The end of the work week settled upon the capital like a heavy but joyful burden. The "Black Horseshoe" — a tavern reeking of cheap beer, fried onions, and sweat — was packed to the rafters.
The air hummed like a disturbed beehive. The tables, pushed closely together, were drowning in mugs of cloudy ale and sticky puddles of spilled beer. Everyone flocked here: tired workers with greasy hands, shopkeepers in worn-out doublets, and simply the dregs of the city — ragged men with half-empty purses and greedy eyes.
Through the thick tobacco smoke and steam from hot bodies, waitresses darted nimbly — quick as lizards — with trays full of foaming mugs. Every now and then, the sharp smack of a slap against some overly boisterous patron's cheek would ring out, one who had dared to slip a hand under a coarse apron.
Trays would clatter to the floor, but they were immediately scooped up, and the noisy merriment rolled on without skipping a beat.
Behind the counter, leaning on it with fleshy palms, stood the master of this wondrous establishment, a man who resembled a trained bear. His plump face glistened with satisfaction.
Business was unusually brisk. He hadn't even expected the people to recover so quickly after the recent city guard raid and come flooding back to his establishment, leaving their last coppers behind. He was glad to be wrong. The tavern was crammed full, and coins clinked loudly in his thick strongbox.
His small eyes curiously slid towards a small, shabby stage in the corner. Behind an old, tattered screen of once-dyed fabric, three figures were bustling about.
In his experience, the crowd needed to be entertained on time, otherwise they'd start entertaining themselves — smashing furniture and each other's jaws.
The man smirked. He'd been paid handsomely for this "performance." And by none other than Her Majesty's own guardsman — a silent, stately man in a polished cuirass, whose face expressed nothing but fatigue.
The owner, being an experienced man, didn't ask unnecessary questions. He took the ringing gold and immediately roused his "artists" — perpetually drunk regulars from the back tables — forcing them, in exchange for free drinks, to urgently learn a new text.
Out of old habit, he didn't even look at the text himself. As a boy from a remote village who had become a city entrepreneur, he was always wildly curious: what idea was "the authorities" trying to convey to the common folk this time through these sometimes pathetic, sometimes decent performances?
Suddenly, a sharp, deafening BANG-BANG! — a rapid drumroll — rang out. The noise in the tavern subsided for a moment; dozens of heads turned towards the stage in a single impulse.
The tattered screen creaked open, revealing to the public's gaze three "artists," decked out in motley, torn costumes and wearing ugly painted masks with bells.
The first, pot-bellied, sat clutching a battered lute. The second, scrawny, held a pipe between his teeth.
And the third, the tallest, stood in the middle, theatrically gripping a rolled-up parchment in his trembling fingers.
The drumming abruptly ceased, and the three jesters froze in deliberately pompous poses. The one with the scroll rolled forward with the air of a hackneyed tragic-comedian and began to drone out the text to the dreary accompaniment of his companions.
"Oh, beloved citizens! Allow me to relate to you a touching saga about... *yawn*... a most worthy man!"
"Yes, yes, about those glorious days when such chaos reigned in the dungeons that even the cockroaches filed a complaint, about how people disappeared there without a trace!"
"But amidst the laughter of the crowd and the moans of women, he appeared — our nameless hero, in cool armor... or maybe without any? Never mind! The main thing is — he flew in there, and kicked a couple of corrupt soldiers, who apparently forgot that stealing isn't right, especially if smart thoughts never entered their helmets from birth."
On the last syllable, the lute let out a pitiful screech, and the jester with the pipe clumsily tried to imitate the sound of howling wind.
"And then! Oh, horror... ghosts! Yes, yes, the very ones that usually only scare debtors and mangy mutts!"
"But our genius was right there — oh, he was as modest as an emperor with a hole in his socks! — and didn't flinch! He took his... uh... trusty club? Sword? Magic broom?.. doesn't matter, and chased the unclean spirits back to where? Back to where no human foot had trod — the vaults of the treasury."
All this while, the bells jingled so desperately, as if they were peasants being beaten for tax arrears.
The lead jester continued with parodic pathos.
"And finally, as the crown of creation! He uncovered a conspiracy! And not just any conspiracy, but a golden one, with velvet robes and poisons in the wine! Who would have thought, thieves are such sly foxes! But our genius, he wasn't born yesterday either; he didn't want to dirty his hands unnecessarily, so he simply decided to rat them out properly, and showed up at the conspirators' gathering... right on time with a couple of dozen guards."
The music gradually began to fade. The lead jester watched the crowd, mentally picking out those who might throw a stool or a jug at him, but continued anyway.
"And remember, friends: retribution for those who disturb our peaceful sleep will be inevitable, harsh, and sometimes swift — just like a snail on a steep mountain slope!"
"And remember... *solemn pause*... The best horseshoes, ploughshares, knives, and any work tools can be found at the blacksmith on Second Smith Street! Repairs, custom orders, and holiday discounts, yes, yes — hurry, the offer is limited — seize the chance to renew your everyday iron!"
The lead jester finished, and the jesters bowed so clumsily that one almost fell into the crowd. The tavern exploded with hoarse laughter; someone threw a salty pretzel at the men.
The owner just quietly laughed his ass off: "What a circus. At least they pay in advance," he thought, pouring himself a glass of cold beer, wiping a big, cloudy tear of laughter from his eyes with his other hand.
The "Black Horseshoe" once again shuddered with the rumble of voices, like an overflowing hive. After the performance, the tavern came alive again; the crowd noisily discussed the ode they had heard — crooked, apparently cobbled together in a hurry, but timely. Jokes, laughter, the clinking of mugs all merged into a single deafening roar.
In the very corner, at a far table, almost blending into the shadows, sat a lone silhouette in a thick, worn-out cloak. The inconspicuous patron stared into his nearly empty mug, waiting patiently. Fingers in worn gloves slowly traced patterns in the condensation on the side of the clay mug.
"Ha... What nonsense..." came a muffled voice nearby.
A man approached the table, swaying — looking utterly ordinary in a greasy leather jacket, with unkempt stubble and the empty gaze of a drunkard. He pretended to stumble over the table leg and heavily plopped down onto the neighboring stool.
"Hey there, mister," he grinned vacantly, addressing the one in the cloak. "Someone should know, someone should know... about these fairy tales."
The one in the cloak turned his head slightly. From under the hood, a stubborn chin and thin lips briefly flashed.
"I think there's more truth than lies here," a female voice sounded, quiet but distinct, slightly hoarse from long silence. "Despite all the artistic exaggerations."
"Heh... Allow me to buy you a drink?" The "drunkard" nodded towards the counter.
"Allow me."
He beckoned a waitress and ordered two new mugs of dark ale. When the drinks were placed on the sticky, beer-spilled table and the barmaid had left, both froze for a moment, quickly and professionally scanning their surroundings. Taught by bitter experience, they confirmed — no one was watching them.
"Don't tell me you called me out here just because of that terrible poet," the man hissed, his drunken mask vanishing instantly, replaced by focused harshness.
Ayato took a gulp of the foamy ale from the new mug, set it down, and shook her head.
"Saigo contacted me with an urgent request. I need your help."
Her hand slid under the table. A small but weighty leather purse and a thin tube of oiled paper silently dropped onto the man's knee.
"All of this — by tomorrow morning."
The man, an operative from the capital supply department of the Kotto clan nicknamed Borovik (Mushroom), was slightly surprised.
As far as he knew, Saigo was a captive of the Empress. But asking unnecessary questions was against his rules. With a quick, almost invisible movement, he picked up the tube from his knee, tucked it into the folds of his jacket, and quickly skimmed the list written in a small, cramped hand.
"Potions, magic blades, a couple of scrolls, nothing special," he thought, and raised his eyes again.
"It'll be done."
"Excellent. We'll meet nearby, same place. I'll be waiting for you after sunset," her words were quiet but sharp as a dagger's strike.
She took a last sip, threw a silver coin on the table, and was about to leave when Borovik suddenly had a thought. He quickly grabbed her wrist.
"Wait... If Saigo is a prisoner, then who the hell is he planning to..."
Ayato immediately put a finger to his lips, silencing him.
"Don't, dear!" she exclaimed loudly and playfully, to drown out his question for curious ears. "I told you — my husband is jealous!"
She leaned towards him, pretended to adjust the collar of his jacket, and whispered directly into his ear, so quietly he could barely make it out:
"Maybe... her too, but that's no longer your problem."
Her fingers released his grip. The next moment, she vanished into the crowd near the exit, leaving Borovik alone with the heavy purse, the mysterious list, and a troubling premonition that something big — and very dangerous — was brewing.
He sat down on the stool, took another gulp of ale, and silently thought to himself: "Time to move out of here."