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."
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
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