Chapter 86: A Noble’s Past
The tavern was loud long before anyone raised their voice. It sat at the edge of the lower district, built from dark wood stained by years of smoke, spilled ale, and grease. The floorboards creaked under constant movement, sticky in places where drinks had soaked in and never thoroughly dried. Long tables filled the room, some scarred with knife marks, others uneven from poor repairs. Benches were pushed close together, forcing strangers to sit shoulder to shoulder whether they liked it or not.
The air was thick. Smoke from oil lamps and pipes hung low near the ceiling. The smell of alcohol mixed with sweat, fried meat, old bread, and damp wool cloaks. A fire burned at one end of the tavern, not for comfort but for cooking. A large pot sat over it, bubbling with something that looked thin but filling enough for those who had no better options.
Men and women crowded every space. Some leaned heavily against the walls, cups clutched in unsteady hands. Others laughed too loudly, faces flushed, words slurred. Dice clattered on tables where gambling was already turning ugly. A pair of men argued over coins, one accusing the other of cheating while gripping a knife handle without drawing it. A woman sat on a table, skirts hitched up, drinking from a shared jug while two men watched her with open interest.
At the center of it all, an aged man crawled onto one of the longer tables. He moved slowly, dragging himself up using both hands, knocking over empty cups and a plate of crusts. His beard was gray and unkempt, stained with drink. His clothes had once been fine but were now worn thin at the elbows and knees. He laughed as he pulled himself upright, a loud, harsh sound that cut through the noise.
"Ha!" he shouted, slapping the table. "You lot don’t even know what’s coming!"
Several people turned to look. Someone groaned. Another threw a crust of bread that bounced off his shoulder.
"Sit down, old man," a woman near the fire said. "You’re drunk."
"I heard it!" he continued, ignoring her. "I heard it at the marketplace earlier today. Blood everywhere. Bodies. Screams."
The room shifted. The noise lowered just a little.
"Keep your mouth shut," a man near the door warned. "This isn’t a place for that talk."
The older man waved a hand. "The king’s not here," he said loudly. "No need to whisper in a tavern."
A few people laughed nervously. Others muttered under their breath.
"Chaos," the man went on. "That’s what it was. Guards running everywhere. People crying. No one knows who to trust."
Another piece of bread flew and hit his chest.
"Quiet!" he suddenly shouted, slamming his palm down. "Quiet, I said!"
Surprisingly, the room obeyed for a moment.
He grabbed a cup someone had left nearby and took a long gulp, spilling some down his beard. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned.
"You think I don’t know these things? I stood beside the king once." He said.
That got more laughs.
"There goes his past," someone called out. "Elder Strega!"
The name rippled through the room, followed by snickers and open laughter.
Strega puffed up, swaying slightly. "Laugh if you want. I advised him. Me. I told him what would happen."
"Told him what?" a man asked sarcastically.
"Not to crown Eirene," Strega said. "I warned him. Said it would end badly."
A hush fell over the nearest tables. Farther away, people leaned in to listen.
"The king didn’t listen," Strega continued. "He never does. He failed me. He failed the people."
Someone hissed, "Careful."
Strega scoffed. "Careful of what? Monsters already walk among us. They said the Queen is a monster!"
A woman crossed herself. A man near the gambling table spat on the floor.
"How can a queen be a monster?" someone asked, half-mocking, half-curious.
Strega spread his arms. "That’s the question, isn’t it?"
A few voices urged him to stop. Others shouted encouragement.
"You’ll have your head off your shoulders if the king finds you!"
"Say it!"
"Let him talk!"
"You’ll be the monster’s meal!"
"I fear no monster!" Strega laughed again. "And the future queen?" he slurred. "Her fate is already cursed. Four mates. Four!"
That brought a burst of crude laughter.
"What kind of woman needs four men?" someone shouted.
"Must be greedy," another added.
"Or skilled," a drunk man joked, earning loud laughter and a slap from the woman beside him.
Strega nodded along, pleased. "Four men in her bed," he said. "No wonder the gods are angry."
"They say she’s blessed."
"No, a curse!"
"Four mates? That’s not a curse, that’s a shift schedule."
A drunk, half-naked woman raised her cup. "That’s a pleasure. If four men come with meals and coin, I’ll call it fate."
Another man sitting next to the drunk woman said, "Four mates means someone’s always late and someone’s always useless."
"I can barely keep one man fed. Four would starve the kingdom." The woman near the fire retorted.
"Four men and still no peace? That’s poor planning." An older man laughed.
"For a few coins and no promises, I’d take four and still sleep better than a queen." A woman grinding off a man said.
Some laughed. Some pounded their fist on tables.
"Four mates just means four chances to be disappointed." Elder Strega added.
"Better four chances than none at all. But if I had four mates, I’d sell two and retire." A woman clapped back.
Roars of laughter followed her comment.
Strega’s slurred voice silenced them again. "Four mates won’t save a throne, but it’ll empty a wine cellar."
Roars of laughter filled the air again. More jokes followed. Some laughed hard. Some shook their heads. A few looked uneasy but said nothing.
At the far end of the tavern, a lone figure sat in shadow, wearing a dark cloak pulled low over their head and face hidden. They had not spoken once. Their cup remained untouched. From beneath the hood, they watched Strega closely, listening to every word.
Strega slapped the table again. "We should march," he declared. "Straight to the palace."
A murmur ran through the crowd.
"We should demand answers," he said. "Demand the king to show his face. Nowhere is safe. Monsters everywhere."
Someone shouted, "He’s right!"
Someone else yelled, "You’ll get us killed!"
Strega raised his chin. "I’ll lead you. I’ll save the day. Like I always did." He tried to stand fully upright, lost his balance, and fell off the table.
There was a loud thud as he hit the floor. For a moment, the tavern went silent. Then people rushed forward.
Someone knelt beside him. "Strega?"
Another poked him with a boot. "You alive, old fool?"
Strega snored loudly. Then laughter broke out.
"He’s asleep," someone said.
A man spat on the floor near his head. "Useless drunk."
Another gave him a light kick. "Go sleep it off somewhere else."
Slowly, the crowd returned to their drinks and games. The noise rose again, louder than before.
At the far end, the cloaked figure remained still, watching, and listening.
