The Unwritten King

19. Pretenders

Midnight had come and gone by the time they stood outside of the Muck Moth Tavern, but Jacim City didn't seem to know that.

The streets were narrow, and subtlety was key, so they had left the coach a ways back. And had proceeded to walk past the tavern a grand four times before they realized it was right in front of them.

The sparse streetlights did little to fight the dark, but Jacim was busy as high noon. It looked like a night market installed in a maze; insistent peddlers blocked every corner, and a disorienting mix of food smell and rot hung in the air. So they couldn't be blamed for missing one squat standalone building with the same lopsided roof and weary wood planks as all the rest.

"Hey. Before we go in," said Nicholas. Rayan continued squinting distrustfully at the mostly illegible words carved above the door - it was possible that they were walking into the Meat Mill, or the Milk Motel, or the Mage Mafia. "Promise me you won't take names or faces in there."

"And with what authority do you make that order?"

"This isn't a witch hunt! You can't arrest these people."

"Is that so?" Rayan mused, with all the smugness of a man who could do anything he wanted.

"Please don't arrest these people," Nicholas corrected.

He couldn't see much of Rayan's face. Rayan had tied a headscarf over the bottom half, and let his hair loose to shield the rest. He seemed to be trying at discretion - his coat and vest had no patterned embroidery patterns or engraved buttons, even the scarf was plain. But there was no disguising the fine material of his clothes, and all-black wasn't what Nicholas would call inconspicuous.

Rayan didn't make any promises, but as he started for the door, he said, "We have a job to do. I do not plan to stay any longer than necessary."

Chiming bells announced their arrival. Not from the door itself, but from one of two identical windchimes hanging over the closest end of the bar. The barkeep continued rattling the chimes as she greeted them with black-rimmed teeth. Smile or sneer was anyone's guess.

The noise inside hit like a blast of hot air, alongside an actual blast of hot air. The tavern was a heat trap. Nicholas took one step in and turned back around, shrugging off the long coat he had been given to wear over his linens. He stalled for time hanging it on the rack, until the uneasy feeling of shifting energy wasn't so strong.

It wasn't like every patron had stared at the sound of the bells. But there had been subtle side-eyes from the tables, and shoulders hiking up around the bar, and a dampening of the boisterous conversation in the back corner.

Rayan pressed forth with his shoulders hunched. Nicholas would guess he was putting on a NOT-THE-KING act, if not for the agitated flit of his eyes around the small, crowded space. He startled imperceptibly when the woman behind the bar hollered, "Drinks?"

"No, thank you."

"Actually, I'll have something strong. Your strongest, priciest drink. On his tab," said Nicholas. Rayan glowered as Nicholas accepted a tumbler of - he took a sniff and regretted it - brandy. He'd never been a fan.

"Name," droned the barkeep. "For the tab."

Rayan mumbled, "Omar." Nicholas took a sip, smiling over the rim.

None of the long tables crossing the room matched. Or the stools, or the rugs, or the lamps. Nicholas aimed for an empty end. Somewhere behind them, glasses slammed. The tavern had no music, but that didn't stop a sloppy few from dancing.

Where Nicholas and Rayan settled, the conversation dimmed. Within a minute or two, the women around them had slipped away to a different table.

The entry bells chimed again. Nicholas watched the barkeep greet the threadbare woman at the doors like an old friend. He noticed that she had pulled the other windchimes, and that the sound was different. The slightest bit lower. A signal.