In Vino, Disaster
> "There are moments that change the course of history. And sometimes, they smell like plums."
— Lady Fenella Quickwit, after two mugs of mulled wine
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That Evening
Blunt, having narrowly escaped an afternoon of humiliation and a suspiciously aggressive goose, wandered into the only establishment in the district known for both its loose stools and looser morals-
The Pickled Turnip.
A charming little pit of despair where dreams went to drown and bar tabs lived forever.
Festooned with faded bunting, and always on the verge of collapse. The painted sign above the door featured a lumpy purple root vegetable with a sour expression and one black eye. The letters beneath it read: Ale • Misery • Regret.
The tavern's reputation preceded it. So did its smell.
Inside, the place heaved with sweat, and raucous life. Candle smoke curled in lazy spirals, mingling with the scent of spilled beer, and old arguments. A small band in the corner played something that could only be described as musical if you were very drunk or in despair.
"Oi, put yer elbow down, that's my dinner!"
"Then your dinner's hogging the table, Marcy!"
A bearded man was attempting to eat a pickled egg from a stranger's plate without using his hands.
Across the room, a card game was descending into chaos, as accusations of cheating were being hurled along with actual playing cards. One of them embedded itself in a man's hair.
A cheer rose up as a round, red-faced man behind the bar slammed a tankard onto the counter with a proud announcement.
>> "FREE DRINKS, YA SODS! My wife's had the bairn! A girl! Got all ten fingers! None of mine, thank the gods!"
"Sixteen hours of yelling and she didn't stab me once. She's a bloody saint!"
The room erupted into applause. Someone tossed a sausage in the air, while another tried to kiss a chandelier.
Blunt elbowed his way to the bar and slammed a coin on the counter.
"Your finest ale, good sir!"
"We only serve one ale," Witlow grunted, slapping down a dented mug.
"Then I demand your least-worst."
"That's this one."
The mug was warm, and the ale was cloudy. Blunt drank anyway.
Now seated, he began to enjoy the haze, the chaos, the clash of laughter and failure, when he heard a sigh.
Not loud. Not an annoyed sigh. But a very specific sigh, the kind of sigh one makes when being forced to tolerate the company of profoundly stupid people.
Blunt turned his head lazily.
Behind him, wrapped in a deep green cloak with the hood half-drawn, sat a woman nursing a drink and glaring into it.
He turned away, then did a double take.
"Oh.., ho," he said aloud.
She looked up, and their eyes met.
"YOU!"
Half the tavern turned to look.
Fenella Quickwit closed her eyes, sighed again, deeper this time and muttered,
"gods preserve me…"
Blunt rushed to her table like a moth.
"You're the… the noblewoman! The thief! The kissy one!"
Fenella adjusted slightly and looked away.
"You remember me, don't you? Earlier today? The Gilded Acorn? You flirted, you fondled, you pilfered!"
Fenella took a long, deliberate sip of her drink and refused to look at him.
"Sir, I don't know who you are."
"You stole my pouch."
"Which pouch?"
"The pouch with the duck!"
A man at a nearby table leaned in. He was bald, cross-eyed, and smelled like vinegar.
"Did he just say 'duck'?"
"Yeah," his drinking mate replied. "Maybe it's code. Like 'the duck flies east.'"
Fenella growled under her breath.
"Listen, Doughface, I don't know who you think I am—"
"You're her! The lady at the estate! The one who definitely wasn't the real Lady Seraphina."
"Oh for the love of moldy turnips,"
"You ran off with my coins!"
"Coins? Your pouch had three shillings and stones in it!"
"That was a memory stone! It reminded me not to trust beautiful women."
"If you don't leave this table in the next five seconds, I will staple your tongue to your chin with a hairpin." She muttered, taking another sip.
Blunt raised a hand, smiling.
"Now, now, let's not make threats. I'm here to extend a gentlemanly arm of goodwill—"
"Break it," she said.
"Pardon?"
"Your arm. I'll break it."
"You're bluffing."
"I once took down a tax collector using nothing but a candlestick and a haiku."
"…Really?"
"No. But I am this close to setting your boots on fire."
Blunt blinked and glanced down, as if genuinely worried she might have already done so.
"Well," he said finally, "I just wanted to say I forgive you."
Fenella raised an eyebrow. "You forgive me?"
"Yes. For being overwhelmed by my presence. It happens."
She looked him up and down.
"You look like someone accidentally sculpted a statue out of leftover bread dough and gave up halfway."
"That's a strangely accurate metaphor."
"Now scram."
"Now my apolog—"
Fenella stood so fast her chair screeched backward. A nearby patron ducked instinctively.
"You really want to do this now?"
"Yes! Because I believe in truth, justice, and the right to harass thieves in public!"
Witlow leaned over the bar.
"If you're going to kill each other, do it outside. I've just mopped."
"When?" Fenella asked.
"Never," Witlow shrugged. "But it's the threat that counts."
They stared at each other a moment longer before—
THUD. CLANG.
"Oof—my spleen!"
A loud crash from the far side of the tavern interrupted them.
Blunt glanced toward the commotion.
A man in partial armor tumbled face-first off a bench near the hearth, arms splayed, a flagon spinning out of his hand.
"Not again," someone said out loud.
Witlow didn't even look up, just wiped his hands on his apron and said;
"That's just Gaspard. Probably fell off the bench."
"He thinks he's a knight!" A voice in the bar shouted.
"I am a knight!" came the muffled protest.
Two regulars, Burly Dave and Even Burlier Dave, hoisted the man up by his armpits.
"Out you go, Sir Gooseflesh," one grunted.
"Tis Sir Gaspard the Grim, if you please," the knight slurred as they dragged him out.
His helmet was askew, his sword belt caught around one leg, and his left boot was missing, with trail of spilled mead following behind him. "Vanquisher of shadows! Wooer of maidens! Slayer of… of…"
The door swung shut behind him. The room exhaled.
Blunt turned back to Fenella, now seated once again and sipping her drink like nothing happened.
"Well," he said. "That was weird."
She didn't look up.
"You're weird."
"That's fair."
They sat in silence. For half a moment.
Then a hulking man at the door growled:
"BLUNT."
Blunt's spine stiffened.
"Oh dear."
"You owe me forty crowns."
"Ah. Gerald. How wonderful to see your enormous... terrifying face again."
Fenella slid her hood further down.
"Not my circus," she whispered.
"Not my clown," Blunt muttered back.
As Gerald stomped toward them, Fenella slipped out of her chair and melted into the crowd.
Blunt didn't notice.
Just then—
BLOWWWW.
A trumpet sounded outside.
The room quieted. Heads turned toward the open windows.
A shout rang out:
"A ROYAL PROCLAMATION! FOR ONE— – BLUNT!"
Everyone turned to stare.
Blunt blinked.
"Wait.., me?"