The Magic of Krynn (d-1), page 10
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.
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 felleasily 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. "Didyou 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. "Theempty 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.
Tika said, "Can ale do all that?" She looked interest-ediy at the mug on her tray. "Otik, what if I-"
"No."
"But it looks like so much-"
"No. It looks like too much, that's what it does." Otik pulled her away from a line of dancing old men and women.
"But if Loriel can-"
"No, no, and no. You're not Loriel." Otik made a de cision. "Here's your cloak. Wear it. Here's mine; sleep in it. Find a place, go, and don't come back to the Inn tonight."
"But you can't manage without me."
Otik gestured at the room now frenzied with activity. "I can't manage WITH you. Go."
"But where will I sleep?"
"Anywhere. Outside. Someplace safe. Go, child." He cleared her way to the door, pulling her with one hand.
As she stepped into the night, she said in a hurt voice, "But why?"
Otik stopped dead. "Well, we'll talk about that later. Go, child. I'm sorry."
He tried to kiss her good night. Tika, angry, ducked and ran. "I want a place of my own!" she cried. Otik stared after her, then closed the door and tried to get back to the fire.
The best he could do was edge to the bar. The dancers and fighters had split into smaller but more boisterous groups, shouting and singing to each other. Otik, unable even to feed the fire, watched helplessly as the bodies became struggling silhouettes, the silhouettes coupled shadows, the shadows a noisy dark. That night the inn was full of joyous and angry voices, but all he could see, by a single candle held near the mirror, was his own face, alone.
The next morning Otik stepped dazedly over broken mugs and intertwined bodies. Most of the benches lay on their sides, one completely turned over. It was like a battlefield, he thought, but for the life of him he couldn't tell who won. There were bodies on bodies, and clothing hung like banners over chairs, and out-flung arms and wayward legs sticking from under the few pieces of upright furniture. Tankards lay on their sides everywhere, and everywhere pieces of pottery rocked on the floor as people snored or groaned.
