The Good For What Ales Ya tavern was low-ceilinged and loud in the way only old places were—oak beams blackened by centuries of smoke, rushes underfoot, and the thick, sweet-sour smell of spilled ale soaked into the floorboards.

  Ink slipped through the tavern door; her ears flicked between conversations. The barmaid nervously refused a patron. A boy sneaking around picking the pockets of anyone who looked like they had pockets to pick.

  Heat from the hearth rolled over her. Boots stamped. Benches scraped over the flagstones. A mug fell near her, splashing ale over her paws.

  She paused just inside, head low, ears forward as her nose pinpointed the scent of her friends.

  She surveyed the tavern. Her gaze confirmed Merren and Dain in the corner of the tavern. Of course they were there.

  They sat with their backs to the wall, bodies angled just enough to watch the door and the room at the same time. They sat on a narrow bench scarred by knife marks and spilled drink, their ale cups resting on the table between them. No sense pretending otherwise.

  Ink crossed the floor and flopped down beneath the table, settling with the quiet confidence of someone who had chosen her post.

  “There you are,” Merren murmured. “Decided our company was far superior than Seren’s, did you? To be fair, I don’t blame you. Male company is always far superior.”

  Ink didn’t look at him.

  Prattle was nowhere near them.

  He hopped along a roof beam overhead, pausing to peer down at abandoned crusts and the occasional inattentive hand. Every so often he fluttered down to a table, stole something, and vanished again with the confidence of a creature who had never once been challenged on his life choices.

  Outside, a bell rang. Sharp. Repetitive.

  Then a voice—loud enough to punch its way through the tavern walls.

  “OYEZ! OYEZ! OYEZ!”

  Several patrons groaned. One man raised his cup in bitter salute.

  “BY ORDER OF HIS HIGHNESS Highness King Helmut of Eldmere,” the bellman called, “let all citizens hear and attend! Tomorrow at the sixth bell past dawn, the King’s Way shall be cleared and made ready!”

  Dain’s jaw tightened.

  “The restoration of Eldmere’s rightful crown shall be witnessed in the palace square,” the voice continued. “King Jorvan of Garanwyn shall stand in honour for his aid and alliance in our kingdom’s hour of trial!”

  Dain leaned forward. “Aid and alliance,” he muttered. “That’s one way to dress it up.”

  “The people believe they’ve lost their king,” Merren said quietly, lifting his cup and taking a measured drink. “They’ll swallow whatever version lets them sleep.”

  Outside, the bell rang again.

  “OYEZ! The King’s Way is to be kept clean and clear! No carts, no beasts, no loitering upon the ray cloth laid for the procession! All citizens are commanded—”

  “If he keeps this up,” Dain said, “someone’s going to throw something.”

  “He’ll keep it up,” Merren replied. “That’s rather the point.”

  Prattle fluttered down to the edge of their table, someone’s bread clutched triumphantly in his beak. His pale eyes flicked toward the door.

  Outside, the bellman pressed on. “—THE PROCESSION SHALL PASS FROM THE PALACE DOORS ALONG THE KING’S WAY—”

  Ink’s ears pricked.

  “—UPON THE RAY CLOTH TO THE PLATFORM WHERE KING JORVAN SHALL ADDRESS THE PEOPLE—”

  Her tail lifted. High. Slow. Side to side.

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  Merren looked down.

  That was not a happy wag.

  “Ink,” he warned.

  She was already moving—trotting as if she was floating and stalking at the same time threading between benches, slipping past boots and spilled ale with the focus of a creature who had just committed to a deeply ill-advised course of action.

  “Where’s she going?” Dain asked.

  “Nowhere good.”

  “Should we stop her?”

  Merren sighed. “We can’t stop her. What would we do—put her on a leash? She’d just neutralise it in one bite. You realise she only humors us. She doesn’t need us. Which is terribly inconvenient, given how essential we like to believe we are.”

  Prattle made a sound that might generously be called a laugh. “Put a leash on that dog!”

  “Yes,” Merren muttered, as the tavern door swung shut behind Ink. “Thank you for your contribution.”

  The Good For What Ales Ya tavern was low-ceilinged and loud in the way only old places were—oak beams blackened by centuries of smoke, rushes underfoot, and the thick, sweet-sour smell of spilled ale soaked into the floorboards.

  Ink slipped through the tavern door; her ears flicked between conversations. The barmaid nervously refused a patron. A boy sneaking around picking the pockets of anyone who looked like they had pockets to pick.

  Heat from the hearth rolled over her. Boots stamped. Benches scraped over the flagstones. A mug fell near her, splashing ale over her paws.

  She paused just inside, head low, ears forward as her nose pinpointed the scent of her friends.

  She surveyed the tavern. Her gaze confirmed Merren and Dain in the corner of the tavern. Of course they were there.

  They sat with their backs to the wall, bodies angled just enough to watch the door and the room at the same time. They sat on a narrow bench scarred by knife marks and spilled drink, their ale cups resting on the table between them. No sense pretending otherwise.

  Ink crossed the floor and flopped down beneath the table, settling with the quiet confidence of someone who had chosen her post.

  “There you are,” Merren murmured. “Decided our company was far superior than Seren’s, did you? To be fair, I don’t blame you. Male company is always far superior.”

  Ink didn’t look at him.

  Prattle was nowhere near them.

  He hopped along a roof beam overhead, pausing to peer down at abandoned crusts and the occasional inattentive hand. Every so often he fluttered down to a table, stole something, and vanished again with the confidence of a creature who had never once been challenged on his life choices.

  Outside, a bell rang. Sharp. Repetitive.

  Then a voice—loud enough to punch its way through the tavern walls.

  “OYEZ! OYEZ! OYEZ!”

  Several patrons groaned. One man raised his cup in bitter salute.

  “BY ORDER OF HIS HIGHNESS Highness King Helmut of Eldmere,” the bellman called, “let all citizens hear and attend! Tomorrow at the sixth bell past dawn, the King’s Way shall be cleared and made ready!”

  Dain’s jaw tightened.

  “The restoration of Eldmere’s rightful crown shall be witnessed in the palace square,” the voice continued. “King Jorvan of Garanwyn shall stand in honour for his aid and alliance in our kingdom’s hour of trial!”

  Dain leaned forward. “Aid and alliance,” he muttered. “That’s one way to dress it up.”

  “The people believe they’ve lost their king,” Merren said quietly, lifting his cup and taking a measured drink. “They’ll swallow whatever version lets them sleep.”

  Outside, the bell rang again.

  “OYEZ! The King’s Way is to be kept clean and clear! No carts, no beasts, no loitering upon the ray cloth laid for the procession! All citizens are commanded—”

  “If he keeps this up,” Dain said, “someone’s going to throw something.”

  “He’ll keep it up,” Merren replied. “That’s rather the point.”

  Prattle fluttered down to the edge of their table, someone’s bread clutched triumphantly in his beak. His pale eyes flicked toward the door.

  Outside, the bellman pressed on. “—THE PROCESSION SHALL PASS FROM THE PALACE DOORS ALONG THE KING’S WAY—”

  Ink’s ears pricked.

  “—UPON THE RAY CLOTH TO THE PLATFORM WHERE KING JORVAN SHALL ADDRESS THE PEOPLE—”

  Her tail lifted. High. Slow. Side to side.

  Merren looked down.

  That was not a happy wag.

  “Ink,” he warned.

  She was already moving—trotting as if she was floating and stalking at the same time threading between benches, slipping past boots and spilled ale with the focus of a creature who had just committed to a deeply ill-advised course of action.

  “Where’s she going?” Dain asked.

  “Nowhere good.”

  “Should we stop her?”

  Merren sighed. “We can’t stop her. What would we do—put her on a leash? She’d just neutralise it in one bite. You realise she only humors us. She doesn’t need us. Which is terribly inconvenient, given how essential we like to believe we are.”

  Prattle made a sound that might generously be called a laugh. “Put a leash on that dog!”

  “Yes,” Merren muttered, as the tavern door swung shut behind Ink. “Thank you for your contribution.”