intended to steal it here-which he doubted even more. In either case, he decided he should bring the yoke into the booth, both for display and protection.
It took him only a few moments to move the ugly thing into the booth. Just as he propped it against the corner barrel, a customer approached. The man was obviously a farmer, judging from his calloused hands and rough clothing. He eyed the yoke carefully and expertly, then spat and asked, 'How much?'
The question caught Gaesil badly off guard. Since he never really expected anyone to buy the yoke, he had never considered how much it might be worth. He decided to try the age-old dodge: 'Make me an offer.'
The farmer examined the yoke again, handled it, turned it over, then spat again. 'I'll give you one steel and three copper.'
The tinker had sworn long ago to take the first offer he received on the yoke, just to be rid of it. He was about to say, 'Sold!' when a different thought struck him. He noticed how warm the bracelet had grown on his wrist.
He pulled the Eye from his pocket and tossed it onto the sawhorse table: Earth. Good luck!
Feeling cocky, Gaesil decided to haggle. 'Two steel, one copper,' he countered. The farmer considered that, weighed the coin pouch in his hand thoughtfully, then said, 'Got to get at the planting. I'll go as high as one steel, eight copper.'
'Sold!' Gaesil announced. Grinning like he hadn't in years, he cheerfully passed the yoke over the counter and accepted the man's money. No sooner was the farmer gone than Gaesil disappeared behind the curtain to examine the bracelet more carefully.
Was it lucky, he wondered? That could have been a coincidence, or just normal luck. Nothing could prove the unlikely transaction had been influenced by the bracelet. As these thoughts raced through Gaesil's mind, they were suddenly pushed aside by a keen awareness of customers turning away from his booth.
He pushed the curtain aside and stepped out front. Three ladies, each carrying a basket full of knives, broken needles, and cracked hinges, and wearing three sad faces, were about to leave the front counter. On spotting Gaesil, their faces brightened. In minutes, Gaesil had enough work from those three to fill his afternoon.
Two more times that day, the tinker picked up business by acting on hunches. Watching the last of the crowd leaving the festival at day's end, Gaesil marveled at the weight of the coins in the pouch at his waist. He had never had such a good business day, ever. And though he could not explain it, he was certain he owed it all to the dwarf's lucky bracelet. What a powerful talisman it must be; it could make any man rich! It would be a shame to return it to the dwarf, but Gaesil was an honest man, and give it back he would. He only hoped the dwarf did not return until after the fair ended.
Quickly the tinker collected his tools and paraphernalia and returned them to their proper places in his neatly organized wagon. His growling stomach reminded him he had eaten nothing since dawn. He contemplated a supper of dried meat and stale crackers in the wagon, prepared by Hepsiba in Dern the day before. But after such a day as this, he wanted laughter and good food. He knew from customers that there was an ale tent that stayed open long after the other merchants had closed down for the night. Locking the door of his wagon behind him, he set off to follow the sounds of merriment.
The tent was run by the owner of the Trough, a disreputable drinking house Gaesil remembered passing on the southern road into Solace, and the only competition for the Inn of the Last Home. If the main pub was anything like the tent, it wasn't much competition, after all.
Two dingy, flickering oil lanterns hung on poles before the opening to a sand-colored, square canvas tent with an angled roof, peaked in the center with a pole. One corner had collapsed and not been repaired. Thin, knotty planks were placed over the muddy walkways between the tables and makeshift bar, but they had long since sunk into the mud. Cold, dirty water lapped at the patrons' boots, to a depth that even straw or sawdust would not have helped.
The patrons themselves reminded Gaesil of the sewer rats who frequented the dingy, low-ceilinged ale dens so common along the waterfronts in port cities. Although he doubted he would find either good food or laughter here, he was too tired even to contemplate the long walk across town to the Inn of the Last Home. Dinner was here or in his wagon. Here, at least, he wouldn't be bored. He wanted to celebrate his new good fortune, so he decided to stay for a few mugs.
He made his way over the planks to an open table at the back of the tent, near the sagging corner. Waving his arm, he eventually caught the attention of someone behind the bar. A short, dumpy young man in an overly tight, mud-spattered tunic waded at a leisurely pace through the tables to Gaesil's.
He scowled down with piggish eyes. 'Yeah?'
'I would like a mug of your best ale,' Gaesil said pleasantly.
'That it? We only got one kind, and you coulda ordered it at the bar. I only come around for food orders. You gotta order food if you're staying for the entertainment.'
Gaesil's eyebrows arched in surprise. He vaguely remembered seeing a sign attached to the outside of the tent that read 'Amateur Night at the Trough. First prize, free dinner. Come one, come all.' Gaesil decided the evening might prove diverting, after all. 'All right, what are you serving?'
Not meeting Gaesil's eyes, the unpleasant young man jerked his head impatiently toward the door of the tent. 'Menu's up there.'
Squinting across the considerable distance in the dim light, Gaesil saw a small, ill-lettered sign propped on the bar that read, 'Two eggs-one copper; Bread-one copper; Ale-three copper. Tonight's special: eggs, bread, and ale-five copper.'
'Uh, I'll have the special,' Gaesil said with a gulp.
The young man left, yanked a filled mug from the bar, and waddled back to slap it down on Gaesil's table, splashing out a foamy shower. 'Food'll be up eventually,' he said, slogging off to wait on another patron.
Even the rude waiter could not spoil Gaesil's good humor. Taking a pull on his ale, he winced; it was, without a doubt, the worst ale he had ever had, tasting more like ditch water mixed with vinegar. Still, it made his head buzz after just a few sips, which was something to recommend it. In fact, the more the ale tugged at his senses, the better it tasted. Even the tent began to look, if not cheerful, at least less swamplike.
By the time the surly young waiter brought Gaesil's eggs, their broken yolks swimming in watery, uncooked whites, the tinker was ready for another mug. He ordered two at once, to minimize his interaction with the waiter.
'When does the entertainment start?' Gaesil asked.
'I don't care.' The youth marched back to the bar.
Gaesil looked at his plate. A crust of moldy brown bread floated in the eggs. He snapped off the fuzzy part and used the good portions to mop up the egg whites. Popping a bite into his mouth, he swallowed after minimal chewing so as not to taste it for too long. Fortunately, he had an iron constitution and was accustomed to lousy cooking. The culinary arts were not Hepsiba's strong suit, as if she had one. Gaesil snorted, and ale foam stung his nostrils. He hadn't imbibed at any sort of drinking establishment since shortly after his marriage. Hepsiba definitely would not approve, if she could see him now. That thought, and the ale, made him feel very good.
While he was reflecting on his situation, a short, obese man wearing a fancy green velvet coat with gold piping and buttons stretched to bursting climbed up on several bales of hay near the bar. His pug nose looked right in place on his jowly face and reflected as much light as his hairless scalp. He tugged constantly on the facing edges of his coat, belying an otherwise haughty pose.
With no introduction, the man launched into a story. He got very little attention from the crowd-not because it was difficult to hear in the noisy tent, though it was, but because the story seemed to make no sense.
'I was
The unfortunate bard held his head high as he walked back to his table, just one over from Gaesil's, his thinning pate ducking the chunks of moldy bread that whistled past him.
'Buy you a drink, sir?' Gaesil called to him over the noise. 'You look like you could use one.'
Delbridge Fidington made it a policy never to turn away anything free. 'Thank you, good sir,' he said with a
