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. 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
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