Tossi offered to hire their clothes laundered, along with the dwarves’, but they had nothing to wear while their clothes were being washed. So before supper, they went to the shop of a clothier, who sewed clothing of several sizes on speculation. Cottons were cheap enough that Melody and Jeremid covered the cost for the three of them. Macurdy had also hoped to buy an old dog from someone, some blind and feeble hound for a copper, to take out of town and shoot for Blue Wing. But the great raven had left when they’d arrived at the inn, so he let it pass.
Supper was better than he’d expected—a beef stew with assorted vegetables not cooked to pieces, and oatmeal mush with honey, cooked somewhat stiff, with bits of dried apples stirred in after cooking. By local standards, he supposed it was quite good. The pot room was well occupied, seemingly as much by locals as travelers, the ale as popular as the food. But their table, in an out-of-the-way corner, they had to themselves for a while, though it had seating for more. Macurdy wondered if his discolored face was the reason—that and his size and brawn. People might take him for a troublemaker. Or was it the dwarves they were leery of?
Later, while they ate, a man came and sat across from Tossi, and when the potboy came over, ordered supper and ale. Macurdy paid little attention to him till the man spoke to Tossi. “Excuse me, sir dwarf lord,” he said quietly. “Do you deal in weapons?”
“Some in my clan do. What, specifically, are ye interested in?”
“Swords.”
“Indeed? How many? When circumstances permit, I might speak to someone who could discuss the matter with ye while passin’ through.”
“Ah. How many indeed. It would depend on the price; my friends and I have limited resources. Probably not many.”
Macurdy looked the man over. By Arbel’s system of evaluating auras, this was a ruler of sorts, someone whom others tended to defer to. He wasn’t sure how meaningful that was though; Arbel had said his was a “ruler’s aura,” yet he’d been a slave at the time. Just now, Macurdy decided, the stranger lacked money. He was more wishing than anything else. Although his aura reflected inner power.
The conversation ended with Tossi giving him an estimate. “I can’t speak with authority though,” he finished, “not bein’ in the trade myself.” The man thanked him and turned to his supper, and the dwarves left, saying they seldom drank more than a single ale in public. And when Jeremid and Melody had finished a second tankard each, the three refugees from Oz went upstairs to bed.
The dwarves shared one room and the tallfolk another, with a single large bed in each. Jeremid suggested they draw straws to see who slept in the middle, and Melody drew the short. After they’d lain down, she raised herself on one elbow and leaned over Macurdy. He could smell the ale on her breath. “Macurdy,” she said, “your mouth looks well enough for kissing now,” and lowering her face to his, kissed him sweetly, long and lovingly, while groping him. “Make love to me, Macurdy,” she murmured.
“Melody, I can’t,” he said, moving her hand away. “You know that. And anyway we’re not alone.”
“Would you if Jeremid weren’t here?”
“God, Melody, I’d like to, but it wouldn’t be right.”
She lay back down exasperated. “I’ve never in my life heard of anyone so damned difficult,” she said.
Jeremid spoke then. “Spear maiden, there’s a Hero on the other side of you who’d happily hump you all night long.”
“You’re not the Hero I want humping me.”
He laughed. “Then you’re as damned difficult as he is.”
“Go to hell, Jeremid.”
He laughed again, and after a moment, she did too.
Macurdy didn’t. After a bit he went to sleep, but awoke some time later to quiet sounds. He was the only one in bed, and the sounds were of panting and moaning on the floor beside it. He lay without moving, feeling miserable. The sounds speeded and intensified without growing appreciably louder, peaked, then died. A minute later, Macurdy heard Jeremid’s whisper: “How’d you like that, spear maiden?”