A Sword from Red Ice

Liddie Lott was spilling the ale again. It was bad enough that she had kept the ewemen waiting five minutes while she swapped labor-pains stories with Bronwyn Quince, but now that she had actually managed to fill the tankards, a quarter of their contents was splashing onto the floor. What was wrong with the woman, that she couldn't even walk straight? Was one leg shorter than the other?

Gull Moler, owner and sole proprietor of Drover Jack's, dabbed the sweat from his forehead with a yellow shammy. It wouldn't do. It just wouldn't do. Those tankards were intended for his three best customers: Burdale Ruff, Clyve Wheat and Silus Craw. They were hard-talking ewemen and thrifty with their pennies and any moment now the complaining would begin.

Silus Craw, who had arrived earlier than the others and already had one ale inside him, was the first to notice the short measures. Sitting behind an upended beer keg with his chair against the wall, the little rat-faced drover made a show of peering deep into the newly delivered tankard. "There's something missing here if you ask me, Clyve."

Blond-eyebrowed Clyve Wheat leaned forward and squinted into his own ale cup. After a moment of deep thought he declared, "We should call her Liddie Spill-A-Lott."

Burdale Ruff and Silus Craw exploded into laughter, stamping their feet against the floor and banging their cups against the table. Liddie was only a few feet away, tending the stew kettle, and she had to hear it when Silus cried, "Either that or Liddie Talk-A-Lott."

As a second round of laughter erupted, Gull grabbed the nearest ale jug from the counter and moved in to calm everyone down.

"Gentlemen," he said, greeting the drovers. "Allow me to top up your cups." The ale in the jug happened to be his best barley stout, and although all of the men were drinking yellow wheat none of them complained. Burdale Ruff had actually downed most of his original drink, but Gull topped his cup to the rim regardless. There were times to split hairs, and this wasn't one of them. Business had been bad all week.

Just look at the place now. Early evening like this and one of the god's days no less: every bench in the room should be straining under the weight of fat traders, ewemen, day laborers, and dairy girls. Talk should be loud and getting louder, and someone somewhere should be singing about his sheep. Instead there was a low and dreary hum, and sometimes even silence. Silence. Only a third of the chairs were spoken for—and that was counting Will Snug, who was passed out across two of them—and there was not one single patron singing, gaming, or attempting to impress the ladies with some puffed-up story about a small rod and a very big fish.

It was not a sight to warm a tavernkeep's heart. Oh, Drover Jack's itself was glowing. Those little pewter safelamps he'd bought from the thane's stablemaster last spring burned cozily from the oak-panelled walls, and every bench back, floorboard, and tabletop was freshly waxed and gleaming. Smells of yeast, cured leather, and woodsmoke combined to create a manly, welcoming scent. It was a trim tavern, low-ceilinged, dim and inviting, and Gull liked to imagine that there were some in these parts who'd count themselves lucky to sup here. He just wished a few more of them had gotten off their backsides and come here this night, is all.

A storm was passing through Ewe Country. As Gull adjusted the stove's air vent, he could hear the wind howling outside, blowing south from the Bitter Hills. The tavem creaked and shuddered, and when Bronwyn Quince opened the door to leave, the entire building wrestled with the wind.

Gull shivered. He was trying to decide whether he should bum fresh coal or take his chances with more wood. The cord of bog willow sent over by Will Snug in lieu of payment for an outstanding debt burned like cow pats, and was probably worth about as much. Still, there was a lot of it, and unlike coal it cost Gull nothing to bum. Gull thoughf and frowned, reached for the wood, stopped himself, and loaded his shovel with coal instead. Tonight marked the beginning of Grass Watch and was therefore the holiest night of spring, and if a man couldn't breathe clean air now then it didn't bode well for the rest of the year.

Besides, you never knew when business might pick up. As if on cue the door swung open and a column of air rushed in the room The flames in the stove leapt up as wooden beams shifted in their cuppings and a dozen patrons looked toward the door.