"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 wilclass="underline" 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." 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.