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. "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 to
the 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
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