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. At the kitchen door he
called to Riga the cook for potatoes, but not too loudly.
By mid-moming he had assessed the night's damage and its
profit. After re-hammering the tankards and replacing the mugs, he
would still have the greatest profit he had ever made from one
night, and not half the lodgings paid up yet. He lifted the pile of
coins. It took two hands, and shone in the light from a broken rose
windowpane.
All the same, when the man with the eye-patch croaked that he
wanted a farewell mug "to guard against road dust," Otik laid
hands on the final keg and said firmly, "No, sir. I will never sell
this ale full strength again." He added, "You may have a mug of
the regular stock."
The man grunted. "All right. Not that I blame you. But it's a
shame and a crime, if you intend to water that batch. How can you
water ale and not kill the flavor?"
He drained the mug and staggered out. Otik marveled that such
a seasoned drinker didn't know the secret of watering ale. You
watered ale with ale, of course.
He looked back at his last cask of the only magical brew he had
ever made and, gods willing, the only batch he ever would make.
He took his corkscrew in one hand and the pitcher in the other,
and he carried the funnel looped by the handle over his belt. Each
cask, one by one, he un-stoppered, tapped a pint to make room,
and poured in a pint of the new ale. It took most of the morning,
and almost all of his last fresh cask
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