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. The smell of vinegar lingered thick around
here, and Flint moved away. The dwarf passed a row of bar-
rels, containing rye and wheat and oat flours, and then
smaller bins with sugar and salt. Opposite these was a wall
of spices, and he read their odd names with amused curios-
ity: absynt, bathis, cloyiv, tumeric. What made people add
such bizarre things to their food? the dwarf wondered. What
was wrong with a plain, sizzling haunch of meat?
Flint was looking at a tin of salted sea snails, a treat he
hadn't had in years, when he heard someone beside him say
in a gravelly voice, "So there is another hill dwarf in this
town! I was beginning to feel like the proverbial hobgoblin
at a kender Sunday picnic," boomed the stranger, clapping
Flint on the back merrily. "Hanak's the name."
Flint took a small step sideways and looked at the
speaker. He was nearly big nose to big nose with another
dwarf, all right. Wild, carrot-red hair sprang from the other
dwarf's head like tight metal coils, and between that and a
poker-straight beard and mustache were eyes as clear blue
as the sky. Flint tried to judge his age: the lines on his face
were not too deep, but he was missing his two front teeth,
though whether from aging or fighting Flint could not say
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