I feel strangely nervous leaving the palace grounds. The last time I'd done so didn't end quite as I'd planned, as the silvery line of new skin across my palm reminds me. But despite my jumpiness, there is something refreshing about walking the city streets. A sort of heaviness has been hanging in the air around the palace ever since the queen grew ill. And with Ezebel in the state she's in, my world seems to have tipped sharply on its side. I feel as though I can't find my footing, am just slipping slowly into some terrifying unknown. Out here, the dirty cobblestones feel solid beneath my feet, and the wind buffeting back and forth against the buildings is pleasantly cold against my face.
The tavern I'm looking for has no official name. Every so often a new name spreads throughout the underworld of spies and criminals, so as to make it as confusing as possible for outsiders and less savvy individuals. Lately, I've heard it referred to as "The Cup." It's location is a well-kept secret, and I'm fairly certain it's changed at least three times in my lifetime. I have never actually been, so there's a distinct possibility I've gotten myself lost. I trace the route over and over on my mental map, hoping I'm remembering right.
I know I've reached the place I'm looking for when I see the mural painted low on a building's dirty stone wall. Two red knives crossing over a silver goblet. The otherwise nondescript alley is off of Smith Street, where throughout the day and often well into the night you can hear nothing over the din of hammers molding iron into horseshoes and axes, sickles and ploughs. At the far end of the narrow alleyway is a squat wooden building built oddly off of the stone ones on either side, creating a dead end. Deep in the shadows there is a door. I knock twice.
A small peephole slides open and a bloodshot eye topped with a bushy gray brow glares out at me. "Who're you?"
"I'm here to see the baron."
"Who're you?" he repeats, a bit more aggressively.
Oh. Right. I reach into my pocket, fumbling as I pull out the square bronze token, about the size of a silver coin. I raise it up to the peephole so he can see the etching of two crossed knives.
The man grunts and slides the peephole shut. I hear wood clunking heavily against wood as he clumsily moves the bar from across the other side of the door. There is a series of clicks as multiple locks are unlatched. Then the door swings open.
"Go on then," the man says, a slight slur in his speech. He looks warily over my shoulder into the alleyway, then steps back against the wall inside so I can get by him in the cramped hall. "The baron'll be in the front. Up the stairs."
I reach the top of the steep but fairly short set of stairs and find myself in a large room packed to the brim with rowdy men slamming back tankards of ale and thumping their fists onto tables and each other's backs. It's amazing I hadn't heard their shouting voices out on the street. Someone is playing a lute in the corner, and another man is using two spoons to drum an accompanying rhythm against his friend's horned metal helmet. Or I assume he is a friend by the half-hearted swatting and laughter. Everyone seems to be in good spirits, despite their rough and tumble appearance and overall stink that permeates the space. I resist the urge to cover my nose with my hand.
To my left is the bar. There are two men scanning the room and pouring drinks from big barrels, placing them on the edge of the counter to be distributed by a half dozen serving girls who weave throughout the crowd with ease. One of the bartenders notices me hovering in the corner of the room and raises an eyebrow in my direction. "You need something, lass?"
His gruff voice and choice of endearment remind me of the king. I'm fairly certain my attempted smile comes out more like a wince. "Looking for the baron!" I say, trying to be heard over the noise and not sure I manage.
