“Home is where Ahdio is,” she murmured, in a moment of coherence, “and the rest
of his name doesn’t matter. I’ve come home.”
At last she reminded him that he hadn’t locked the front door. He did that, and
they went upstairs.
The following night she was there, very much there and enough to bring gasps
from every patron, men and women alike, and Ahdio stood and bellowed to gain
their attention and silence while he made an announcement. What he made clear
was that this was his woman. She had better not be touched or called out at or
spoken to with disrespect. And Jodeera remained behind the counter, pouring,
helping him and Throde.
Of course it did not work. Men who had never bothered to get themselves up and
go to the bar kept doing so, rather than calling or signaling to Ahdio and
Throde. They fetched and carried their own brew just to be able to approach the
counter and have a look at her. Predictably, the looks became more intense and
more lustful as the night wore on and the beer and wine flowed. Inevitably
someone made a remark. Then someone else did. Someone else, whether from a sense
of honor and rightness or in order to curry Ahdio’s favor, conked that man with
his fired clay cup. It broke on a hard head. The collapsing man’s brother went
after the mug-wielder. Ahdio came after them both and Throde went after his
staff. Jodeera stood looking on, feeling pained and wretched again and showing
it.
Her very presence here had caused trouble. Perhaps both she and Ahdio had known
it would happen, but both hoped it would work, her beauty in this place. They