The Island Under the Earth by Avram Davidson

holding a webby old jug of wine, hovered over the goblets. That, in fact, might be the reason for their being here together, and not at the wine-house, where no such famous vintage as this was available. That is, Clarb assumed it was famous. It had to be. It was old, wasn’t it? It was in one of those red-glazed jugs which cost so damnably much that a coasting captain would never think of buying one. Besides, the winehouse, now. Here he’d patronized it for all these years. Didn’t they know it? Didn’t they value his patronage? When they saw him come in, hadn’t they remembered how long he’d been gone? Didn’t he always have the nicest of the new girls, if there was one around? Wouldn’t you think they’d reserve her for him? And just because he, as any civilized and newly-returned traveler would, had ordered a jug of the house’s best to break the back of his thirst upon instead of being bawdy and demanding to see the new wenches the first step inside the door —
    “I think you will like this, Captain Clarb,” said Dellatindílla. His two dwarfs — odd little bodies, two feet high and dressed in costumes as black and shiny as their huge eyes — nodded and made portentious faces at each other.
    “
I
think he’ll like it,” said Atom, and pursed his mouth at Mote.
    “He’ll like
that
,” said Mote, and put his finger by his nose as he dipped his head to Atom.
    Clarb cleared his throat. It was plain who counted
here
, where age and experience found the respect it merited. Was that frecklefaced little foreskin of a junior captain here, sitting on this damned rare tiger’s pelt and about to try a famous vintage? No, dragons take the whelp, he was upstairs in the winehouse, tumbling that new girl, and neither of them had the manners that a man had the right to expect of an alley-born orphan. “I’m sure I will,” he said, glancing covertly around him. Silk hanging sewn with pearls, was that to be believed? It had to be. “I’m sure I will, Comprador.”
    Even an alley-born orphan would have the manners to defer to the House’s senior captain; but, never mind, never mind. “I’m sure I will.”
    “
He
knows,” said Atom, with a smile of deprecation which modestly belittled his knowing that Clarb knew. “
He
will. Oh, yes.”
    Mote could scarcely contain his own pleasure in the shared knowledge. “He
will
, he
will!
” said Mote.
    Gracefully, Dellatindílla put down the jug and politely wiped the spotless goblet with the sleeve of his rich robe. “I fear my things are scarcely fit for one whose travels will have led him to expect a very high standard,” he said. (“Not fit, not
fit,
” echoed Atom. And Mote nodded: “A very high, a
very
high standard.”) Again, with the same grace, Dellatindílla took up the jug and poured, and scanned, and sniffed, then poured a drop into his own goblet and tasted it; raised his eyebrows; poured at last a measure of the wine into his guest’s cup. The guest drank, then was suddenly beset with a feeling that perhaps he shouldn’t have, should have … what? … waited? … poured a libation? … let his hosts — ? … In his confusion he choked.
    “Ah, it is bad,” Dellatindílla exclaimed, clasping his thin hands together. Their fingers were covered with rings. Mote gave a groan of miniscule anguish, “Oh, bad! It’s bad!” and twisted his tiny face. Atom looked aghast. “Bad, ah, too
bad!
” he declared.
    But Clarb recovered himself. “It may be bad by your own high standards, Comprador,” he said. “But for a rough old sea-serpent such as that I am, it’s very good.” And, indeed, it was, for wrapped within the thin, clear, tart taste of the wine was an after-taste: richer, sweeter. The two dwarfs smiled with knowing contentment, mouthed at each other that it was good … oh yes … it
was
… it was
good…
.
    And the eunuch himself sat back in his carven chair and slid his hands into one another and allowed his seamed face to relax.