Tabbic shrugged. “You can finish your drink and leave, if you like. It won’t change anything. You’ll still be welcome here.”

He turned his back on Brutus to lift the heavy kettle off the forge and fill the cups once again. Brutus could hear the dark liquid slosh.

“I think it’s grown stronger,” Tabbic said, peering into the pot. “This was a good batch.”

“Have you any regrets, old man?” Brutus asked him.

Tabbic grunted. “I thought you had something troubling you. I’d go back and change a few things if I could—be a better husband, maybe. If you ever left your mother’s tit, there’ll be things you wish you hadn’t done, but it’s not all bad, I’ve found. A little guilt has made more than a few men live better than they would have done—trying to even the scales before they cross the river.”

Brutus looked away as Tabbic drew up an old bench, wincing as his knees flexed.

“I always wanted a little more than that,” Brutus said at last.

Tabbic sipped at his drink, the steam rising into his nostrils. After a time, he chuckled. “You know, I always thought that was the secret of happiness, right there. There are some people who know the value of a kind wife and children who don’t shame you. Maybe they’re the ones who had a cruel time of it when they were young; I don’t know. I’ve seen men who had to choose whether to feed the children or themselves each day, but they were content, even then.”

He looked up at Brutus and the man in silver armor felt the gaze and frowned to himself.

“Then there are those who are born with a hole in them,” Tabbic continued softly. “They want and want until they tear themselves to pieces. I don’t know what starts the need in a man, or how it’s stopped, except for killing.”

Brutus looked quizzically at him. “You’re going to tell me how to find a good woman after this, aren’t you?”

Tabbic shook his head. “You don’t come in here and ask me if I have any regrets without a few of your own. Whatever you’ve done, I hope you can mend it. If you can’t, it will be with you a long time.”

“Another refill,” Brutus said, holding out his cup. He knew his senses were being dulled, but he welcomed the feeling. “The trouble with your rustic philosophy,” Brutus began, tasting the new cup. “The trouble is that there have to be some of us who want and want, or where would we be?” He frowned then as he considered his own words.