The tavern Vilon and Owen chose to give their patronage stood along the left side of the main road, a mere few minutes' walk from the gate leading up toward the royal quarter. A wooden post jutting from above the door had been painted in the shape of an overflowing tankard, foam spilling generously down its sides, leaving little doubt as to the nature of the establishment within.
They wove past a row of horses roped to posts outside, some watched carefully by squires standing nearby with hands never far from their hilts, others left entirely unattended, seemingly without any fear of thieving hands reaching for saddlebags or reins.
Vilon didn't judge the tavern itself to be especially large, nor especially small either, and yet the moment he stepped through the door it seemed to shrink into the tightest, most crowded room he'd ever had the misfortune of squeezing into. He felt his mood sink a notch at the sight of it.
