"Welcome, friend, welcome," Otik said, bowing and bobbing his head as

he did to all customers, gentry or peasant. His apron was snow-white,

not grease-stained as with some innkeepers. The inn itself was as clean

as Otik's apron. When the barmaids weren't serving customers, they

were sweeping or scouring or polishing the lovely wooden bar, which was

actually part of the living vallenwood.

Antimodes expressed his pleasure in returning to the inn. Otik proved

he remembered his guest by taking Antimodes to his favorite table near

one of the windows, a table that provided an excellent view, through

green-colored glass, ofCrystalmirLake. Without being asked, Otik

brought a mug of chilled dark ale and placed it before Antimodes.

"I recall how you said you enjoyed my dark ale last time you were here,

sir," Otik remarked.

"Indeed, Innkeep, I have never tasted its like," Antimodes replied. He

also noted the way Otik carefully kept from making any reference to the

fact that Antimodes was a user of magic, a delicacy Antimodes

appreciated, though he himself scorned to hide who or what he was from

anyone.

"I will take a room for the night, with luncheon and dinner," said

Antimodes, bringing out his purse, which was well stocked but not

indecently full.

Otik replied that rooms were available, Antimodes should have his

pick, they would be honored by his presence. Luncheon today was a

casserole of thirteen different types of beans simmered with herbs and

ham. Dinner was pounded beef and the spiced potatoes for which the inn

was famous.

Otik waited anxiously to hear his guest say that the bill of

fare was perfectly satisfactory. Then, beaming, the barkeep bustled fussily off to deal

with the myriad chores involved in running the inn.

Antimodes relaxed and glanced about at the other cus tomers. It being rather past the

usual luncheon hour, the inn was relatively empty. Travelers were upstairs in their rooms,

sleeping off the good meal. Laborers had returned to their jobs, business owners were

drowsing over their account books, mothers were putting children down for afternoon

naps. A dwarf-a hill dwarf, by the looks of him- was the inn's only other customer.

A hill dwarf who was no longer living in the hills, a hill dwarf living among humans in

Solace. Doing quite well, to judge by his clothes, which consisted of a fine homespun

shirt, good leather breeches, and the leather apron of his trade. He was not more than

middle-aged; there were only a few streaks of gray in his nut-brown beard. The lines on

his face were uncommonly deep and dark for a dwarf of his years. His life had been a

hard one and had left its mark. His brown eyes were warmer than the eyes of those of his

brethren who did not live among humans and who seemed to constantly be peering out

from behind high barricades.

Catching the dwarf's bright eye, Antimodes raised his ale mug. "I note by your tools

that you are a metal worker. May Reorx guide your hammer, sir," he said, speaking in

dwarven.

The dwarf gave a nod of gratification and, raising his own mug, said, speaking in

Common, "A straight road and a dry one, traveler," in gruff return.

Antimodes did not offer to share his table with the dwarf, nor did the dwarf seem

inclined to have company. Antimodes looked out the window, admiring the view and

enjoying the pleasant warmth seeping through his body, a refreshing contrast to the cool