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."
"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
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