Tika continued to count as the card-players snatched up their bets and dashed out the door. "Seven!" she snapped as she followed them onto the balcony. "Eight!"
Their footsteps scurried away outside, fading in the distance. Tika came back in and set her skillets down on the bar, green eyes twinkling.
"I can still clear a room, can't I?" she asked.
Chuckling, Caramon made his way around the bar. Without a word, he took her in his arms and pressed his lips against hers. She made a surprised sound, then softened into the kiss. Her face was red when he lifted his mouth from hers.
"What in the Abyss was that for?" she asked.
"This morning," Caramon said. "Sorry I was such a lummox."
"Forgotten," Tika answered. Smiling, he began to turn away, but she grabbed his apron, pulling him toward her. "Get back here."
They kissed again, folding their arms about each other. They didn't hear the footsteps in the kitchen, or the creak of the door swinging open.
Laura Majere stepped into the taproom, carrying a steaming crock-pot. "I've got the herb-roasted beans for the feast tonight," she said. "Where should I-"
Flushing, Tika and Caramon parted. Caramon grinned at his daughter, a little too widely. "Laura!" he exclaimed in a rush. "Smells wonderful. Did you use enough sage? I should put the spiced potatoes on. Is the stove still hot?"
Laughing, Laura set the pot down on a table and flipped back her long, red curls. "Don't worry about the potatoes," she said. "I'll take care of them. You two enjoy yourselves. Go down to the fair." She winked. "Or whatever else you want to do."
Caramon's cheeks nearly glowed. "I think we've done it," he told Tika, his broad chest swelling with pride. "We've raised the perfect daughter."
Tika laughed, untying her apron. A moment later, her eyes narrowed. She peered about suspiciously. "Where's your sister?"
Laura looked away, clearing her throat. "Oh, she's around… somewhere. I, uh, think she went out to the cistern to fetch water."
Her parents exchanged knowing glances. "She's a lousy liar," Caramon said.
"She gets that from you," Tika replied.
Laura sidled toward the kitchen. "I'd better see to the potatoes-"
"Stop right there," Caramon said sternly. "Where's Dezra?"
"I don't know." Laura shrugged helplessly. "She went out this morning. She wouldn't say where she was headed."
Tika shook her head. "Typical. One perfect daughter and one perfect brat. I swear, that girl's looking for trouble. And it'll find her, too."
Caramon sighed. Though Dezra was only a year younger than Laura, the sisters couldn't have been less alike. While Laura worked hard to help run the Inn, Dezra was always out, and seldom up to any good. She drank, swore, kept unsavory company. That she'd leave without a word, even on Spring Dawning, was scarcely a surprise.
"She'll be all right," Laura said. "Don't let her spoil the day for you."
Tika frowned, then spread her hands and walked to Caramon. He offered his arm, and she took it. "Don't stay here too late," she chided Laura. "You should enjoy the festival too. And if you see your sister-"
"I'll tell her you're looking for her," Laura said.
Arm in arm, Caramon and Tika strolled outside. Laura listened to them go, then went to the bar and started polishing mugs.
"Gods, Dez," she murmured. "I hope you know what you're doing."
3
Mostly, the folk of Solace preferred not to come down from the trees. True, some of the town's buildings-smithy, stables, storehouses-were on the ground, but many of the villagers could spend weeks at a time up among the boughs. Town fairs, however, were a different matter: it was easier, and safer, to hold them in the broad town square on the ground. So, at least once a season, the townsfolk descended to the forest floor to make merry.
The Spring Dawning fair was a tumult of activity. Merchants from all over Ansalon had set up tents and counters, selling everything from leather pouches to gemstones, steel weapons to vallenwood carvings. There was food, too-venison and honeycakes, culberries and elven quith-pa- and everywhere one looked, someone was hawking ale or wine.
There was more than just things to buy, of course. Bards and entertainers of all sorts had come to ply their trades. Wandering about the fair, Caramon counted a dozen minstrels and storytellers, a company of acrobats, a puppet show, stilt-walkers, jugglers, jesters and a fire-eater. He and Tika stopped to watch, and left coins in hats here and there.
There were others, too: reminders of what the world had lost ten years ago. False prophets preached to the masses, seeking converts for their faiths. Caramon cast them a baleful eye-in his youth, he and his friends had run afoul of their like many times-but he left them alone. Some people needed gods to believe in, and the real ones weren't coming back soon.
It hurt more to see the magicians. To the delight of onlookers, they made coins dance in the air, conjured white birds out of nothing, and cut ropes to pieces, only to make them whole again. It was all fakery and flash powder, of course. Caramon's brother had performed most of the tricks when they were boys. For Raistlin, such illusions had been a means to the end of learning true magic. Raist was gone with the gods, though, and sorcery with him. Caramon was sure some of the "magicians" on the fairgrounds today had once been real wizards, wielding true spells. It saddened him to see them, reduced to roadside spectacles.
Besides watching the buskers perform, the townsfolk also made their own fun. A riddling contest was due to take place later on. On the far side of the square, human and elven archers feathered targets with lethal accuracy. Footraces, javelin throws, and other contests drew the skillful and foolish. Caramon and Tika stopped for a while beside one game, where two young men with quarterstaffs stood on a beam above a mud pit, trying to knock each other off. The crack of wood against wood sounded above the crowd's shouts.
The combatants traded blows, dodging and blocking, until finally one gained the upper hand. He struck his opponent's knee with the end of his staff, then swept his weapon up and hit him again in the chest. The stricken man toppled from the beam, landing in the pit with a splash that spattered mud on the onlookers.
Laughter and curses rose as bets were settled and young men yelled challenges against the champion. Soaking with mud, the defeated man rose from the pit and stormed off into the crowd.
"Look at this," Tika groaned, brushing her mud-flecked skirts. "We've been here an hour, and my frock's ruined. You'll have to buy me a new one."
Caramon grunted but said nothing, staring wistfully at the beam.
Tika groaned. "No," she told him. "I know that look. Just forget about it."
He sighed, not seeming to hear. "I used to fight in competitions like that, when I was young." He nodded at the champion, who arrogantly straddled the beam. "I could have knocked that whelp halfway to Haven."
Tika snorted. "That was fifty years ago, you dolt," she scolded. "I could have done the same, back then. But you're not seventeen any more, Caramon. That's a game for young men."
Reluctantly, Caramon turned to face her. "So what's left for me to do?"
Sensing another mood coming on, Tika looked around. "There's always the eating contests," she said, pointing.
Caramon's eyes drifted to a table where several large men were cramming a seemingly endless supply of sausages into their mouths while the watching crowd laughed. "I will not do that," he sulked, grimacing. "I'd look less of a fool if I locked myself in the pillory and let people throw rotten fruit at me."
"And you'd have looked better, getting knocked on your backside in the mud?"
Caramon looked down at Tika, saw the fire in her eyes, and grinned. "Point taken."