Snippet #978740

The Inn did not suit Pleasant, and neither did the crowd that had gathered for this meeting. The atmosphere was choking him; he took out his handkerchief and blew noisily into it in a vain attempt to rid himself of the tar that was slowly layering on the nostril wall.

A particularly sharp and familiar laugh from across the room caught his attention. Straining to see through the haze, he was able to make out the ruddy face of Peter Mastet among those seated. One of Gill's local patients, Mastet possessed an extraordinarily weak liver and an extraordinarily immense thirst, a combination that had brought him vomiting to doctor's doorstep on more than one occasion.

Pleasant jostled his way through the crowd and slid quickly into the open seat beside Mastet. The reaction was more positive than he had expected: a hearty slap on the back and a fresh pint in his hands.

"Oy, all of ye, this is Doc Gill! You here fer the meetin', Doc, or just ta piss the nigh' away? Meself, I 'aven't decided, we'll see how it goes!"

Before Pleasant could answer, the ambient roar suddenly dropped to a low murmur. The show was about to begin.