the birds watch and hear
and wait every year,
but all of their songs are sad.
Otik, resealing another cask, felt a shadow of what Tika heardin the song. 'That's pretty.' He looked at the worn and time darkened casks. 'We had songs like that when I was a lad, too.'
'Like that one?' The girl was appalled. Surely no one had ever written a song that deep and meaningful before.
'As good or better.' He grinned at her. 'Some of them even talked about birds.'
Birdsong exploded outside, and Otik glanced out a window near the door. 'I wouldn't say that all their songs were sad, though. If this weren't autumn, I'd swear the fire swallows were mating.'
'You're teasing me again.'
'So I am.' Otik sniffed the steam from the alewort, and gave her a quick affectionate hug. 'Wonderful, perceptive young lady, would you help me drain the wort into smaller casks?'
Tika did. It was a pleasant, sunny afternoon; after-ward it seemed to them both that they had never felt so much like father and daughter.
The next full moon shone through the thick branches, huge and fresh-risen, when Otik rolled the first of the new casks out. It was barely past sunset, and Otik was acting like a bridegroom.
Some innkeepers held back the first cask, only opening it after second or third rounds. Otik despised that:
what better way to feel the full flavor of an ale than taste it all evening, uncut and by itself? It was a risk, he knew. Some inns took years for their reputations to recover from bad batches of brew; even strangers who drank little Would shun lodging, judging the service and bed to be as poor as the drinks. But, a good house gave its best, and Otik had never failed to open his new casks with the first mug served after sunset.
A slender man in his twenties, a peddler by the look of his bag, stood in the doorway beating road-dust from his clothing. Otik approved silently, but withdrew approval when the tradesman agreeably beat dust from a knight as well-and easily lifted a purse.
Otik coughed loudly. The man in the door looked started, shrugged, and put back the purse. The knight slapped him on the shoulder and drew him in. 'I thank you, sir. Now, when you are in your dotage, you may tell your wondering children how you once polished the armor of Tumber the Mighty.'
The tradesman rubbed his shoulder and said politely, 'I am sure that when I am in my dotage I shall speak of you often.' The knight nodded in satisfaction and sat down. The tradesman turned to Otik. 'I was cleaning a spot under his purse and neglected to put it back. Thank you for-hmmm-reminding me.'
'My pleasure, sir.' Otik added, with emphasis, 'I like to keep my customers mindful of such things.'
'Oh, I don't think I'll be absent-minded again.' He was looking back and forth alertly. 'Tell me, sir innkeeper-'
'Otik.' As always, Otik offered his hand.
'And I am Reger, called Reger the Trader-mostly.' He let go of Otik's hand, looked at his own in surprise, and passed Otik's ring back. 'Imagine that. I'm forgetful again. And you watching me…' He smiled blandly at Otik.
Otik laughed. 'Smoothly done. I take your point, Reger. Instead of watching, I ask your cooperation tonight.'
'You'll have it.' For the first time, he looked tired. 'I've traveled long and hard. A good meal and good ale, that's all I want.'
'I'll bring the meal out directly. As for the ale-' Otik shrugged nervously. 'Well, I think you'll be pleased.'
'I'm sure I will.' Reger bowed courteously, then leaned forward. 'Tell me, since I imagine you know these folk well: Has anyone local complained this fall of poor kitchen goods, little machines that don't do what they are said to, or that break, or that bark the knuckles?'
Otik, mystified, shook his head. 'Not one.'
Reger straightened again. 'In that case,' he said more confidently, 'do you know any good men or women, even perhaps yourself or your cook, who, troubled with the toil of meal-making, might wish to find their labors light, their peeling paltry, theirslicing simple, and all with the amazing, freshly invented, ab solutely swom-to-save-time-' He fumbled in his bag.
Otik said bluntly, 'I have a labor-saving device. It's called a cook. The cook has a peeling and slicing device. It's called a knife, and it's very sharp. The cook has a bad temper and a long memory. I don't advise selling here, sir.'
'Well.' Reger pulled his fingers out of the bag and drummed them at the bar. 'Perhaps I'll merely rest this night. I could use rest.'
Otik sighed. 'So could we, sir.'
Tika, walking by with too much coy tilt to her head, stumbled. Roger's left arm flashed up and caught the tray, balancing it without effort. His right hand caught her elbow. 'Are you all right?'
Tika blushed. 'I'm fine. I must have caught my foot-' She looked at her dress in dismay. 'I stepped on it. It's filthy. I look awful.'
'You look lovely.' He pulled the tray from her completely. 'Far too comely to walk around with a terrible stain, like a patch on a painting.'
She blushed as he smiled at her. 'You're teasing me.'
He winked. 'Of course I am. I think I do it well. Go clean off; I'll take this tray around.'
Tika looked questioningly at Otik, who nodded. She curtseyed, folding the skirt to hide the dirty streak. 'Thank you.' She skipped out.
Otik said, 'I'll take the tray.'
Reger shook his head. A lock of straight hair fell below his cowl, and he suddenly looked young and stubborn. 'I told her I'd do it. Best I keep my word.' He glanced back at her, smiling again. 'Sweet little thing. I have a sister that age, back home.'
Otik warmed to Reger. 'Take the potato bowls to the far table. Four plates, four spoons to a table, except for the common table. I'll be by with your meal as you finish, and thanks.'
'Why, it is my pleasure.' Reger, back to being smooth, hoisted the tray over his shoulder and glided between tables, humming. Otik watched him go.
At the first table two men, drovers by the style of their clothes and the faintly bovine look such men get, dove for the potato bowl as Tumber the Mighty, spoon in air, rehearsed a combat for their benefit.
'And, sirs, picture it if you will: a mage and two men, tall and steeped in evil, glowing before me, and me fresh out of a stream, armorless and unclad. Picture the mage frowning and preparing to cast his death-bolt, and picture me, sirs.' He straightened. Even in armor, his stomach bulged. 'Picture me naked.'
'Please,' the balding drover muttered, 'I'm eating.' The other snorted and covered his mouth and nose hastily. Tumber the Mighty took no notice.
'What could a man do?' He looked around as though expecting an answer, apparently from the ceiling beams. 'Ah, but what might a hero do?' He thumped the table, bouncing the potato bowl. 'I dove.' He ducked forward, and both drovers ducked back. 'I rolled.' He swayed to one side, barely missing Reger, who nimbly side- stepped him. 'I grabbed my sword, this very sword at my waist, and with bare knuckles and an uncharmed blade, I parriedthat magic bolt back at him.' Tumber folded his arms tri umphantly. 'He died, of course. I named my sword Death-bolt, in honor of that day.'
His triumph became discomfort as the drovers, not applauding, looked at him cynically while they chewed in unison. He glanced around for other listeners and noticed a local woman with striking red hair and well-muscled arms who was staring at him, her mouth open. She said, 'Where was this?'
'Ah. Where indeed.' He spun to her table and sat. 'A land so far from here, so strange to you, that if I spoke of it-'
'Do,' she said hungrily. 'I love talk about strange places, about heroes and battle and magic. I could listen to it all day, if I hadn't my work to do.' She raised a well-scrubbed hand awkwardly. 'I am Elga, called Elga the Washer,' she half-muttered.
He nodded courteously over the hand. 'And I am Tumber.' He paused for effect. 'Called Tumber the Mighty.'
