Free Shadow Chaser by Alexey Pehov

people went; the stonemasons, Doralissians, and chasseurs kept filling themselves up with wine. Two hours later, when I had my third mug of beer standing in front of me, and Hallas had the eighth mug of his fiery “remedy,” an old man with a whistle appeared out of nowhere and started playing a jolly djanga.
    Those who were most sober and could still stand firmly on their feet got up and started dancing. Arnkh grabbed a serving wench by the arms, setting her squealing in indignation and then in delight, and launched into the swirling dance. The stonemasons sang along merrily, the Doralissians banged their fists on the table, and we stamped our feet, trying to keep time with the music. Only Hallas paid no attention to the general merriment and systematically drank his swill.
    A gnome or a dwarf can drink as much as an entire crowd of men and still not get drunk. But Hallas had had more than enough, his speech was getting noticeably slurred, his nose had turned red, and his eyes were glittering. The apotheosis of the cure came when he made a confession of genuine love to Deler.
    “Hey you! Hatface! What would I do without your ugly mug to look at?” the gnome muttered drunkenly and tried to kiss his friend. “We-ench! Hic! The same again!”
    A little more time went by, and my comrades were no longer even thinking of going anywhere else. They had a new entertainment now—Mumr and Marmot were trying to stare down the Doralissians. Each side was trying to drill a hole in the other. The stonemasons, realizing that they might have acquired new allies, started getting a bit livelier, and the chasseurs started wondering whose side to take in the fight ahead.
    The gentlemen students came pouring into the tavern in a jolly crowd to celebrate passing their exam. Hallas fell into a doze on Lamplighter’s shoulder and Deler heaved a sigh of relief—the irascible gnome had finally shut his mouth.
    Rather unexpectedly a quarrel sprang up at our table about the cuisines of the various races of Siala. The dwarf thumped himself on the chest and said that no one knew how to cook better than his race, to which Kli-Kli replied by suggesting we should wake Hallas and ask his opinion on the matter. Deler said rather hastily that it probably wasn’t worth waking him up, gnomes didn’t have a blind notion about food in any case—it was enough to remember the chow the gnome had cooked up during our journey.
    “In general, the goblins are masters at preparing any kind of food,” Kli-Kli claimed.
    “Right, only normal people can’t eat your grub,” Lamplighter snorted.
    “It’s hard to call you Wild Hearts normal people,” Kli-Kli objected. “I’m sure you eat all sorts of garbage on your raids into the Deserted Lands.”
    “There have been times,” Lamplighter agreed. “I remember once we had to eat the meat of a snow troll, and that, I tell you, is some chow!”
    “Aw, come on, now,” Kli-Kli said impatiently, taking a sniff at the beer in his mug to pep himself up. “What kind of exotic food’s that? Troll meat! Ha!”
    “Have you tried anything more unusual, then?” Eel asked the goblin.
    “Sure I have!” Kli-Kli declared proudly. “We even have an old drinking song about food like that.”
    “Right then, give us a blast,” Mumr suggested.
    “No, don’t,” said Deler, waving his hands in the air. “I know what you greenskins are like. Worse than those bearded loons! If you start to sing, you’ll have every dog within a league howling.”
    “It’s an interesting song. It’s called ‘The Fly in the Plate,’” the jester said with a grin.
    “Drink your beer, Kli-Kli, and keep quiet,” Lamplighter warned the goblin in a threatening voice. The little ratbag sighed in resignation and stuck his nose into his mug.
    “Good gentlemen!” said an old fellow who had come up to our table. “Help a poor invalid, buy him a mug of beer.”
    “You don’t look much like an invalid,” growled Deler, whom the gods