First of all, the tavern was raucous, not quiet. Quiet taverns were always trouble. But this one—the Sunken Treasure—brimmed with noise. The air full of songs and stories and more in at least four languages that Velec could pick out.

Dinner in a tavern like this one eased something in Velec’s gut, and not just for the convivial change from his group’s ride up the lonely desert roads from the southeast.

In a tavern this busy there could be no hushed conversations with hooded strangers.

That alone had to cut the risk in half.

The Sunken Treasure had eight long tables carved from the hulls of ships that had sunk off the stony shore to the south, all arranged in an octagon around a center hearth of reddish-yellow sandstone bricks. More sandstone bricks for the floor and for the curving walls covered in murals. Here sailors discovered treasure chests on islands, there they found caches of gems and jewels overflowing from undersea caves. Similar themes all over the inner walls of the dome.

A dome meant no corner tables. No tables in the shadows here either. The whole tavern was lit by oil lamps along the ceiling. Better and better.

Still, Velec kissed his fingertips for luck.

The murals were refreshing, because the gods knew Velec was sick of that sandy color. Bad enough sand had to get into everything from Velec’s clothes to his dried travel fare. Did he have to stare at its color everywhere too?

But the Qa-reese people loved their sandy domes. Half the buildings in the port town of Qa-rey had domes, and the ones that didn’t had arches and pillars. And every one of them made from bricks some shade of the reddish-yellow desert sand around them.

Velec missed trees. Real trees, not the odd, branchless things that grew around here. Proper pines and oaks and elms and hawthorns that grew in groves and forests back home. Trees that provided comforting wood for walls and roofs.

Part of the cost of seeing the world, he supposed. But at least the people here ate goat and lamb, same as back home, roasted tonight with fennel and pepper and other savory spices Velec couldn’t place.

Familiar enough to be welcome, but different enough to be interesting. Like the Qa-reese people themselves, all around him here. Bronzed and browned by generations in the sun until some of them were dark as their hair. Most wearing linen garb in whites, and yellows, and reds and even one person in blue. Merchants and mercenaries, crafters and traders, pilgrims and seekers and more, all filling the tables so full that children and apprentices had to sit on the floor by the hearth. Those who couldn’t find seats at a table stood or sat in groups along the walls.

Those groups were suspect. Some of those people along the walls wore hoods. Hooded strangers had treasure maps, and rumors, and worse.

Best to stay away from them. At least for one night.

Might be difficult. Velec and his friends stood out plainly here, as much for their leathers and dark rough-spun shirts and cloaks as for their skin and hair.

And Velec tried to overlook the nearly empty table where a handful of scribes and bronze-collared slaves attended someone important enough to merit so much space. Light fabrics covered her wrist to ankle to eyes, all shades of blue and turquoise. Around here, that meant she might be a noble.

She could be trouble.

People like her tended to have kidnapped relatives or usurping uncles or evil priests ruining their lives. No. Not today. Not this time. Velec and his friends had only just reached a town after weeks on the road. He needed a break.

He offered a quick, silent prayer to Janna the Merciful. Please let this woman and her troubles stay on her side of the hearth. If only for one night.

Velec and his friends held down one end of a table made from a ship called the Swift Fate, if the red letters were to be believed. Beside him sat Quane, the huge man with the dour face, the golden braid, the quiet voice, and the great sword strapped to his back. Quane was so tall and broad he made Velec look small, which wasn’t easy, but Velec had had his whole life to get used to it.

Quane’s father was a master blacksmith back home, and Velec’s father had been his favored journeyman until the accident.

Across from Velec, Zerra made enough noise to be heard over the tavern’s din. Her laugh as raucous as the shocking red of her hair, currently braided into a coil as though she expected to need both her twin short swords at any moment.

She might. This was a tavern.

Velec’s own bow leaned unstrung against the table, next to his quiver. Bows were no good in a tavern fight, but the solid yew was nearly as good as a quarterstaff. Well, for tripping, or for thumping a helmless head anyway.

Zerra gestured wildly as she regaled the table with the tale of their little group’s victory over the stone men. Her audience of sailors and mercenaries looked as enraptured by her skin as by her tale. She’d somehow maintained that smooth cream color her skin’d had since before the foursome left the north.

That, Velec suspected, was the work of the man next to her: Korin. Darker than his brother Quane, and smaller, but still blonde enough to make Velec’s short hair look like beaver pelt. Korin had the skinny arms of a scribe, but no scribe had his speed or wiry strength. And Korin had probably delved deeper into the Mysteries than any scribe for a hundred leagues.

Korin nursed a secret love for Zerra, and Zerra liked her skin unharmed by sun and wind. No doubt she’d fluttered her eyelashes and he’d brewed up some foul-smelling answer.

Velec was first to finish his food, as always. They’d served the lamb and goat with runny cheese and fresh dates, and some kind of leafy vegetable with a metallic undertaste that Velec hadn’t cared for. And he’d washed it down with fresh water instead of a proper drink, because the Qa-Reese served water with meals to everyone but nobles, who were permitted coffee or wine as they chose.

Only after a meal was finished was beer or ale served.

Still, Velec ate every bite of his dinner despite metallic greens and his unquenched thirst for beer. After his father’s death, Velec had learned to never miss an ounce of food when it was offered, or an opportunity when it came up.

That was the blessing and the curse of taverns. They brought opportunities a-plenty, opportunities that allowed Velec to use his skills in ways that didn’t make his friends grimace.

But tonight, if only just this once, Velec would rather have a beer than a quest.

***

Zerra finished her story to grand enough applause to make her smile and bow. One of the sailors started flirting with her. A guy with ropy muscles and a scar that cut across his chin on the left side.

That was good. Zerra liked scars, and flirting never led to quests. As long as Zerra’s attention was on some handsome sailor, it wouldn’t drift to dangerous areas.

Even better, whenever Zerra flirted, Korin’s attention fixed on her would-be paramour. Tonight was no exception. Velec could see the sullen longing hidden behind Korin’s narrowed eyes and clenched teeth.

Pitiful, yes, but a good thing. An undistracted Korin attracted legends, odd scrolls, and half-finished maps like a loadstone drew a dagger point.

Quane had his eyes on one of the serving men. Smooth and lean in only white linen pants that contrasted sharply with his caramel skin. Perfect. All three of Velec’s friends were distracted, and if their thoughts were on sex then no one would try to solve anything.

Velec could probably leave them alone for a few minutes. The serving men were still busy bringing food to patrons, which meant no hope of Velec seeing a drop of beer brought to the table for some time yet. But if Velec could reach the door to the kitchen, he could show the tavern master his empty plate and maybe beg an early beer. Maybe two, if he complimented the meal just right.

And if his friends continued their flirtations, it might even be safe for Velec to charm some local girl who would find his blue eyes and relatively pale skin fascinating. It had been a while. The last time Velec had tried flirting, he had barely gotten a dark-skinned beauty alone long enough to see what hid under her vest when Quane had burst through the door yelling about monsters threatening the town and the need to ride at once and…

It was all just too sad to think about.

But Quane’s eyes hadn’t left that serving man, and that serving man kept glancing over at Quane. Good signs. Meanwhile across the table, Zerra and her sailor were each twirling daggers with both hands, playing some game that must have passed for advanced flirtation to judge by the look in their eyes. And the look in Korin’s eyes, for that matter…

He wouldn’t start a brawl, would he?

Velec hopped to his feet and rounded the corner of the table. He leaned close enough to Korin to be heard without yelling.

"No doing anything mysterious to Zerra’s plaything, now. Or better yet, just tell Zerra how you feel."

I don’t— Korin cut the sentence short when Velec raised his eyebrows. But Korin nodded, which gave Velec a sigh of relief.

Korin wouldn’t do anything stupid. Not for a few minutes, at least.

Velec considered trying to cut straight across to the back of the tavern and the entrance to the kitchen, but there was no way he’d risk stepping over and around the children and apprentices. One of them might turn out to be the bastard of someone important, or worse yet, a child whose parents were unknown, but who had a special locket or tattoo or…

Velec shuddered. No. No lost princes or displaced heirs or children of destiny. Not tonight.

Instead Velec worked his way sideways between the bench and the children, pausing for wild gestures from storytellers, and those who leaned back to roar or sing or whatever. Best not to touch anyone. Best to slip past unawares, and slipping past people unawares was a specialty of Velec’s.

He could have snatched a dozen or more pouches or purses by the time he reached the end of the table, where he could cut across to the outside of the octagon. But Velec’s friends hated it when he stole from townsfolk, and besides, this was a tavern. He was more likely to end up with some coded, half-burnt message for Korin to figure out than a handful of coins.

And anyway, Velec had a reasonable supply of coins after that business with the stone