The Magic Of Krynn (12 page)

“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, their slicing
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 parried that 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.” 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 and warmth 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.