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The raven-haired Hillae was gazing into her half-empty mug
thoughtfully. "I wonder about her," Tika said dreamily to the
frenzied Otik, who wasn't listening. "She is so beautiful, and
perhaps wise. She has gone places. Done things. She has lived a
life already. And who knows what secrets she might impart to me,
if only we were friends."
Tika moved forward to refill her mug, and Hillae took another
sip, set it down, and said aloud, but mostly to herself, "Farin would
be thirty-three now. Gods rest him, a body like oak, and it still fell
easily enough to fever." There were tears in her eyes. Tika re-
treated.
Meanwhile, Otik was refilling the mug of Elga the Washer, who
was completely absorbed in Tumber's stories. The knight had
drunk vast quantities of ale, and seemed most in love with himself;
with every second breath he proclaimed his romantic and military
prowess, and his adventures grew more outrageous. She didn't
seem to notice, any more than she noticed the wobbly attentions of
Reger or Farmer Mort whenever they popped up to proclaim their
love of her before smashing each other down again.
Elga stared, elbow in hand, at the knight. When her mug was
full, she tossed the ale down her throat and threw the empty mug
sideways into Tumber's forehead. He didn't seem to notice, just
went on describing an improbable epic of love and battle involving
an opposing army, two warrior maids, a sea serpent, and a lute
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