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 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. WHAT WAS WRONG WITH EVERYBODY?
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:
NO ONE CAN LOVE- QUITE LIKE MY LOVE- BECAUSE HER LOVE- IS ALL I LOVE-
He coughed and added, AND IN HER LOVE- I FIND MY LOVE- AND THEN HER LOVE- IS JUST LIKE
LOVE-
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 fell easily 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 what got into her. Wonderful girl, actually; she loved my stories
almost as much as I do. Wait, love!” he called down the stairs, and dashed out of sight,
knocking Otik sideways.
Otik nearly backed into a raised arm; a middle-aged, peasant couple were waving arms at
each other, their eyes locked. “Did you or did you not look at her with pure desire, you
great wobble- cheeked fool?” asked the woman.
“Anyone would,” the man answered, loud enough to be heard several trees over. “Especially
if he were married to a wretched mass of gripes and dimples like you, cow. And you're one
to talk, aren't you-ogling that skinny little sly-looking traveler back-”
He turned to point at Reger, wavering when all he could see was an occasional flailing
fist or arm. “Back there, somewhere. Tramp.”
“Pig.” They grabbed each other's throats and vanished under the table.
Tika watched, hand to her mouth. Grunts and heavy breathing emerged from under the table.
Otik wondered, trotting past to the next crisis, if the two were still fighting, or . . . ?
Tika rushed by him, nearly spilling ale from the pitcher. Otik grabbed her arm as she
passed. “Did you give them full-strength ale?”
At first he thought he had grabbed her too hard;
then he realized that her tears were from panic. “I did. Strong as can be, straight from
the new kegs. But they all get worse, not better. They're not even sleepy.”
“Impossible.” Otik sniffed at the ale. So did Tika. “Then what's happening?” wondered Otik.
From just the sniffing, Tika's eyes were already bright and restless. Otik knew the answer
almost as soon as he had asked the question.
“Moonwick.” Otik remembered speaking of magic, and he remembered leaving the kender alone
with the alewort. “The empty purse he dropped.” A love potion! “If that damned thief-
trickster ever returns-”
Just in time he saw the man with the eye-patch raise his tankard, staring directly at
Tika. Her eyes leveled in return. Otik
gave a start and shoved her hastily behind the bar, setting a barrel in her place. The man
licked his lips and came forward, tankard in hand. At the time, setting out the barrel
seemed a clever feint, but it opened unforeseen floodgates. Despite Otik's protest-"I'm
sorry, there seems to be something wrong with the ale"-the stranger methodically rolled
out every last cask. The Inn guests cheered, looking up briefly from their loving and
fighting. And the ale continued to pour.
After that, things became confused. The drovers had started several small fights,
wandering off and losing interest between drinking rounds, then embracing each other
passionately before starting up again. Patrig and Loriel were dancing in the middle of the
room. Patrig's mother and father were kissing against the tree trunk. Hillae had
disappeared somewhere, and Reger was riding Farmer Mort horseback in circles around the
room. Their whoops and cries were indistinguishable from whatever was going on over there,
and there, in the shadows.