Mort glanced, pulled almost helplessly, back toward the woman at the next table, Elga the well-muscled Washer.
'Your woman?' Reger looked back at her. 'A moment ago you weren't even with her.'
'Well, I love her. I love her more than anything, and you can't look at her that way.'
'I wasn't looking at her.' The tradesman fingered the short club at his waist. Some nights were for fighting, some weren't; surely this one wasn't, much as Reger loved a good fight. 'My friend, you're only reading your own affection for her into all of us. Surely you can't think that I would interfere between you and a woman you've known for-how long did you say you'd known her?'
'Forever and ever.' Farmer Mort shook his head wonderingly. 'I've known her since I was a little hopper, coming in with Dad's cattle and stopping to get my dress clothes cleaned at her mother's shop before her. Why, I've even had this very shirt cleaned by her. Those hands have washed dirt and dung out of this-' He fingered the material, looking as though he might kiss it.
'Nice of her. How long have you loved her?'
'I don't know. A while, anyway.' He scratched his head. 'I just noticed after I finished my beer, see. That I loved her, I mean.'
'Exactly. And you only just found out that you loved her, even though you've known her forever and-excuse me-you seem a discerning gentlemen.' Reger winked in a friendly manner. 'Perhaps she's an acquired taste.'
'Are you saying she's ugly?' The farmer knotted a huge fist, product of a hand-plow, and waved it in the tradesman's face. 'I won't have that now. She's the woman I love, and she's the most beautiful-the loveliest-'
Drunk, then. The tradesman sighed. 'Look, just tell me what you want me to say and I'll say it. There's no need to be angry.' He took a deep pull from his ale; no sense waiting until this lout spilled it.
Farmer Mort shook his shoulder. 'Don't ignore me, and don't make fun of her. Do you want to fight?'
Reger put his tankard down, and the light in his eyes was strange and bright. 'I wouldn't make fun of the most beautiful woman in the world.'
The farmer squinted piggily at him. 'You said you didn't love her.'
'I lied.' Reger added earnestly, 'I do, you know.' He took another drink.
'Here now!' The farmer shook him again. 'Don't you do it to me.' He repeated, 'Do you want to fight?'
Reger set down the empty tankard and beamed at the aubum haired Elga. There was a high buzzing in his ears. 'A fight?' He smiled happily and reached for his club. 'I love fighting.'
The first blow caught the slack-jawed farmer in the stomach. Reger dusted his hands, bowed to one and all, and stood gaping at Elga until Farmer Mort, rising, caught him on the chin and sent him backward into the table.
Otik saw their table fall over, but there was no time to do anything. Brawling was to be suffered, now and then, but something even more mysterious was afoot. It seemed as if the entire room was humming with mischief. And those who weren't busy fighting were… well, courting and sparking.
Generally, on his rounds, Otik would tactfully bump any couple that was getting too affectionate for the comfort of his other customers. It didn't happen often. Tonight he was moving from couple to couple almost at a run, and some of them he had to pull apart. Everyone seemed to be edging into the private corners created by the irregular trunk of the vallen-wood. What was wrong with these people?
He recoiled from the last pair with shock. Kugel the Elder, forced from the arms of his wife, glared up at him and hissed through the gaps where his teeth had once been. 'Leave us alone, boy.'
Otik backed away, appalled. Kugel was the oldest man in Solace. And to Otik, the fact that Kugel was embracing his own wife only made it worse.
He touched Tika's elbow. 'Be freer with the ale. It may be the moon, or something in the air, but we'd best make this bunch sleepy just as quickly as possi- ^ ble.' Tika, clearly upset by the goings-on around her, nodded and fairly sprinted toward the bar and the new casks.
In the center of the room, Patrig hopped clumsily onto the common table. He had a slopping tankard in hand, and waved it dangerously over people's heads. They clapped and ducked, stealing kisses from each other as they nearly bumped heads. Sareh stopped embracing her husband long enough to say, 'Patrig, get down; you could get hurt.'
He ignored his mother, spread his arms, and sang passionately but with little tune:
He coughed and added,
He went on for twenty lines, sipping ale after each line. Otik felt the boy was getting undue applause for his efforts; apparently, his theme had a lot of appeal tonight. Loriel, Tika's young rival, was gaping up at Patrig as though she was seeing the full moon for the first time. Her own mug was empty. Rian, of the seven gray hairs, was temporarily forgotten.
Finally, too excited to sing, Patrig threw up his arms, shouted, 'Love, love, live,' and crashed off the table. Otik made sure he wasn't hurt or dead, then ran to a corner table where two drovers, swearing fealty to each other, were strangling a stranger.
The raven-haired Hillae was gazing into her half-empty mug thoughtfully. 'I wonder about her,' Tika said dreamily to the frenzied Otik, who wasn't listening. 'She is so beautiful, and perhaps wise. She has gone places. Done things. She has lived a life already. And who knows what secrets she might impart to me, if only we were friends.'
Tika moved forward to refill her mug, and Hillae took another sip, set it down, and said aloud, but mostly to herself, 'Farin would be thirty-three now. Gods rest him, a body like oak, and it still felleasily enough to fever.' There were tears in her eyes. Tika re treated.
Meanwhile, Otik was refilling the mug of Elga the Washer, who was completely absorbed in Tumber's stories. The knight had drunk vast quantities of ale, and seemed most in love with himself; with every second breath he proclaimed his romantic and military prowess, and his adventures grew more outrageous. She didn't seem to notice, any more than she noticed the wobbly attentions of Reger or Farmer Mort whenever they popped up to proclaim their love of her before smashing each other down again.
Elga stared, elbow in hand, at the knight. When her mug was full, she tossed the ale down her throat and threw the empty mug sideways into Tumber's forehead. He didn't seem to notice, just went on describing an improbable epic of love and battle involving an opposing army, two warrior maids, a sea serpent, and a lute.
Elga stood full upright, threw her head back, and shouted, 'Gods, goddesses, men and women, I am sick of laundry, cooking, children, and trees!'
Someone shouted approval, and she smashed her fist on the table. 'Show me steel. Show me armor. Show me a battle, and something worth fighting for, and never stand between me and those things. I love adventure. I lust for glory. I crave-'
'And you shall have it,' Tumber slurred. 'All of it and more, in my great person. Come, queen of my battles, and worship my greatness. Thrill to watch my adventures. Glory in my talents, my prowess, my-'
'My god.' Heads turned; Elga was no soft speaker. 'Your battles? Your greatness? Your adventure?' Tum-ber almost cringed. 'I'll have none of that. My battles, my conquest, MY wars. Give me that!'
He gaped at her. She shoved him backward, hit his exposed jaw with her left fist, and caught his sword as he sprawled. She waved it above her head. 'Now let all the world forget Elga the Washer and beware Elga the Warrior. I leave Solace, to seek the combat, the ad venture, and the glory I love!'
'You can't take my sword,' Tumber said from the floor. 'It's my honor. It's my only battle companion- before you, of course. It's my living' He wavered. 'It's borrowed,' he finished miserably as he rose.
'Borrowed?' She hefted it, spun it with a supple wrist, pointed it at him.
He put his arms up. 'Well, yes. From a knight in financial straits. But I really have used it a little.' He added desperately, 'Come, love, and we'll seek glory together. Really, I'll let you use it some, if you'll just give it back-'
She pulled the sword away as he reached. 'Borrowed, is it? Now it's twice borrowed.' She shouted, in a voice that made the tankards vibrate, 'Off to fortune and glory!' A few lovers cheered her between kisses. Otik moved to block her exit, but Elga swung the stolen sword menacingly in the doorway. Otik ducked aside, and she was gone.
Tumber the Mighty scuttled past Otik, throwing coins at him. 'For her drinks and mine. Really, I don't know
