Courage is not the absence of fear. It's the absence of a plan.
—————
The Pickled Turnip hadn't gotten any less miserable in the three days since Blunt had last stepped foot in it.
If anything, it looked even more pathetic in daylight, though "daylight" was generous for the thin gray mist filtering through the warped windowpanes..
Sir Bartholomew Blunt adjusted his doublet, that was freshly brushed, though still a little wine-stained and stepped inside.
The tavern's usual bouquet of sweat, spilled ale, and existential despair welcomed him at the door.
Inside was already alive with the sounds of argument, laughter, and a man playing a lute so aggressively out of tune it might have been a weapon in disguise..
A chimney in the corner wheezed smoke. Someone was asleep under a table. A one-eyed cat paced across the beams overhead like it owned the place and a dog was barking under the floorboards.
Blunt marched straight up to the bar with the kind of purpose that came from desperation rather than planning.
He made a beeline for the bar, where as always, Witlow stood behind the counter, hunched over, and polishing a mug.
Blunt: "Still at it, Witlow? What, Is the mug cursed, or are you trapped in some polishing purgatory?"
Witlow didn't look up. Just muttered while scrubbing.
"If I stop, I'll remember I'm sober... and then I'll see thy face. The mug's quieter company."
Blunt (leaning close to the mug):
"Hang in there, friend. I know what it's like to hear him talk, I nearly died of boredom last week."
Blunt: "Well, I need to find someone. A woman."
Witlow (flatly): "How original."
"No, no, not like that. She's got... uhh..."
(he gestured vaguely around his own head)
"Hair like angry fire. Sharp-tongued, criminally nimble, and. Eyes like a mule with a hangover."
Witlow stared at him for a long moment.
"That's... that's the worst description I've ever heard."
Blunt: "She also might've threatened to skin me like a carrot."
"She threatened you?"
Blunt: "Repeatedly."
"And you want to find her?"
Blunt: "Yes, yes! For noble reasons!"
Witlow (sighed): "Of course you do."
He reached under the bar and retrieved a cracked mug, filling it with something dark and presumably dangerous.
"We were together that evening"
Witlow: "Ah. Her."
He set the mug down with a thunk and gave Blunt a look of supreme disappointment.
Witlow: "The girl who nearly broke Jerrel's nose for calling her 'lass.' The very one who drinks bitterroot ale and never tips. Yes. I know her."
Blunt: "Splendid. Where is she?"
"She comes by once a week, always wears a hood, never mingles, and leaves before nightfall. She definitely wouldn't like you looking for her."
Blunt: "I have to disagree. You see, she once flirted with me."
Witlow: "You sure she wasn't checking your pockets?"
Blunt adjusted slightly: "I need more details."
Witlow: "Hard to predict. Comes by whenever she wants. If you're lucky, you'll be here when she needs a drink and forgets how annoying you are."
Blunt: "So there's a chance."
Witlow: "A very small one."
"How small?"
"The size of your dignity."
Blunt leaned in, elbows against the bar.
"Listen, Witlow. I really need her help. It's a royal matter. Life and death. Possibly mine."
Witlow raised an eyebrow.
"You do realize she operates mostly outside the law, yes?"
"Even better. This job is also outside the law. In fact, it may be entirely allergic to the law."
Witlow (grumbling): "Bloody wonderful."
He picked up the mug again and started polishing like it owed him money.
CRACK—CRASH!
The mug slipped from his hands and shattered on the floor like a wineglass at a funeral.
Blunt threw a hand to his chest, "Saints weep! She's dead! After all you two shared… the late-night rubs… oh the whispered polishings… she gave up and finally leapt to freedom!"
Witlow stared at the wreckage in silence.
Then, slowly, and calmly, he squatted and began collecting the shards. He reached under the counter, retrieved an ancient tin of glue and plopped it on the bar like a surgeon readying for a resurrection.
Blunt blinked. Then took a slow step forward, confused.
"By Louisa's left nipple… he's rebuilding her."
"Witlow, the damn thing exploded like it was trying to escape. Let it rest!"
Witlow didn't even glance up. "She's got cracks, aye, but she still holds more than thy head ever did."
He kept gluing. Humming. A little off-key. It was almost romantic.
Blunt (backing away slowly):
"I'm not staying to watch ye marry a cup. I've seen stranger weddings—hell, I've officiated one—but this?"
He turned toward the room, spotting his old seat near the back corner of the tavern. The one that tilted to the left and flopped into it.
As he waited, he flagged down a passing server.
"Something bitter, something brown."
The server nodded like that was an order he heard twice a day.
Behind him, an old woman was teaching a child how to cheat at dice. Someone at the bar was discussing the merits of stabbing over poisoning. A large man with no eyebrows was whittling a spoon with the intensity of a man sculpting his future.
Blunt leaned back, hands behind his head, grinning. "All I need is a thief, a knight, and a donkey. Simple."
He raised his mug, took a sip, and winced.
"Bitterroot. Tastes like despair boiled in a boot."
Witlow called over:
"Drink enough and you stop tasting it."
Blunt: "Drink more and I start seeing visions of my childhood guardian."
Witlow: "Didn't she run off with a circus?"
Blunt: "And a walrus trainer, yes. Never quite recovered."
He settled deeper into his chair, stretching his legs under the table.
Time ticked on. Somewhere outside, a church bell tolled the hour. Blunt checked the tavern door again. Still no sign of Fenella.
He inhaled deeply.
Blunt: "If I wait long enough, fate will surely pity me."
The tavern, naturally, did not respond...though the dog under the floorboards gave a mournful whine.
Witlow came around the bar and stood beside Blunt, crossing his arms.
"Listen, Blunt. You want advice? If you do see her—don't tell her it's a royal job. Don't mention gold. Or the king...."
Blunt: "And if I do—"
Witlow: "She'll vanish faster than your tab's been growing."
Blunt held up a finger. "But what if I told her she's the only one I trust?"
Witlow: "She'd ask what you're distracting her from and check for hidden knives."
Blunt (grinning): "Perfect. I like a woman with trust issues. Makes betrayal all the more meaningful."
Witlow just groaned and walked away.
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