Hannah picked at the hard bread without enthusiasm. The loaf that sat between her and the watch commander was stamped with the seal of one of the guild bakeries, which meant the saw dusty feeling was counterfeited by her mouth. Altdorf was awash with criminality, it was true, but it was worth your life to pass polluted bread; more than one merchant had been thrown into his own oven for the offense. The Full Moon was a workman’s tavern not far from the Watch house on Grabbler street, which Koenig commanded. The beer was good though and it soothed a tender stomach without being strong enough to recreate the original problem. The smell of cooking meat came from the three large black pots which hung on an iron bar across the impressive hearth. The Full Moon was a favorite with masons and navies and that patronage was shown off by the magnificent working of the simple river stones, painstaking planned and polished till they shone like marble. Mistress Tull and her three daughters were carrying arm loads of vegetables to hurl into the pots, adding oats to make the stew that would be the midday and evening meal. A little food seemed to be helping and she tore a bigger chunk from the bread.

“If you puke again I’m putin’ it on ya tab,” Koenig remarked. The Watch Captain wasn’t eating, but he had already put away three pints of the mediocre ale in a hearty liquid breakfast. Hannah stuck her tongue out at him and went back to chewing. Truthfully she felt much better, having washed in the watches simple changing room and accompanied Koneig to the garret that she rented above Barinson’s pawn shop for fresh clothes. Her breastplate had been oiled and tucked away under her bed, safe from thieves unless Barinson was late on paying his tithe to Ranald, which the dwarf never was. Koneig had chidded her for wasting time with it, but Hannah came from a humble background and her funds might not run to food and replacement breastplates if she let it rust. Besides, it was lucky, and no duelist took chances when it came to luck.
 
“So what is it you want me to do,” Hannah asked, finally getting to the point when it was clear Koenig was in no hurry. She needed to do some business today, people expected money from her, people who knew she had won yesterday and would want their gelt before she drank or gambled it away. There would be some left after she squared Tilean Tom and Squeaks Garvey. Not a whole lot, but that was how it went in Altdorf. After that there would be work, over to the Sigmarplatz to lounge around and look dangerous, after yesterday she didn’t doubt some nob would want to hire the fighter who one the rosette on Sigmartag.
 
“Oi, you bloody list’nin’,” Koenig demanded, snapping his fingers in front of her eyes. Hannah belatedly realized he had been speaking. It had been nearly two days since she had slept, if you didn’t count drunkenly passing out.
 
“Right, sorry, what?” she asked. Koenig rolled his eyes.

“I said, you might have noticed things are a bit tense right now, which might, now that I come to think of it, be giving you a little too much credit.” Hannah chewed her mouthful of bread stoically and nodded.
 
“You mean between the Sigmartyrs and the Ulridiots?” she asked. Koenig cuffed her around the ears, it was a casual blow but it smarted.
 
“Keep your bloody voice down will ya? Last thing I need is this lot scraggin’ ya!” he snapped.
 
“I’d certainly hate to inconvenience you,” Hannah replied dryly, feeling that it would indeed be a terrible thing if Koenig were inconvenience by her unfortunate murder. She leaned forward across the table so she could whisper to her companion.

“What do you mean this lot?” she demand, “is this an Ulrican tavern?”
“And the penny drops, well done Fletcher, I mean its called the Full Moon and has pictures of wolves all over it, but you still managed to deduce that in a little over an hour.” Hannah was not amused.

“Are you out of your tiny jackbooted mind? I need to lay low and…” Koenig stood up and cleared his throat, the eyes of the dozen denizens of the tavern swiveled to him.  It was only mid morning, but these were the serious drinkers, tavern regulars who would be here most of the day.

“This here is Hannah Fletcher,” Koenig declared, grabbing her by the arm and hauling her to her feet.
“The talkative one from the fountain last night,” he elaborated, incase the narrowed eyes and covert drawing of weapons hadn’t already made it clear that she had been recognized. A bouncer took a step towards them, lifting a truncheon from his belt.
 
“Now I interviewed miss Fletcher here, and she was pretty drunk,” Koneig continued, ignoring the fact that Hannah was trying to pull away from his grip, the thick ham sized fist clamped like a vice around her wrist. Disapproving mutterings circled the bar. The words ‘blasphemy’ and and ‘Sigmarite bitch’ featured prominently in the soto voce chorus.  
 
“ She insulted Great Ulric!” someone at the back of what was now looking terrifyingly like a mob shouted.

“Called him a ‘great dumb ox from his great dumb mountain’” Koenig supplied, massively unhelpfully to Hannah’s mind. More angry mutterings.

“But like I said she was really drunk,” Koenig continued and “besides did you hear what she said about Sigmar?” Koenig chuckled and shook her wrist in the general direction of the mob. The bastard was a decent orator, decent enough that they hadn’t torn her appart yet, but that couldn’t last. 

“What did she say?” one of the mob called, a skinny man with a flowing mustache. Hannah recognised him as one of Koenig’s watchmen, though he was in casual clothes, looking every bit like a mason drinking away his pay in a tavern. Koenig shook her wrist insistently and Hannah thought she understood what the whole pantomime was about.
“I said that anyone so obsessed with waving a stick around is trying to draw attention away from the fact he hasn’t any stones,” Hannah called, relieved to find her voice didn’t crack or squeak with fright. There was a laugh from the back of the crowd, Koenig’s plant again, but it got a chuckle from several other men also. The Watch captain had released her wrist but it would have been suicide to try to run now, and she only had her two pistols, her sword stowed away under her bed. Hannah didn’t doubt she could drop two of them with perfect heartshots, but that wouldn’t be that much consolation when the rest of them tore her appart.

“I said that if his priests were anything to go by the reason he did so well with that jawbone is that he was part ass himself!” General laughter followed and weapons were at least lowered if not put away. Koenig snickered theatrically and cuffed her across the back of the head.

“Its a good thing she’s pretty, cause truthfully old Fletch’ is a bit dim, but she’s all right,” he concluded. There was a general snicker from the crowd and the tension eased further. Mistress Tull, who probably didn’t care if Hannah was killed, but certainly DID care if her patrons rioted and destroyed her establishment, wisely chose that moment to intervene.

“Stew! Stew’s ready!” she bawled the top of her lungs. It almost certainly wasn’t but the crowd began to break up. Koenig let out a slow breath and Hannah punched him under the ribs as hard as she could. It was like hitting a slab of beef, and had about as much effect.

“Are you trying to get me killed?” she demanded, her voice was steady, long practice at keeping her nerve, but she was trembling on the inside.

“Ra’tha the oppoisit’, ” Koenig replied, slipping back into his seat. It was clear he had been more nervous than he had let on. You didn’t get to be Watch captain by being a fool, not unless you had a rich father a little too fond of didling the serving girls. 

“Now we just have to do the whole dog and pony show over at the Three Bells and everyone will believe you are on their side see?” he explained. Hannah put a hand over her face.

“Remind me not to apply for a job with the watch,” she groaned.
“No fear on that score luv, mosta my boys are smart enough to get themselves nicked for burglary or somethin’ without pissing off the whole city. You don’t meet our high standards you see?” Hanna was about to retort when a boy, perhaps a grandson of Mistress Tull burst breathlessly into the bar.

“The White Wolves, the White Wolves have sent an army to the city to help us!” he crowed jubilantly. Gasps of delighted amazement went round the tavern.

“Ulric be blessed!” someone shouted. “Now we will show those snooty bastards.” There was a generalized surge out into the street, leaving Mistress Thull and her daughters holding a dozen plates of undercooked stew that suddenly had no one to eat them. Koenig stared after them agog.
 
“Ranald’s balls,” he sighed, gesturing the women over with the food. “What timing, there will be riots for bloody sure.”