PART XI
In Which the
Artist Arrives in That
Disreputable Realm Called
the Mutt And, Though Discovering
For Himself the Nature of That Disrepute
is Given Neither to Reproof Nor
Demurral, Thereby Confirming
His Own Most Odious and
Disreputable Nature.
The Autobiography of
Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini,
Episode 6: Boots, Beer, Banners and
Beds
So it was on such a wretched pair of patent leather shoes that I arrived in the Mutt.
Indeed, my first action upon reaching the Doghouse—for such is the curious name of the Mutt's capital, insofar as the term "capital" can be applied to the chief town of that country—was to locate the shop of a bootmaker and limp therein.
Entering the shop, I approached the bootmaker at his bench. He looked up at the sound of my approach. A huge grin split his wizened old face. I began to smile myself, pleased at this amicability toward a customer, an attitude sadly lacking in all too many Ozarine establishments.
I soon discovered my error.
"Gwendolyn!" yelped the oldster. He charged past without so much as a glance in my direction and flung himself into Gwendolyn's arms. She picked him up, for all the world like a wrinkled babe, and planted a big kiss on his bald head.
"Hello, Mishka. Long time."
"Much too long." Now back on his feet, he looked up at her with a hurt expression.
"The word is you came through here three months ago. Is it true? And why didn't you stop by for a visit? Distressed, I was, at the news."
Gwendolyn shook her head. "I had no time for visits, Mishka. I was on a mission from—"
The old man held up his hand abruptly. " 'Nough said! I don't want to know the details. 'What you don't know, the porkers can't screw out of you,' as they say." He laughed. "Not that I've had to worry much about porkers since I retired and moved to the Mutt! But still, you never know."
I looked around his shop, which had about it all the signs of a busy establishment.
"Doesn't look like much of a retirement," I said.
The old man peered at me, scowling. I'm afraid my Ozarine accent was just as thick as ever, even though I'd been speaking nothing but Groutch for weeks. I'm good at learning languages, and I'd become quite fluent in Groutch, but I just don't have the ear for speaking without an accent.
Still scowling, Mishka darted a sharp look toward Gwendolyn.
"Relax, Mishka," she said. "I'll vouch for him."
"He's a sympathizer?" he asked.
Gwendolyn shrugged. "Yes and no. He's not really involved in politics. He's an artist."
Mishka was still scowling. Gwendolyn scowled back.
"Impossible old man! I told you I'll vouch for him."
Mishka looked away. "Well, your word's as good as gold, of course. But still, I just don't understand why you've got him around."
"It's personal, Mishka."
The old man suddenly grinned.
"Well! Well! That's all different, then!" The next thing I knew, Mishka was vigorously pumping my hand.
"Wonderful, wonderful," he prattled, "I've always said you were too intent on the cause, Gwendolyn. It's not good for the soul, you know, never taking the time out to smell the roses and such, and shouldn't I know?"
He continued his vigorous handshake.
"Pleased to meet you, young man. Very pleased, even if you are an Ozarine oppressor. My name's Mishka, by the way. Mishka the bootmaker."
"Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini."
Gwendolyn interrupted. "He needs a new pair of shoes, Mishka. Proper Groutch boots, if you would."
Mishka looked down at my feet, still shaking my hand.
"And will you look at those monstrosities!" he cried. "A wonder the man's not a cripple! All the way from Goimr, you say you've come? In those things?"
I nodded. Mishka released my hand and began busying himself in stacks of leather, muttering about "mad dogs and Ozarines."
I cleared my throat. "Uh, Sirrah Mishka, before you get started, I'm afraid I have very little money left. So if—"
I stopped, struck dumb by the ferocious glare the old man was bestowing on me. I looked to Gwendolyn for assistance.
"Money's not the custom in the Mutt," she said. "Quite disapprove of money, people here." She looked at Mishka. "Oh, stop glaring, Mishka! The man's new here—how's he supposed to know? I assure you, he's not a Consortium agent."
The old man was still glaring. "A Consortium provocateur came through here not long ago, you know? Tried to give money to children, he did, the scurvy knave! Proper boys and girls, though, well brought up, so they turned him in and the General called out his dogs." A wicked laugh followed. "Squealed like a pig, the rotten collaborator, when Fangwulf pulled him down. Didn't get more than half a mile, he didn't, even with the General's usual generous head start."
"You'll have to make allowances for Mishka, Benvenuti," said Gwendolyn. "When he said earlier that he was retired, he meant from the struggle. Old habits die hard, especially his."
Mishka's glare eased. "Well, I suppose so. Have to make allowances, I guess, for honest strangers, even plundering Ozarines." His glare briefly returned. "But no more talk of money, d'you hear? I won't have it! This is a respectable establishment!"
"By no means!" I exclaimed, fending off his glare with my hands. "But how—" Again, I looked to Gwendolyn for assistance.
"See if you can do him some service or other," she said. "How about the sign over his door? Thing's so weathered you can hardly read it. Can you make him a new one?"
I went outside, looked at the sign, came back.
"Certainly. But I'll need some fresh wood."
Mishka disappeared into the back of his shop. A moment later he reemerged, carrying a nice slab of oak.
"How about this?" he asked. "Ingemar the cabinetmaker gave it to me a few months ago. I've been meaning to use it for a new sign, but I never got around to it. I've even got some paint, but I'm not much of a painter, actually. Are you?"
I managed to make some modest but reassuring noises, while digging in my pack for my woodcarving tools. And so did the time pass pleasantly, with me carving and painting Mishka a new sign, while he busied himself with my boots. As he worked, Gwendolyn told him of our adventures, leaving out, I noticed, any mention of Wolfgang. This odd reticence left great holes in the narrative, but Mishka didn't notice them, so upset was he when he heard of the imminent arrival of a Rap Sheet in Grotum.
"We're doomed!" he cried, over and again. "Doomed! It'll be the Rellenos all over again! The streets awash in blood! The executioners collapsing from exhaustion! The racks splintering from overuse! The whips worn to a nubbin! The dungeons bursting at the seams! Even here! Even the Mutt!"
But he only stopped working once, looking up at Gwendolyn intently.
"You've got to tell the General right away. Everyone else, too, of course. If you get the word out at the Free Lunch it'll spread quick enough, sure, but you've still got to tell the General right away. Maybe he can think of something."
"First the Free Lunch," responded Gwendolyn. "Then I'll talk to the General."
Mishka made as if to argue, but then went back to his work. He finished with my boots at almost the same time I was done with his sign.
Mutual admiration followed.
"What a sign! What a sign!" exclaimed the old man, as I tried on my new boots. A perfect fit, they were, and very comfortable. Not fashionable, I admit. I noticed the old man was rummaging around again in his stacks of leather.
"Just give me a little time," he muttered, "I'll have another pair of boots ready."
"What for?" I asked. "These are perfect."
Mishka looked up, surprised. "Of course they're perfect. Am I not Mishka? But a sign like that! It'll be the best sign in town! Calls for two pair of boots, at the least."
I waved him off. "Nonsense. The sign was a trifle, I assure you."
Mishka wrung his hands. "Well. Well."
"Relax, Mishka," laughed Gwendolyn. "Benvenuti's an artist, doesn't have any proper sense of value. Leave it be. He's happy with the deal, and besides, we've got to be off to the Free Lunch."
"Oh, yes! I forgot. Well, then, at least let me obtain a cab for you. I insist!" he cried. "Such a great sign!" He rushed out into the street and began a fierce whistling.
A minute later he reentered the shop, a burly man in tow.
"Look who's here, Gwendolyn!"
"Mario!"
The beefy newcomer swept his cap off his bushy head and stretched out his arms. Big as he was, he was almost dwarfed in Gwendolyn's embrace.
"Take us to the Free Lunch, if you would, Mario. Oh, let me introduce you to Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini."
Mario and I shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. He did not, I was relieved to note, seem to take offense at my Ozarine accent.
A minute later, Gwendolyn and I piled into the back seat of the cab, stowing our packs and my easel in the back. Mario eyed the easel with curiosity, but refrained from comment. He slapped his horse's rump with a short whip and we jolted out into the streets of the Doghouse.
Within a few blocks, I had come to the conclusion that this was the oddest town I had ever seen. There seemed no rhyme or reason to anything about it—neither the layout of the streets, nor the mixture of the buildings scattered about. Despite its relatively small size, the town positively shrieked "polyglot" in a way in which even the great and cosmopolitan imperial city of Ozar didn't. Still, the relations of the numerous inhabitants seemed quite cordial.
The Doghouse is not a big town, however, so it was not long before Mario reined in and wheeled the cab through a narrow gateway into a large walled courtyard.
Along one wall was a livery tending to the needs of the horses. On the opposite wall, under a well-weathered colonnade, stood a stout door, much abused by time and circumstances. The door's green paint was peeling off. Numerous cuts, gashes and nicks in the wood of both door and frame gave evidence that the customers were not a particularly sober and upright sort.
Above the colonnade stood—or rather, leaned slightly askew—a sign (very badly lettered) which proclaimed: