for that one, to do it justice. Buy it in the Bazaar?”
Throde shook his head. “Country Market. Bought it off a woman who made it for
her son.”
“Oh,” Ahdio said, and as usual tried to force his helper into something
approaching conversation. “Didn’t he like it? Sure doesn’t look worn.”
“Was a present for him. Never been worn.” Throde was looking at the cat, which
had assumed a ridiculous sitting position with one hind leg straight up while it
licked its genitals. “You’ll go blind, Sweetboy.”
“Lucky you,” Ahdio said, and kept trying: “Bet you got a good price on it. Her
boy didn’t like it?”
“Never saw it. Took a fever on the first cold night. He died.”
“Oh. Listen, I was a little nervous about you when you left last night. No
trouble going home?”
Throde shook his head. “I better get set up.”
“No trouble at all? Didn’t see those three meanheads?”
Shaking his head, Throde went through the door into the taproom-the inn proper.
Ahdio sighed.
“Sure nice to have company,” he muttered, and Sweet-boy looked up and belched.
Ahdio gave him a look. “Here! Cats do not belch, Tige. Maybe you should consider
giving up strong drink.”
The final word brought the cat to attention, and to its mug. It peered within as
if myopic, looked pointedly up at its human, twitched its stub and said “Mraw?”
“No,” Ahdio said, and Sweetboy showed him an affronted look before it slithered
in between a couple of barrels to sulk.
Accommodatingly, Ahdio let those tuns sit and picked up another to carry into
the other room. He handled it as if it weighed about half what it weighed.