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. 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, their
slicing 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
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