It was a young man with a felt hat on his head, wearing a leather vest—practical and nimble.
Running or riding must have left him gasping for breath, his face flushed red, and his chestnut hair damp with sweat, plastered to his forehead.
The bartender of the Silver Swan Tavern stepped in front of him first.
The other people in the tavern just gave him a cursory glance, then turned back and let their eyes fall to their own tables.
"Look at you, all flustered and frantic."
The bartender, a white towel slung over his shoulder, sized the young man up and down, then handed him a glass of water.
"Who are you looking for? Is it that urgent?"
What the bartender meant was that he should tone down both his movements and his noise, so as not to bother the other guests.
The high-end ambiance of the Silver Swan Tavern was also a kind of luxury.
But the young man only took the glass, gulped down a mouthful, and then raised one hand again, loudly asking around.
