Matters were no better within the tavern of The Sword and Keg. The other five leaders of the Black Company sat around a single table in the corner of the tavern, isolated from the other patrons by a separate ring of empty tables. At Blackthorn and his companions' entrance, the barkeep looked up, distaste clearly engraved in her frown. "More of thee tonight, eh?" She threw down the rag with which she had been cleaning a mug. "Well, make thy patronage quick, and be gone so that my other customers will come back! Thy kind is not welcome here!"

Through the haze of smoke and reek of ale, Blackthorn saw Ghaland's face flare bright as his beard, even as those around the barmaid echoed her sentiments. "Art thou mad, Nicole?" Ghaland yelled. "Dost thou not know who thou dost address?"

"I see nothing but strangers dressed like them." She pointed at those of the Black Company who were seated in the corner. Was it Blackthorn's imagination, or had the air in the tavern truly darkened? He heard the barmaid shout, but as if from afar. "And they have driven my patrons away."

"They have done nothing," Ghaland protested. His features darkened.

As did hers, or again, was it the light? "Their presence is enough. And they refuse to leave!"

"Again, thou dost not know who it is that thou dost address!" Ghaland seemed to leap forward, though his pace was only quicker than a walk. A buzz like a thousand insects swarmed in Blackthorn's ears, and the stink of swollen corpses replaced that of aged ale.

Before the Captain could reach Nicole, one of the fighters near the bar stepped forward. "I know to whom it is she speaks," said he, a knight from The Order of the Silver Serpent. "'Tis Blackthorn, he who gave himself the throne!" He directed his scowl at Blackthorn, his movements slow and liquid. Blackthorn could feel the air upon his own skin. Like oil. "Is that not true, my Lord?" the knight challenged Blackthorn. "Thou hast proclaimed thyself as the heir to the throne, hast thou not? And thou hast done naught but sit upon that throne. 'Tis the Great Council and the local civilities who seem to rule these days, and they have done naught but bicker over what is to be done."

This time it was Captain Suturb who spoke, now standing at Blackthorn's side. "Say no more!" he commanded, hand going to his sword.

The knight's gaze, locked on Blackthorn, was as defiant as his tongue. "I take commands from one person only," he sneered. "My oath belongs to Lord Malone of Serpent's Hold, head of my order and a true leader. 'Tis he who deserves to inherit the throne, for he is a man of deeds, not words, and certainly not some pet of a fallen king."

Suturb's blade left his sheath. "In the name of Valor, and in the name of Jhelom, I challenge thy words!" he cried. Men scattered. Nicole's mug shattered when it hit the floor, thunder amidst chaos.

The hand that stayed Suturb's stroke was Blackthorn's own. "Captain!" he heard himself cry. "Put down thy weapon! This man has done naught but state his beliefs!"

Light returned. The shadow that had seemed to cloak the tavern retreated with the whisper of a dying man exhaling his final breath. Suturb's eyes, alight and wide with fury, blinked and dimmed. He looked at the sword he held aloft with confusion. "My Lord?" he asked, perplexed.

The rest of the tavern shared his confusion. "Lord Blackthorn," Nicole said with a deft curtsey. "I apologize for what I have said. I do not know what came over me." She bit her lip as if that might still her trembles. "Thou art welcome here, of course, as are thy men."

Suturb sheathed his sword, and bent to one knee. "My Lord, I apologize for my actions. I will accept thy reprisal."