"A mage?" Otik was uneasy near magic.

  "Oh, no." Moonwick shook his head violently. "Just a charm vendor: potions, powders, elixirs, amulets- nothing serious. Why, this is probably quite harmless." He held the bag toward Otik. "Probably the poor man will be here any day, looking for this. Would you take-"

  "No"

  "Just overnight; surely you're not-"

  "No."

  "What possible harm could there be-"

  "I have no idea what harm there could be," Otik said firmly. "I don't intend to find out. I keep away from magic."

  The kender looked pityingly. "You miss a lot of ex citement that way."

  "Long ago I took a vow. I'm devoting my life to missing a lot of excitement."

  "All right, then." Moonwick bounced the bag on his palm. "I'll return it myself. Someday."

  "Good of you. In the meantime, I'm sorry you don't need a meal. Why don't you take-" With a quick wrist movement, Otik caught Moonwick's arm as it flashed across the bar-"a mug of ale, for your throat."

  "Good idea." The kender grabbed a mug. "Maybe I could stay here the night," he said wistfully.

  "No." Otik sighed. "I'm still replacing forks from the last time."

  Moonwick waved a hand. "Surely you don't blame me Wasn't that a cry from the kitchen?"

  It was. It sounded like a buried cook. Otik grunted. "Pantry shelf's fallen again." He trotted for the kitchen door, then whirled. "Touch nothing without invitation while I'm gone."

  "Sound advice," the kender murmured. As Otik disappeared through the door, the kender held his lips still.

  The tap on the counter-keg said in a squeaky voice, "Have a refill, Moonwick."

  "I will," the kender said happily, "and thank you for the invitation." While he drank, for practice he made the buried-cook sound come from one of the packs at his side.

  He stuck his hoopak straight out and spun it, balancing the purse on the end. When the drawstrings came undone he caught the purse neatly, then smelted it. "What an odd odor." He opened it and tilted it sideways. A pinch of powder like cinnamon drifted tothe floor. He made a face. "It's a charm. Something terrible, too icky-sweet and spice-filled. It's not even labeled; it could be anything. How does Ralf expect people who find his purse by accident to know what to do with it?" He sighed. "Magicians are so untrustworthy."

  Moonwick poked the purse itself. "Nice bag, though." He looked behind the bar for a place to empty out the useless dust, then saw the loose-lidded tun of alewort. He grinned, lifted the lid and emptied the contents of the pouch inside.

  When Otik came back, he checked the bar carefully. Nothing seemed to be missing. He eyed Moonwick, who smiled innocently at him. "Nice ale," the kender said.

  "It's my own recipe." The innkeeper added, "Thanks to your contribution, this batch will be even better."

  The kender choked. Otik stooped to pat his back, then retrieved an empty purse from the floor. "What's this?"

  "Mine." The kender deftly plucked it from the innkeeper's hands. "I hope to fill it someday."

  "Not in my inn." Otik added, as the kender rose to leave, "My thanks, Moonwick. Leave the door open, so the brew smell will air out. Come back next full moon, if you wish to taste what you carried."

  "Best I hurry on," Moonwick said regretfully. Which was true-sooner or later Ralf might come looking for him. "I do hope I can return to sample that batch." He shook hands with Otik, who checked his ring after-ward.

  Otik listened to the reassuring thump of the ken-der's departure down the stairs, and sighed. He said to himself, "There's one source of trouble gone, and no harm done. Now to heat the alewort." He walked to the back, looking for Tika.

  While he was away, two fire swallows, a male and a female, flew in the open door and pecked at the fine spicy powder spilled from the purse. The two of them flew out in circles, squawking, billing, and frenziedly pressing against each other's bodies.

  After pouring the hops in the tun, Otik cleaned the stream rounded heating stones and scrubbed the iron tongs he used on them. The whole Inn grew warm as he built up the fire and opened a wind-vent to blow the coals. The stones he laid on a flat clean slab of the hearth; as each stone heated he lowered it with the tongs into the wort. Soon he was sweating freely from the heat. He set the tongs down to wipe his forehead.

  Without being asked, Tika picked them up, re moved several stones from the tun and swung heated ones in, lowering them gently to avoid splashing. Otik puffed and watched, proud of her. When he was younger, he would have needed no rest. For that matter, when Tika was younger, he would not have let her spell him at the heating.

  As the tun began steaming, Otik thought again to himself, "She's old enough for her own place." He shook his head, cast the problem from his mind, and tried to think only of the new ale.

  After the heating, Tika and Otik poured off the ale into smaller casks. Otik took care to fill each cask only four-fifths full, because the alewort bubbled as it worked, and a full cask could explode. Once, when Otik was young, he had overfilled one; it had taken weeks to get the smell out of the Inn.

  Each cask they finished they rolled carefully against the tree and set upright where it would be in sunlight but away from outside walls. For the first seven days, the casks would be warm and working, and the yeast would be settling out of it. After that,they would move the casks, as gently as possible, into the store room with the stone floor, and give them until the next full moon to age in cool and quiet. If they had extra casks by then, and if they had the energy, Otik and Tika would pour the beer into freshlywashed containers for its final aging. Often, Otik cast about for ex cuses to avoid that stage; scrubbing twice for each batch, and repouring half-done beer, seemed an awful lot of work for a pleasant drink.

  For now, though, the hard part of the brewing process was over, and it seemed to them both that the alewort already smelled delicious. Tika, her troubles forgotten, or at least submerged, sang another verse to 'The Song of Elen Waiting':

  WILL SOMEONE WHO KNOWS

  WHERE ALL THE TIME GOES

  COME AND LEAD ME AWAY BY THE HAND,

  I KNOW DAY BY DAY

  I'M FADING AWAY;

  IT'S MORE THAN MY HEART CAN STAND.

  IT'S NOT THAT HE KNEW

  MORE THAN ANY MEN DO,

  BUT HE KNEW ALL MY HEART EVER HAD;

  THE BIRDS WATCH AND HEAR

  AND WAIT EVERY YEAR,

  BUT ALL OF THEIR SONGS ARE SAD.

  Otik, resealing another cask, felt a shadow of what Tika heardin the song. "That's pretty." He looked at the worn and time darkened casks. "We had songs like that when I was a lad, too."

  "Like that one?" The girl was appalled. Surely no one had ever written a song that deep and meaningful before.

  "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, theirslicing 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 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."