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. Behind him, Tika crossed
her arms in disgust, a baleful glare on her young face.
"Well, Burrfoot, are you going to come with us easily," Gisella
began, her arms crossed in challenge, "or is Woodrow going to have to
carry you?"
Tasslehoff thought about his uncle locked up somewhere because
of him, and he realized there was no choice to be made. "I'll go
easily," he said. "Just let me get my things."
"Fine. Ta-ta!" Gisella called grandly to Otik, sweeping out
through the open door. Under Woodrow's watchful eye, Tas hurried back
to the table he'd shared with his friends and snatched up his hoopak,
the fork-shaped, slinglike weapon no kender would be without. Waving
good-bye to the preening Otik and scowling Tika, Tas followed Gisella
down the bridgewalk that spiraled around the trunk of the inn's
supporting vallenwood tree.
"Wow, what a wagon!" Tas breathed, catching sight of a large,
enclosed, wooden wagon hitched at the base of the tree. The roof was
arched instead of flat, showing intricate carving and workmanship.
Even the whees looked expensive: thick, with wrought iron spokes.
Painted on the side in bright red were the words: "Mr. Hornslager's
Hypermarket: You Want It, I Got It."
"Where's Mr. H?" Tas asked.
Gisella smiled broadly and slapped her thigh. "Right here,
Bramblefoot. It's good for business if people think I'm a Mrs. They
just assume I'm Mrs. H. It makes the poor saps think they got a better
deal by bamboozling the owner's silly wife
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