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. He could tell from Tanis's warning glance that the elf's sharp
ears had caught his words. Tanis liked to defend the kender against
Flint's gratuitous insults, even if Tas was never in the least truly
offended.
Two of Flint's fingers, tightly pressed together, disappeared
under his moplike moustache, and he blew a loud, sharp whistle. The
inn was not busy, so in no time the innkeeper's adopted daughter
appeared. She was a rosy-cheeked girl with eager eyes and
short-cropped, dark, curly hair. Though a slight breeze blew through
large cracks in the inn's few arched, stained-glass windows - in a few
weeks they would be doubly covered with oiled parchment to keep out
the winter - the weather on this day was unseasonably warm for early
fall. Flint called it "summer's last dance." Coupled with the heat
from the ever-present fire in the hearth, the heavy air had pasted the
girl's hair to her forehead and moistened her coarse, graying tunic to
her back.
"Yes, sir?" she inquired eagerly. Her voice carried none of the
weariness so common among seasoned serving wenches. In a few years,
Flint thought sadly, when the impertinence and unwanted attentions of
too many men wore her down...
"Tika, isn't it?" he asked, and she nodded. Flint smiled
encouragingly. "Then, Tika, I need two more -" Tanis quickly drained
the last of his own mug and pushed it forward. "- make that three more
mugs of Otik's fine ale," Flint corrected himself. "On me."
"Very good, sir." Tika's willowy form bobbed once, then darted
skillfully through the closely spaced tables to the bar
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