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funny, don’t you?” Larson’s tone made it plain he did not share his companions’ glee. “And even you may think it’s funny.” He jabbed a thumb at Silme who wore an unconvincing expression of bemused denial. “But shortly, that man over there is going to try to pay for his meal. He’ll find his money missing; and, if he’s half as smart as a chimpanzee, he’ll look here first.”
    “A chimp and Z?” Astryd repeated, but Larson silenced her with an exasperated wave.
    “I doubt he’s got an attorney. In your lawless world of barbarians, he’ll talk with his sword. You’re too damned small to bother with.” Larson glared at Taziar. “So, I’m going to die because you’re crazy. Or perhaps, my dying is your idea of sport. Well, forget it.” Larson leaped to his feet. “I’m giving it back.”
    Before Larson could take a step, Taziar hooked his sleeve with a finger. Mimicking the elf’s Bronx accent, he tugged at the fabric, reviving Larson’s earlier play-acted scenario. “Excuse me, Mac. Excuse me. Your purse just happened to fall out of your pocket. I’d like to return it.”
    Larson hesitated. “What the hell am I doing?” He retook his seat and jammed the pouch into Taziar’s hand. “You’re the one who wanted sport. You took it. You put it back.”
    Taziar rose and bowed with mock servility. “Yes, my lord. At once.” He twisted toward the stranger’s table, and, despite his facetious reply, he examined the man with more than frivolous interest. The tavern contained too few patrons to hide the antics of one. But the inherent danger of Larson’s dare made it even more attractive to Taziar, who had intended nothing different.
    A hand tapped Taziar’s shoulder. He whirled to face Larson. The elf’s features bore an expression of somber concentration. “If you get caught, and he kills you before we can stop him, I just want you to know one thing.”
    Taziar nodded in acknowledgment, the possibility a particularly unpleasant consequence but one he could not afford to dismiss. “What’s that?”
    “I told you so.”
    Taziar snorted. “Jerk,” he replied, borrowing Larson’s insult. He shook the knotted lock of hair from his eyes and turned back to study the common room. No object passed his scrutiny unnoticed. Two tables, each with four chairs, stood between the stranger’s seat and his own, the narrow lane they formed comfortably passable. Beyond the man, a table sat in the opposite corner from the door. Beside it, at a diagonal to the stranger, a cracked, oak table occupied a space beside the one with the engrossed couple near the hearth. Someone had crammed six chairs around the flawed table, though its area was constructed to support only four. The corner of one chair partially blocked the walkway, its legs jammed crookedly against its neighbors.
    Taziar feigned a yawn. He stretched luxuriously, splaying callused fingers to work loose a cramp. Not wishing to draw attention by pausing overlong, he trotted farther into the barroom. Skirting the dark-haired stranger, he seized an extra chair from the overcrowded table and spun it toward the couple. His action knocked the misplaced chair further askew. Still standing, he leaned across the back of his seat and spoke to the boy in strident, congenial tones. “Ketil! Ketil Arnsson. I thought it was you.” Framing a knowing smile, he tipped his chin subtly toward the girl. “Does your mother know you’re here? And what are you doing this far from home?”
    Startled, the youth released his partner’s hand. “But—but I’m not ...”
    Taziar interrupted before he could finish. “How’s the apprenticeship going? I saw your father yesterday, and he said ...”
    The youth pushed free of his girlfriend. “Please, sir, my name’s Inghram. Kiollsson.”
    Taziar continued as if the boy had not spoken. “He said you’d been spending more time ...” He stopped suddenly, as if the boy’s words had finally registered and slouched