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. Apparently
they don't get much good ale in Thorbardin, so most of the
crews load up on it late in the afternoon before their night-
time run." He mopped at a sweat ring on the bar. "Business
has never been better - for every business in town. Most of
us merchants think the return is worth putting up with a few
rowdies, now and then." With that, Moldoon excused him-
self and shuffled into the kitchen to settle a dispute with the
village butcher, who had called angrily from the back door.
Flint walked around the end of the bar and helped himself
to a mug of ale. He dropped one steel piece onto the bar.
Suddenly cold, he shivered and headed for the fire, desper-
ate to return some warmth to his old bones.
When the fire failed to lift his spirit, Flint pulled from his
belt pouch his sharp whittling knife and a small, rough piece
of wood he'd been saving. Sometimes, when ale failed to
ease his mind, only carving would help. He would forget
everything except the feel of the wood in his hands as he
worked life into it. Think of the wood, he told himself as he
sat in front of the fire
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