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‘What’s your poison, Princess?’ Wilder asked, signalling to the bartender.

But he didn’t get to hear Thea’s drink order, because someone bumped into him from behind, knocking his hood back from his face. And the man behind the bar froze, dishrag in hand, eyes narrowing at the sight of Wilder.

‘I know you,’ the barkeep said, sliding the rag and empty tankard he was holding onto the counter. ‘You’re that fallen Warsword…’

The music stopped, the chatter ceased, and everyone was suddenly looking at Wilder.

He grimaced, particularly as he saw several burly men get to their feet, clearly thinking of being heroes for a night. Beside him, Thea was doing the same as he was – assessing their odds. There was no way they’d leave this place without killing countless people.

Silence throbbed through the tavern, and Wilder shifted on his feet, judging the distance to the exit, gauging just how close the quarters were and how to do the least amount of damage —

Someone cracked their knuckles. A chair screeched as it was pushed back across the stone floor. The distinct note of steel singing as it left its sheath rang out.

‘Told you this was a bad idea,’ Thea muttered, her hand drifting to the grip of her sword.

‘What’s that?’ The barkeep’s voice cut through the tense quiet. He was pointing at Wilder’s chest.

Exchanging a baffled look with Thea, Wilder glanced down. ‘What?’

To his surprise, the barman approached, leaning across the counter and tugging at something in his pocket.

Wilder baulked. ‘What the fuck?’

‘I’masking the questions…’ The man pointed again. ‘What’s that?’

Shaking his head in disbelief, Wilder spotted the faded yellow square of fabric sticking out of his breast pocket, recognising it as the piece of cloth Kipp had given him to wipe his bleeding nose weeks ago.

‘What’s it look like?’ he snapped, balling his fists. ‘It’s a handkerchief, you fucking idiot.’

‘Where’d you get it?’ the man asked, glancing at the patrons who had closed in around them.

‘A friend. What does it matter?’ Wilder replied, growing even more irate as the man pulled the material completely from his shirt pocket and spread it across his dirty palm, staring at the embroidered fox in the corner in wonder.

What the actual fuck?Wilder thought, completely bewildered.

The barman waved the piece of fabric at him as though he would understand its significance. ‘You’re friends with the Son of the Fox?’

Wilder stared at him. Was this man even speaking the common tongue? ‘What?’

The man waved the kerchief at him again. ‘You’re friends with Kipp Snowden?’

Thea was suddenly pushing his clenched fists back down to his sides, a broad smile on her face. ‘Yes,’ she told him. ‘We are.’

‘Is that so?’ the barman replied thoughtfully. ‘Because a friend of Kipp is a friend of mine. No questions asked.’

‘We’re definitely friends with Kipp,’ Thea said.

‘Prove it.’

Wilder gaped at Thea as she sized up the barman, folding her arms over her chest. ‘He’ll annoy you to tears. He’s got a massive mouth, he’s always eating, and heneverpays for anything.’

The bartender stared at her. A moment passed, then two.

And then the man’s expression changed entirely as he slapped the counter with the flat of his palm and burst into a rumbling belly laugh. ‘So youdoknow him.’ He reached across and clasped Wilder heartily on the shoulder. ‘Why didn’t you bloody well say so?’

As Wilder gawked, utterly speechless at the turn of events, the man tucked Kipp’s kerchief back in Wilder’s pocket and motioned for the patrons to go back to their business, for the music to continue. ‘I’m Everard, owner of this fine establishment,’ he declared, before he addressed a server. ‘Bring out the boar. And the wine! And the tart! And the…’

He walked away shouting orders, gesturing flippantly with his hands.