The Drunken Mare wasn’t the worst tavern in Praag although that wasn’t as great a compliment as it might have been. The building was three stories with a steep pitched roof in a half timbered Imperial style, but any grandeur it had ever possessed was long since passed. The sign that hung above the door was old and fading but appeared to depict an improbablely voluptuous woman attempting to attract the interest of a very clearly male horse.

The interior smelled of pipe smoke and old ale. There was a large common room with a massive stone fireplace over which a large cauldron of stew bubled. Dark wood framed doors lead back into further smoky back rooms which Camilla imagined were store rooms and kitchens. Two elaborately carved staircases led up to a balcony where tired looking whores chatted with each other, occasionally making the effort to stretch out a leg or shake their bosoms at likely candidates. It was early for their trade but no doubt business would pick up.

For once Camilla was able to enjoy entering a tavern without attracting gasps. She was a long way from her glamorous best. Her face and body were filthy and her hair a tangled mess. Weeks of poor nutrition and exposure to the cold had left her looking almost skeletally thin and malnourished. With her ragged cloak she could probably pass for a young boy. Despite the fact that it wasn’t quite lunch time the tavern was packed. Kislivites and Imperials filled almost every seat. Many of them seemed to be merchants or tradesmen, locals or traders trapped here by the winter snows. There were a fair number of soldiers too. A group of hussars sat at a large corner table, throwing dice and roaring a Kislivite song that Camilla couldn’t follow. They slapped the table at intervals and threw back belts of vodka from a large leather cup that seemed to circle the table according to rules known only to the players.

“Ale?” a handsome woman in late middle age demanded with a harried peremptory air. She wore a stained apron and carried a tray piled dangerously high with empty flagons. She had eyes that were pale blue and Camilla intuited that she must have been very beautiful when she was young. Years of hard work had ground her down. The innkeepers eyes measured them apprehensively, noting the filth, their wounds, and their obvious weaponry.  

“Or food, we have beef and barley stew and fresh bread,” she expanded. There was a slight hint of an accent, Brettonian Camilla thought, though long attenuated by living among the Kislivites. Idly she wondered what the woman’s story was. Camilla’s stomach growled audibley at the mention of food. They had found nothing to eat on the day long march besides a few handfuls of bitter berries which Ivan dubiously recommended as ‘sometimes a treat for horses’. Even that faint praise hadn’t been enough to disturb the party from eating all they could find.

“Both,” Camilla said immediately, her voice causing the innkeeper to arch an eyebrow and give her a second glance.

“And rooms,” she added eagerly dong her best to keep her eyes away from the stew. The innkeeper shook her head decisively. 

“No rooms honey, we are all full up with people in from the countryside, I doubt you could find a room anywhere in Praag.” Camilla frowned in disappointment, trying to force her hunger fogged brain to function. 

“I can clear you a table,” the innkeeper offered, “if you have the coin for it?” It wasn’t quite an accusation but it had the sharp edge of a question that would be answered before the conversation proceeded. Camilla reached into her pouch and fished around digging through the handful of black iron coins for something acceptable. Yantz reached into his tunic and pulled out a purse jingling it significantly. The innkeepers face softened into a warm professional smile at the sound. Camilla felt a surge of relief, they had never been paid for their service in Nordland and funds had been getting pretty tight before that. They would need to find work and soon. The innkeeper turned to one of the corner tables at which a group of sallow looking youths, sons of minor nobles or rich merchants by their dress.

“You lot, settle up your tab and clear out!” she snapped. The popinjays sat up drunkenly and glared at the woman.

“We are done when we say we are done Bretonnian whore!” one of them, a pimpled youth with dirty blonde hair snapped drunkenly. His companions growled in surly agreement, sneering contemptuously. The innkeeper’s back stiffened her posture that of someone about to embark on a confrontation but with no wish to do so.  Camilla felt an irrational surge of rage. She was hungry tired and filthy. She had been abducted, terrified, shot at and nearly killed more times than she cared to count and now, when they finally reached safely, these drunken louts were standing between her and a hot meal. Without a word she stalked across the floor towards the group. The leaders eyes widened either recognising her as a woman or merely surprised that someone would approach her. She seized a clay mug from the table and swung it in a broad arc that ended at the blonde mans temple, shattering in a spray of broken pottery. The fellows eyes glazed and he slumped back in his seat, soaked in spilled ale. His companions prepped for a fight by the earlier harsh words, surged out of their chairs and rushed towards the slight Tilean.


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