With the ale in hand, Vilon made his way back through the crowd, trying his best not to spill it, though the room proved so tightly packed that one or two good sloshes escaped the mug regardless, wetting the sleeve of his cloth tunic.
The boy will have to make do with a quarter less than he was promised, Vilon reasoned, sidestepping a stumbling drunkard who very nearly took him down along with the ale.
It was by that same chance stumble that he found himself pressed close against a nearby table, and by that same chance that he overheard them.
They were a group of armored men, five in total, deep enough in their cups that their voices had lost all care for who might be listening. Mail shirts and surcoats hung heavy off their shoulders, swords resting within easy reach against the table's edge. Stitched across each breast was the same beast, a horned stag reared up on its hind legs, hooves raised as though caught mid charge, or perhaps mid boast.
