He made the impression he wanted, and smiled on her. 'If you will dine with me, I will give you tales of battle and glory, magic and monsters, journeys and shipwrecks, all of which I have seen with my own eyes.' It was quite true. Tumber could read, and had seen and memorized the best tales.
Elga didn't care whether he was a real hero or not. 'Tell me everything. I want to hear it all. I wish I could see it all,' she added without bitterness. Her eyes shone more brightly than the highlights in her auburn hair.
While Tumber spoke, a slender woman in her forties moved gracefully to the bar. She wore a shawl and carried a small satchel at her waist. 'Am I too late for a meal?' Her voice was clear and cultured.
Otik, who had been judging her by the simplicity and travel stains of her clothes, said hastily, 'No, lady. There are potatoes, and venison, and cider, and-'
'It smells lovely.' She smiled. 'And do call me Hil-lae, which is my name.'
Tika stared in awe at the woman's hair. It flowed nearly to her waist and was jet black with a single gray streak to one side. Tika said, 'Inns serve late on full-moon nights. People travel longer. I'd think you'd know that, from the road.'
Hillae laughed. 'So I look road-worn? No, don't blush; I HAVE traveled for years, but customs differ.' Tika nodded and backed away. The woman turned again to Otik. 'I would love a meal.'
'Certainly.' Otik hesitated, glancing at the drovers and at an arriving stranger with an eye-patch. 'If you wish, I could serve your dinner in a private room, Hillae.'
She shook her head. 'No such luxuries for me now.' She looked Otik in the eye and said frankly, 'And I have eaten more meals alone than I care to.'
Otik smiled back at her now, suddenly an equal. 'I know what you mean, ma'am. I'll seat you in a bright corner; you'll not lack for company.'
'Thank you.' Hillae looked back at Tika, who was shyly watching the stranger with the eye-patch. He winked at the girl, and she looked away. 'The barmaid is lovely. Your daughter?'
'Foster daughter.' Otik added suddenly, 'If you know much about young women and romance, ma'am, you might have a word with her. If you don't mind, I mean. She's got a broken heart every week, these past few months. I don't know what to say to her, and maybe you-' He spread his hands helplessly.
'She'll learn about broken hearts fast enough without my help. They grow up fast at that age.' She patted Otik's hand, though Otik was years her senior. 'But send her over when she's free. I'd love the company-as you knew.' Hillae glided away, and Otik, for all he felt foolish, was glad he had asked her.
Now the locals were drifting in, for a night of gossip andwarmth after their meals at home. First to come were the red haired, gangly Patrig and his parents. Otik nodded to them. 'Frankel. Sareh. Sorry, Patrig; no singers tonight.'
'Are you sure?' he croaked. His voice, changing, hadn't come in right yet.
Patrig's mother leaned forward. 'He talks all the time about the singers he's heard here. He loves music so.'
so.
'Loves it from afar,' Frankel said, and chuckled as he mussed Patrig's hair. 'Can't sing a note himself.'
Patrig ducked and muttered, and the three of them went to sit down. On the way the young man passed Loriel, newly arriving, who flashed her hair at him as she spun away.
A voice at Otik's elbow crackled, 'Music and flirtation. All young folk want now is music and flirtation. It's not like the old days.'
Otik nodded respectfully to Kugel the Elder. 'I imagine not, sir. Though I did like a dance myself, in my younger days.'
Kugelk scowled. 'I mean long before then, young man. Back when life was simple and dignified, and there wasn't'all this shouting about romance.'
'I'm sure, sir. There's a seat waiting for you by the fire. Do you need any help?'
Kugel's wife, a bird of a woman, stepped from behind him. 'I'm all the help he's ever needed-though the goddesses know he's needed all of that.'
Kugel waved an angry hand at her, but let himself be guided around a huge farmer, who tipped a hat to him reverently but put it back on and drew up a chair not far from Elga and the knight. Otik returned to his work.
Though a few folk stopped for meals at noon, it wasn't until dusk on normal days and well after moonrise that the Inn attracted many weary travelers and locals. Few would waste the light, and fewer still were so desperate to reach destinations that they would travel late. With their meals Otik served hot cider and the old ale, warm spiced potatoes and, by request only, a venison 'that warmed winter hearts,' as he said. Outside there were already thin patches of ice on the brooks, and the trees were leafless. Early in the evening most of the venison was gone. Otik could scarcely remember an evening when the Inn was so busy and full.
The stranger with the eye-patch, looking more battered than rough, approached the bar. 'Ale.' He looked at the mugs, then with more respect at the polished tankards on their pegs behind the bar. 'Tankard.'
'A moment, sir.' Otik gestured to Tika, who passed him the tap. He held it and closed his eyes, moving his lips, then pushed it against the side of the cask and hammered it home through the sealer with one sure stroke.
The stranger spun his coin meaningfully, but Otik only smiled. 'Put your coin away, sir. The first draw of a new batch is always my gift.'
'Thank you kindly.' With his good eye, the stranger stared hungrily at the foaming outpouring as Otik turned the tap. 'Looks good, it does.' He smiled at Tika, who edged behind Otik.
With a polished stick Otik cleared the foam from the tankard. His heart rose as he saw the rich nut- brownness of the ale. Proof was in tasting-which Otik never did until his last guest had tried the new batch-but this ale was rich, eye-catching, as lovely as the gleaming wood of the Inn itself. 'You're right, sir. Looks good.' He sniffed it, and put an arm around Tika as he felt a wave of affection. 'Tika and I made this ourselves, sir. We'd like your opinion.'
The stranger took the tankard too hastily, then tried to compensate by judiciously staring at it, smelling it, holding it up to the stained-glass as though moonlight could help him see through pewter. Finally he tipped it up, steeply enough to be staring into his own beer as he drank. He froze there and said nothing, his throat quavering.
Otik froze with him. Ah, gods, was the man choking? Was this Otik's first bad batch?
The one-eyed man slammed his empty tankard down, foam ringing a wide, happy smile. 'I love it.'
The other patrons applauded. Otik had not even known they were watching; he waved to them and began drawing off mug after mug after tankard after tankard. Soon he was circulating among a talkative, appreciative, friendly crowd. On the first pass he set ale in front of Tumber the Mighty and in front of Elga the Washer, in front of the bulky farmer (whose name was Mort), and in front of Reger.
The trader was tired and dusty, and looked at his ale longingly. Still, Reger kept to his own tradition of eyeing all the other patrons before drinking. Sometimes a former customer of his was nearby. Once, after nodding absently to a man he should have known, he had been knocked from his chair by a cropper wielding an apple squeezer that worked well as a bludgeon. Since Reger occasionally promised more than his trade goods could deliver, it was better to see such folk before they saw him.
The people of Solace, a pretty rustic bunch, were all he saw. He looked at Farmer Mort drinking in the corner near the door, at the scrawny Patrig near his parents at the central table, last and appreciatively at Elga, the muscled auburn woman at the next table. He thought, briefly, of going over to her, perhaps buying her ale.
On the other hand, Tumber the Mighty was already speaking to her, and she clearly loved his stories, if not him. Besides, she looked to have some anger in her, and as a tradesman, Reger had learned, young as he was, to look for that in people. It didn't look like a good time to interrupt her.
He shrugged. Maybe later. Reger reached for his tankard
And was shoved back in his chair by a hand in the breastbone. It was the burly farmer, and he was glaring down at him. 'None of that.'
'None of what?' He squinted at the big man, who still had farm boots on. From his muscles. Farmer Mort looked to juggle cows for a living.
The farmer ignored the quesiton. 'Who do you think you are?'
'Who do you think I am?' Reger asked cautiously.
'Don't wise-mouth. I hate that. I hate it as much as I love her. Stop looking at my woman that way.' Farmer
