Disclaimers: see chapter 1

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Lorimal's Chalice

Part One - The Exile

By Jane Fletcher

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Chapter 3: The Market Porter

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The middle aged man stood half a head taller than most. The first fanning of white hair at his temples accentuated his sharp features. Laugh lines around his mouth spoke of an active sense of humour, but he was not smiling at the moment. He wove between the jumble of stalls in the Torhafn market square, surveying the scene around him with a grim expression.

The man, Verron, was aware that the good quality of his clothing was attracting attention. He could see the eyes of stall-holders light up as he approached, all hoping for a profitable sale. To his mind, the traders of Torhafn market were no more honest than the would-be pickpockets who were also sizing him up, anticipating a well-filled purse. Both groups were wasting their time. Verron was far too experienced to fall easy prey to the cheap tricks of market thieves. He had seen it all before, many times, but this did not mean he felt comfortable with his surroundings.

During his career as a Protectorate trader Verron had been to many of the less attractive spots the world had to offer, however Torhafn never ceased to impress him with its corrupt squalor. The whole place was a product of vicious greed - brutal and crass. If a more sordid town existed anywhere in the world, then Verron had no desire to see it, and particularly not after nightfall.

Centuries ago Torhafn had been an elegant capital, the centre of a sorcerer's empire. The sorcerer and the empire were now long gone - only the ruins remained. The town huddled around its harbour, squatting amidst the ancient masonry. Above the shabby market place, with its potholes and stench of rotting fish, the rooftops still held their original outline, but timber and mud shacks now encrusted the lower walls. In the middle of the square two rows of broken columns raised themselves above a field of dirty cotton awnings, like the clean white rib-bones of an ox, protruding from the earth at the spot where the animal had met its end. Filth smeared the cobbles underfoot.

A stall-holder held a length of patterned material out across Verron's path, flapping it gently to further attract his attention. Verron neatly dodged both the vendor and his goods. There was nothing on sale in the market he needed, and he did not have time to waste.

Numerous roads and alleys led off from the square. Most were narrow and dark and dangerous to walk down alone. Tightly packed slums formed the major part of Torhafn. Verron left the market on one of the wider streets; the better visibility at least allowed him to spot trouble approaching. Fortunately, he did not have to go far before he found what he was looking for.

A small group of mercenary warriors stood at a crossroads. The backs of their hands were tattooed with the red and gold swords of the Protectorate guild. Their leather jerkins bore the badge of the recently formed Torhafn militia. The eldest was a thickset, granite-faced man, whose tattooed hands were never far from his sword's hilt. As he approached the group Verron made sure his own hands were clearly visible and well away from any potential hidden weapon.

"Well met, fellow citizens. I'm Verron of Cottersford, a member of the Merchants' guild."

The mercenaries assessed him for a few seconds before the eldest replied. "Well met, fellow citizen. Can we assist you?" The mercenary's tone was polite but cautious.

"I hope so. I see you've all taken contract with the local militia, but I wonder if you know where I can find some your comrades who would still be available for hire?"

"No chance of that, I'm afraid." the mercenary said.

"Surely there must be some."

"Not with how things stand right now."

Verron raised his eyebrows, inviting the speaker to continue.

"The local bosses have hired every able-bodied warrior who can tell one end of a sword from the other." The mercenary shrugged as he spoke.

"And a few who can't." another mercenary chipped in, contempt evident in her voice.

Verron's lips twisted in a rueful pout. "From the tone of your voice I get the feeling that all the recruitment activity isn't part of an attempt to crack down on local crime."

Several of the mercenaries snorted in amusement. The atmosphere eased noticeably.

"You've got the right idea." the eldest mercenary said.

"So what is the situation at the moment?"

"What was the last you heard?"

"Before we left the Protectorate we heard the town council had created a proper militia to police the area. Has something changed?"

"Town council is an awfully grand name to give the bunch of thieves who run this place."

"You don't sound very fond of them." Verron said ironically. The councillors were not his idea of pleasant company either.

"I wish I'd never come here. I just hope I get to serve out my contract and leave with the same number of arms and legs I started with." Several of the other mercenaries nodded their agreement. The eldest went on. "Like you I'd heard they were forming a town militia so, like a fool, I came over the Aldraks and signed on. As for the current situation, I don't know whether they started with good intentions, but half a dozen gangsters have taken control of the so-called council. It's my guess they're going to try and use us to remove a bit of the competition. Now everyone is hiring bodyguards. I've never minded a good brawl, but when the blood starts flowing here it's going to be knives in the back down dark alleys." The man's jaw clenched in anger. "I'm a warrior, not a murderer."

Verron pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling like a fool. He had enough experience of the place to know better. He should have guessed.

"With all the contact with the Protectorate, you'd have thought some of the civilisation would have rubbed off." another mercenary chipped in.

Verron shook his head, "Hardly. In fact quite the opposite. Torhafn just soaks up the worst the Protectorate has to offer. A large section of the population got here by fleeing justice in the Protectorate. Once over the Aldrak Mountains they tend to stick around - the rest of Walderim is reasonably law-abiding and wouldn't put up with their nasty habits. Torhafn acts like a magnet for criminals. Most of the trade between Walderim and the Protectorate goes through here on its way over the Aldraks. There's a lot of easy money to be made."

"You sound as if you're familiar with the town." The eldest mercenary spoke again.

"Only too well. We've been through every spring for the last five years - and we're always pleased to get away. Normally we contract guild mercenaries before leaving the Protectorate, but when we heard a militia had been formed, we decided to wait until we got here before hiring guards. With hindsight it was incredibly silly of us, given what we know about Torhafn." Verron sighed. "I suppose it would be even more silly to ask if you're ever sent out to patrol the surrounding countryside?"

"You're right. It would be a very silly question." the mercenary said.

"So you wouldn't know if there's been any bandit activity on the road between here and Scathberg?" Verron asked.

"That's where you're heading?"

Verron glanced over his shoulder to make sure there were no eavesdroppers before he answered. "Yes. We leave tomorrow."

The mercenary screwed up his face while he searched his memory. "There's been no trouble for over a month, that we've heard of. If it's any comfort, all the local bandits seem to have come into Torhafn to join the militia and other gangs. The town is set to explode. The hills are probably deserted - only the odd rogue out there. Are you in a large group?"

"Just my partner and two of our children."

"Are your kids old enough to be much use in a fight?"

"No. They're just ten and fourteen. Last year we had our eldest with us. She's handy with a crossbow, but she's joined the Ostlers' guild and stayed behind in the Protectorate. We've got the youngster along in her place." Verron could not restrain his grimace. The presence of his youngest child made it so much harder to risk the road to Scathberg without an adequate escort.

"You could go back to the Protectorate." the mercenary suggested.

"We can't afford to abandon this year's trade cycle."

The mercenary's expression was thoughtful. "One of our captains is in town. Given the circumstances he might sell you a dispensation to hire non-guild guards."

"And we both know that wouldn't be a cheap option either. Moreover I wouldn't trust any non-guild warrior that I picked up here. I'm afraid we're are going to have to just take a chance."

"Oh well, we mercenaries know all about that."

"I guess so, but thank-you anyway for your time."

"I'm sorry we couldn't be more help. I wish you a safe journey." The faces of the mercenaries looked genuinely sympathetic as they parted.

On his route back to the market, Verron's eyes frequently strayed up to the fortified mansions on the hills overlooking the town. These were the homes of the various gang-leaders that ruled Torhafn and the source of much of the evil that embraced the town. On previous visits, Verron had met some of the bosses. The elegance of their homes gave them a veneer of respectability, but always hard-eyed henchmen stood by, ready to follow any order.

The rest of Walderim, sandwiched between the Aldraks and the sea, was as civilised a land as could be found outside the Protectorate, but Torhafn was an ugly blemish on the country. It would, no doubt, stay that way until Walderim became part of the Protectorate. Already a sizeable proportion of the inhabitants were keen to join. So far they were still a minority, but everyone knew it was only a question of time. One day a threat would come out of the Western Ocean, sufficient to frighten the inhabitants into giving up their independence, swearing allegiance to the Coven at Lyremouth and paying taxes to its sorcerers. Verron sighed - it could not happen too soon for his liking.

The two wagons with their cargo of merchandise still stood where he had left them, at the richer end of the market square outside the entrance to a warehouse. From their alert posture it was obvious his two sons, Derry and Kimal, were taking their guard duties seriously. Yet Verron knew the safety of the cargo lay more with the protection money the warehouse owner was paying to one of the local gangs - at least, the money he hoped the owner was paying. The two boys smiled at the sight of their father.

"How's the haggling going?" Verron asked as he drew close.

"Last time I looked in the merchant had tears in her eyes. I think it was something to do with her starving children. But I expect mama will get the best of it, in the end." fourteen year old Kimal answered with a grin.

"I expect so too. She usually does." Verron agreed.

He refrained from sticking his head through the doorway to witness the state of the bargaining for himself. Over the years, he and his partner had reached a good working relationship, with the verbal side of the business handled by Marith on her own. When money was involved, his partner could release a dramatic flow of rhetoric that would reduce Verron to a fit of giggles if he listened for long. Marith was a trader to the very core of her being and haggling was her favourite pastime. She would argue up the price of their goods as if her life depended on it. It wasn't that she was grasping or incapable of generosity, more that she took enormous professional pride in never parting with a penny more than she needed to. However her better judgement could sometimes be lacking - it had been mainly at Marith's urging they had delayed hiring the guards.

Verron leaned his back against the wall and tried to ease the frown from his face. He knew it was not fair to blame Marith for their present situation, and they would most likely reach Scathberg without meeting any criminal more menacing than an innkeeper who watered down the beer. More immediate was the danger that, caught in the passion of her bargaining, Marith would lose track of time. Nightfall was less than an hour away. For the sake of a few small coppers, they should not run the risk of trying to reach their lodgings after sunset.

Already sun was low in the sky and shadows in the miserable alleys were hardening. The business of the market was closing down for the day. Stall-holders shouted frantically; the perishable goods that were not sold would be wasted. Even in Torhafn, it was hard to make a profit from rotten fish. Last minute bargain-hunters moved from stall to stall, although the press of the crowd was dispersing.

The remaining people were poorer, more wretched and, if not more villainous, probably more desperate. Around the edge of the market stood groups of vagrants and casual labourers, still hopeful of a little more work. Verron ran his eyes over them, estimating their capacity for trouble. Most looked like deserters from a zombie army; the rest looked drunk. As the first carts got ready for departure, the vagrants started to move in, searching the rubbish for anything of value.

Verron was just reaching the decision to join Marith and try to speed the negotiations when he heard movement behind him. The hanging over the doorway was pulled aside.

"Your partner drives a hard bargain." the warehouse owner said in rueful tones as she emerged.

"Oh I know." Verron agreed.

Marith smiled at him as she passed, taking his words as a compliment, which in truth they were. Verron knew he would not succeed in trade half so well without her. Marith's light-brown hair fell around her face in child-like curls, her body bordering on the plump, but her sweet-tempered, motherly exterior housed the keenest business mind Verron had ever met.

As he joined her by one of the wagons she asked, "Did you find some guards?"

Verron shook his head. "There are local difficulties. We need to talk things over, but there isn't time now. Let's get the crates into the warehouse."

Marith accepted his words and turned back to the warehouse owner. "We'll need to hire four labourers to unload the wagons."

"Let's make it eight. It's not long till dusk." Verron interjected.

"We don't want to hire more than necessary."

"I think we might splash out a bit for once."

From her expression, Marith was not convinced. However, the warehouse owner prevented any further debate by announcing, "Well, if she's free, you'll only need one porter." The woman scanned the clusters of people standing around the market square, then raised her voice to a shout. "TEVI."

A young woman detached herself from a nearby group of casual labourers and jogged towards them. In the evening light, her hair was dark, almost black. It lay in a spiky fringe, uncombed and hacked short. Her face and hands were grimy. She was dressed in rough, homespun material, however the clothes were far less ragged than those of the other market porters. Rather than barefoot, she had open sandals on her feet, and, even more unusual, her brown eyes met Verron's with an honest candour as she came to a halt.

The warehouse owner gestured at the wagons and said, "These folk want their goods unloaded into my warehouse before the watch calls seven. Do you reckon you can do it?"

The porter looked up at the sky as if evaluating the time available. "Sure." she said confidently. "Standard rate for the job?"

Marith looked confused but nodded silently. However, Verron could not stop from protesting, "Those crates are heavy, it took two men to just lift them."

"I can probably handle it." the porter said.

The warehouse owner winked and drew Verron out of the way. "Just watch."

The porter went to the first wagon and pulled on one crate gently, testing the weight. Then, in one fluid movement, she swung it off the back of the wagon and walked towards the doorway, carrying the load with little sign of effort. Verron felt his jaw sag open.

One by one the crates disappeared into the warehouse as the porter went on to empty both wagons, well within the allotted time. Verron watched in astonishment. The woman was tall and sturdily built, but certainly not muscle-bound. There was nothing about her to indicate the source of her strength. Once the last crate was safely stored the porter walked back to the two traders, brushing the dust from her clothes. There was only the faintest sheen of sweat on her forehead.

"I think that's three copper bits you owe me." The porter held out her hand, although she seemed a little uncomfortable.

Marith dug into her money pouch and pulled out the coins. Before the porter closed her hand, Verron added another three from his own purse. "For the entertainment value."

"Oh. That comes free of charge." the porter said, smiling.

"I'm sure you could use the extra." Verron insisted.

"I offered to work for the standard rate."

"You're still a lot cheaper than hiring another seven of your fellows."

The porter looked a little guilty, but then shrugged. "All right. I'll try and find a good home for the money." Her voice was a soft lilting drawl, an accent Verron could not place, for all his years of travelling. She gave a respectful nod to the adults, a broad grin to Kimal and Derry, then strolled back across the square.

Verron turned to the warehouse owner. "Who is she?"

"Some youngster out to seek fame and fortune. She arrived by boat, just over a month ago. I can't see her staying around long. She's too naive. I mean, when did you last have to offer money to a porter twice?" the warehouse owner's voice held something like astonishment.

"That won't last in Torhafn." Marith said pointedly.

"True enough. And she's far too honest - not that there's anything wrong with honesty of course." The warehouse owner added quickly, remembering she was talking to business associates.

"But how is she so strong? It must be magic." Verron persisted.

The warehouse owner nodded. "Someone said she comes from an island way off to the west. They brew a magic potion which does it."

That bit of information caught Marith's attention immediately. "Do you think they'd be interested in trading for it?"

* * * * * *

The coins jingled in Tevi's hand as she walked back across the square. They felt hard, cold and alien to her - rather like Torhafn itself. Money was not unknown the on islands, but she was not at ease with its general usage. In Torhafn it bought everything from food and clothes to a mooring site on the quay, even the use of someone's body for the night - if you were so minded. With money, you could get whatever you wanted. Without it, you could starve. Nothing seemed to matter to the townsfolk, except how much of it you had. To Tevi, money had come to mark the absence of trust, of honour, of family. She was tempted to simply open her hand and drop the distasteful coins to lie among the other debris of the market square.

The onset of dusk had sent most of the other porters to their homes. One ragged group remained, squatting on the steps of the tax-office, heads close together in conversation. They watched Tevi go by, hostility marked on their faces. One spat into the dust after she had passed, venting his resentment. Tevi had earned more on the last job than some had made all day. Her strength and sobriety made her the first choice of the market traders. It also meant there was little the other porters dared do to express their feelings. In her first days at the market a few had tried to intimidate her. Tevi had been more than equal to the challenge, and now she received nothing worse than scowls and muttered comments.

However not everyone was unfriendly. As she was leaving the market square an elderly voice called out, "Hey, Tevi!"

Tevi smiled on hearing the cry, and sauntered over to where old Aigur sat on a low wall, with two of her numerous grandsons in attendance. The elderly woman headed an enormous and diffuse family, with members scattered through all spheres of Torhafn life - few of them legal. Aigur had taken unconcealed pleasure in seeing the rout of the market bullies. Realising the young islander was unversed in the workings of the world, she had taken Tevi under her wing, giving freely of her lifetime's store of advice on what to do and not to do - although chiefly the latter. Despite her sharp tongue and questionable morality, Aigur was easily Tevi's favourite person in Torhafn.

Aigur gave a broad, toothless grin as Tevi stopped before her. A heavy blanket shielded her creaking joints from the evening's chill. Her hair was white, her face etched deep with wrinkles, but her eyes were as sharp as those of her teenaged grandsons.

"So, how have you faired today?" she asked.

"Not bad." On impulse, Tevi held out the six copper coins to her. "Here, I've got a present for you."

Aigur looked exasperated. "Don't be a fool. You can't go around giving money away."

"Why not? I've got more than I need and you've got more mouths to feed than me."

"That's not the point." Aigur snapped.

"Yes it is. It will help me sleep easier tonight." Tevi said with amusement.

"If you give money away for no reason people will think you're a fool."

"So?"

"Fools make good targets."

"Then what do I do with money I don't want?" Tevi asked, not entirely in jest.

The elderly woman sighed and gestured to her grandsons. "If you're hell-bent on generosity why don't you take these two layabouts to an inn and treat them? That way you'll save me the expense of feeding tonight them and I can still feel free to get ratty when they come home singing."

Tevi was about to argue when she saw the hopeful expressions on the young men's faces. "All right, have it your way." she said.

The two grandsons, Derag and Joran, eagerly leapt to Tevi's side. With an amused snort Aigur rose and tottered off towards her crowded home on the edge of town. Her stooped figure was soon lost from sight around a bend in the alley.

Tevi looked at the two youths. "Well boys, where would you like to go?"

After a quick exchange of looks, Joran answered for the pair. "How about 'The Silver Mermaid'?"

* * * * * *

A battered pewter tankard was dumped in front of Tevi. The momentum of its arrival caused a little of the beer to slop over the top and roll down onto the stained boards of the table. For a second Tevi sat staring at it, making no attempt to touch the tankard. The metal was dull-grey and pockmarked. It caught the light with the same sheen Tevi remembered from Abrak's chalice, taunting her in a fleeting vision of someday finding the heirloom and returning home.

She clenched her teeth, biting back the wave of homesickness. The chalice was irrelevant; with or without it there was no going back. At her shoulder, the barman cleared his throat impatiently, reminding her of the need to pay. Tevi offered one of her coins, accepted a smaller one in change, then picked up her beer from the table and sampled a mouthful. The barman slouched back towards the counter. Derag and Joran grabbed their drinks enthusiastically.

While surveying the tavern, Tevi slowly sipped her beer, pacing herself carefully. She did not intend to get drunk and risk wandering around Torhafn at night without her wits about her - one of Aigur's many gems of advice. The barroom had a low ceiling, with smoke blackened rafters. The tables and benches were sturdy but well worn. Underfoot the stone floor was sticky from spilt beer. The clientele appeared to be a fair cross section of the lower ranks of Torhafn society, except that the atmosphere was jovial and friendly, which in Tevi's experience was quite unusual for the town. After a few unpleasant encounters she had avoided social contact with the townsfolk whenever possible - Aigur's family excluded. Tevi decided however, leaning her elbows on the table, that the inn the two young men had selected was a pleasant enough place to spend a few hours.

On the bench beside her, Derag and Joran were loudly debating the merits of the different ales available in the town. They were happy and relaxed, giving voice to their opinions with a forthright vigour that, on the islands, would have been considered unseemly for men. Tevi watched with amusement. She was trying hard to come to terms with the men of the mainland. In her first few days in Torhafn she had formed the opinion that, by shaving their faces, the men were trying to imitate the opposite sex. They certainly seemed, to her eyes, to act like women. She now recognised this was far too simple an analysis, especially as nobody seemed at all concerned when, at times, women chose to act in a manner the islanders would have considered masculine.

It was also received poorly if she treated the men of Torhafn with the patronising gallantry considered good manners on the islands. Tevi had soon learned it was best to deal with each clean shaven face as if it belonged to a woman - a trick which did not require the same level of mental gymnastics as it would on Storenseg. Without beards and the distinctive styles of dress and behaviour, Tevi found it very hard to tell men and women apart. She was often still uncertain of a person's gender, even after several minutes of conversation. On other occasions she had been led to form a definite opinion one way, only to have subsequent events prove her wrong. The mainlander's flexible use of pronouns, titles and other gender specific words made her job even harder, although it did allow her to disguise her confusion.

"That old gut-rot! It's awful." Tevi's thoughts were interrupted as Joran dug her with his elbow. "What do you say, Tevi? Have you ever drunk the cat's piss they serve in the Red Dragon?"

Tevi tried not to wince at the sound of the crude phrase coming from a male mouth. "I don't think so."

"You're lucky. I can guarantee it'd be the worst thing you've ever tasted."

Tevi smiled. "That's quite a claim. I doubt that anything could out-do the potion they give girls in the Western Isles."

"Is that the one that makes you so strong?" Derag asked.

"Came close to making me throw up as well sometimes."

"Even so, I'd happily down a bucket-full." The young man sighed wistfully. "What do you reckon, if we sailed out there, do you think your family would sell us some?"

"Absolutely no chance." Tevi shook her head. "And anyway, it wouldn't do you any good. You have to take it regularly when you're still a child. It doesn't work so well for boys even then."

Derag's shoulders slumped slightly. "It would be great though. Do you remember the way you dealt with fat Barbo? Grandma still smiles when she remembers it."

"I tried not to hurt him." Tevi said regretfully.

"I know. That's what made it so insulting for Barbo."

Joran joined in. "Why should you worry about hurting him? In your place I'd have flattened the bastard."

"It's the way I was brought up. Women on the islands are so much stronger than men, that it's seen as cowardly to hit them. I hated doing it, but Barbo gave me no option. He had me cornered on the quay, and wouldn't let me apologise - I hadn't meant to offend him."

"So you picked him up like a sack of flour and tossed him twenty feet out into the harbour." Joran's words were almost lost in his grin.

"What else could I do?"

"Actually, what really amused grandma was when you realised he couldn't swim - the way you dived in, dragged him out, and then offered to escort him home to his parents to explain how he'd got so wet." Both the young men dissolved into laughter at the memory.

When he had calmed down Derag said "You know, you're getting quite a name in town, people are..."

Whatever else he might have been about to say was swallowed by a sudden burst of noise from the far corner of the room. All heads turned in the direction of the disturbance. A large crew of dock workers were cheering on one of their comrades who had left their table and was heading across the floor. From his size, Tevi was sure it was a man. His shoulders and arms were knotted with muscle; his head almost brushed the rafters, towering over the seated patrons of the tavern. He did not look angry but, to Tevi's dismay, his eyes were fixed on her. The noise level on the other tables fell to a quiet murmur of anticipation. Tevi placed her hands flat on the table and pushed her bench back slightly, readying herself for possible action. However when the man reached her table he squeezed onto the bench opposite and smiled in a friendly fashion. Tevi took very little reassurance from this.

The man cleared his throat. "Good evening."

"Good evening." Tevi replied.

"I've heard that you reckon you're the strongest person in town." His voice was a deep base rumble.

"I make no claims." Tevi said, uncertainly.

"Then others do it for you."

"I can't help what people say."

"That's true." He looked at Tevi from under his bushy eyebrows, as if appraising her, "Well, there's a game we play in these parts. It's called arm wrestling..."

His sentence was cut off as Derag whooped and slammed his palms loudly on the table. "You'll slaughter him Tevi."

One of the man's friends shouted back, "Three tin halves says she doesn't."

"You're on."

Tevi interrupted the betting. "I'm not going to fight you."

"It's just arm-wrestling." the man said.

"And that isn't fighting?" Tevi's voice revealed her confusion.

"Oh no. You see, it's just a test of strength."

The excited chaos in the tavern was such that it took the stranger and Joran between them some minutes to explain the rules to a perplexed Tevi. At last, she understood what was involved. She studied the man. His arm would have served most people as a leg, she doubted that she could have joined the fingers of both hands around his biceps. In an assured manner he rested his elbow on the table and smiled at her while around the room people stood on benches and tables to get a better view.

"Are you on?" he asked.

She frowned. "It's no contest."

"You concede defeat?"

Joran nudged her. "Go on Tevi."

There was no easy way to refuse, so Tevi sighed, "All right then." She positioned her elbow on the table next to the man's, stretching to grasp his hand. "Now I just push?"

Without speaking the stranger nodded and started to apply pressure. His bulk was evidently muscle rather than fat, however Tevi had no problem keeping her hand steady. While he strained Tevi considered her opponent thoughtfully - he really was very strong for a man. His jaw was clenched. Veins stood out like rope on his arms and forehead. His face was so contorted that the lids were half closed. His breath came in raw, hissing gasps. Apart from this, the room was silent.

It was possibly the absence of sound from Tevi that finally alerted her opponent. His gaze shifted to her face. The man's expression changed slowly to disbelief as he realised that she was not even exerting herself. Tevi meet his eyes and shook her head slowly. A smile twitched the corner of her mouth. In a swift jerk she cracked his hand down hard onto the table and released her grip, leaving her opponent rubbing his bruised knuckles. The audience exploded into uproar.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" Tevi asked, suddenly contrite that maybe she had overdone the force.

The man held out his hand to examine the backs of his knuckles. The skin had been broken slightly and was starting to show red. His expression was one of utter bewilderment. His friends in the corner were muttering among themselves. For a moment, Tevi wondered if he would try to make trouble but then he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

With a beaming smile he pointed at her half empty mug and asked, "What do you want to drink?"

Continued in chapter 4.

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