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brows nearly met. He shot a glance at the stranger. “From here?”
    Taziar turned his head as if studying the common room. Ice melted, the hearth fire blazed, now drafting its smoke up the chimney. “Why not? I can see him well enough.”
    Still, Larson hesitated. Though accustomed to idle barroom boasts, he was also all too familiar with Taziar’s love of impossible challenges. “All right,” he said at length. “Make it within one copper, and I’ll handle every beer between here and Forste-Mar.”
    Taziar stroked his chin with mock seriousness. “Agreed.” He studied the olive-skinned stranger in the firelight. The man ate with methodical disinterest, occasionally pausing to look toward the door. “Hmmm. I’d say ...” Taziar paused dramatically, defining coins with callused fingertips. “Four gold, seven silver, two copper. And the gold’ll be barony ducats.”
    “Ducats?” Larson’s gaze probed Silme and Astryd before settling on Taziar.
    “Cullinsberg money.” Under the table, Taziar hooked Astryd’s ankle conspiratorially with booted toes. “The man looks like a Southerner to me.”
    Astryd answered Taziar’s touch with a questioning hand on his knee.
    Larson shrugged. “Very impressive. What do we do now? Ask the man?” He play-acted, catching Taziar’s sleeve and yanking repeatedly on the fabric. “Excuse me, Mac. Excuse me. My friend and I have a bet going. You see, he thinks you’ve got four gold, seven silver, and three copper ...”
    “Two copper,” Taziar corrected. “And that won’t be necessary.” He retrieved the purse and tossed it casually to the tabletop.
    Larson made a strangled noise of surprise, masking it with a guileless slam of his hand over the purse that drew every eye in the tavern. Silme clapped a hand to her mouth, transforming a laugh into a snort. Astryd’s fingers gouged warningly into Taziar’s leg.
    Apparently, Larson’s crooked arm adequately covered the stranger’s property. Within seconds, the tavernmaster and his other patrons returned to their business, but Taziar knew the matter was far from closed. Relishing his companion’s consternation, Taziar drained his mug to the dregs.
    Larson’s voice dropped to a grating whisper. “You ignorant son of a bitch.”
    “Son of what?” Taziar repeated with mock incredulity. When angered, Larson had an amusing habit of slipping into a language he called English.
    “Jerk,” Larson muttered, though this word held no more meaning to Taziar than the one before. “You cheated.”
    “Cheated.” Taziar smirked. “You mean there were rules?”
    “Damn you!” Larson raised a fist to emphasize his point. He tensed to pound the table. Then, glancing surreptitiously around the barroom, he lowered it gently to his wine bowl instead. “You get insulted when I call you a thief, then you pull something stupid like this! We don’t need more trouble than ...”
    Taziar interrupted. “I’m no thief,” he insisted.
    “Then why did you take this?” Larson lowered his eyes momentarily to indicate the purse still tucked beneath his palm.
    “Sport.” Taziar shrugged, his single word more question than statement.
    “Sport!” Larson’s voice rose a full tone. “Let me get this straight. We capture a god in the form of a wolf and battle a dragon the size of Chicag—” He caught himself. “— Norway. As an encore, we face off with a Dragonrank Master holding a bolt action rifle. You’re still limping from a bullet wound, for god’s sake! Forgive me if you find my life bland, but isn’t that enough excitement for you?”
    “That was more than a month ago.” Taziar’s voice sounded soft as a whisper in the wake of Larson’s tirade.
    Larson passed a long moment in silence before responding. “You’re insane, aren’t you?”
    Taziar grinned wickedly.
    The women exchanged glances across the table. Silme’s lips twitched into a smile, and she bit her cheeks to hide her amusement.
    “You think this is