Free The courts of chaos by Roger Zelazny

my journey for just a little while, to drink the dark ale and listen to a lively tune.
    “I will not be apologizing again,” said my companion, “nor explaining either. We both know it was no misunderstanding. But you have got the right on your side, it is plain to see.” He grinned and winked. “So I am for calling it a day, too. We will not starve. We will just not feast tonight. Tis a lovely jewel you are wearing. Tell me about it?”
    “Just a stone,” I said.
    The dancing resumed. The voices grew louder. I finished my drink and he refilled the flagon. The fire undulated. The night’s cold went out of my bones.
    “Cozy place you’ve got here,” I said.
    “Oh, that it is. Served us for time out of mind, it has. Would you be liking the grand tour?”
    “Thank you, no.”
    “I did not think so, but ‘twas my hostly duty to offer. You are welcome to join in the dancing, too, if you wish.”
    I shook my head and laughed. The thought of my cavorting in this place brought me images out of Swift.
    “Thanks anyway.”
    He produced a clay pipe and proceeded to fill it. I cleaned my own and did the same. Somehow all danger seemed past. He was a genial enough little fellow, and the others seemed harmless now with their music and their stepping.
    Yet . . . I knew the stories from another place, far, so far from here . . . To awaken in the morning, naked, in some field, all traces of this spot vanished . . . I knew, yet . . .
    A few drinks seemed small peril. They were warming me now, and the keening of the pipes and the wailings of the fiddles were pleasant after the brain-numbing twistings of the hellride. I leaned back and puffed smoke. I watched the dancers.
    The little man was talking, talking. Everyone else was ignoring me. Good. I was hearing some fantastic yarn of knights and wars and treasures. Though I gave it less than half an ear, it lulled me, even drew a few chuckles.
    Inside, though, my nastier, wiser self was warning me: All right, Corwin, you have had enough. Time to take your leave . . .
    But, magically it seemed, my glass had been refilled, and I took it and sipped from it. One more, one more is all right.
    No, said my other self, he is laying a spell on you. Can’t you feel it?
    I did not feel that any dwarf could drink me under the table. But I was tired, and I had not eaten much. Perhaps it would be prudent . . .
    I felt myself nodding. I placed my pipe on the table. Each time that I blinked it seemed to take longer to reopen my eyes. I was pleasantly warm now, with just the least bit of delicious numbness in my tired muscles.
    I caught myself nodding, twice. I tried to think of my mission, of my personal safety, of Star. . . . I mumbled something, still vaguely awake behind closed eyelids. It would be so good, just to remain this way for half a minute more . . . .
    The little man’s voice, musical, grew monotonous, dropped to a drone. It did not really matter what he was say-
    Star whinnied.
    I sat bolt upright, eyes wide, and the tableau before me swept all sleep from my mind.
    The musicians continued their performance, but now no one was dancing. All of the revelers were advancing quietly upon me. Each held something in his hand-a flask, a cudgel, a blade. The one in the leather apron brandished his cleaver. My companion had just fetched a stout stick from where it had leaned against the wall. Several of them lofted small pieces of furniture. More of them had emerged from the caves near the fire pit, and they bore stones and clubs. All traces of gaiety had vanished, and their faces were now either expressionless, twisted into grimaces of hate or smiling very nasty smiles.
    My anger returned, but it was not the white-heat thing I had felt earlier. Looking at the horde before me, I had no wish to tackle it. Prudence had come to temper my feelings. I had a mission. I should not risk my neck here if I could think of another way of handling things. But I was certain that I could not talk my way out