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The fire was nearly out. Not even during the worst nights of
Haggard Winter had that happened. Otik put tinder on the last
embers, blew them into flame, added splinters, and laid the legs of
a broken chair on.
He moved the skillet as quietly as possible, but inevitably the
eggs sizzled in the grease. Someone whimpered. Otik tactfully
pulled the pan from the fire.
Instead he tiptoed around, gathering dented tankards, pottery
shards, and a few stray knives and daggers. A haggard young
stranger grabbed his ankle and pleaded for water. When Otik
returned, the man was asleep, his arm wrapped protectively around
the raven-tressed Hillae. Instead of making him look protective, it
made him seem even younger. She smiled in her sleep and stroked
his hair.
The steps thudded too loudly; someone was stamping up them.
Otik heard more whimpers. The front door boomed against the
wall, and Tika, her hair pulled primly back, stepped through and
looked disapprovingly at the debris and tangled bodies. "Shall we
clean up?" she said too loudly.
Otik winced as the others cringed around her. "In a while.
Would you go fetch water? We'll need more than the cistern holds,
I'm afraid."
"If you really need it." She slammed the inn door. The thump of
her tread down the stairs shook the floor.
"Can't we kill her?" Reger the trader groaned. His right arm
was wrapped around both his ears, and his head was cradled on the
sleeping farmer's chest
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