Piebald’s was an upper chop house between the Street of A Thousand Taverns and the Nob Quarter. It did a considerable trade, both in walk in business and in delivering meals to the houses of the various minor nobles and merchants who wanted to eat out but couldn’t be bothered, or didn’t want to risk the streets. Unlike most of Hannah’s haunts Piebald’s was primarily an eatery, with a large common room appended to massive stone kitchens with attendant ladders and cellars. Every time the doors between the kitchen and the common room opened, they provided a brief glimpse into a world of shouting cooks, hurrying servers and overworked chefs. One of them was a halfling with quite the biggest set of lungs Hannah had ever heard. The shiny old grease burns across his face identified him as the titular owner of the place. The eatery itself was a relatively simple affair, plain pine benches upholstered with clean but cheap linen. It wasn’t a place you brought a date to impress her, but it was a good place to get a good meal at a fair price. It also lacked the smell of stale beer and vomit that characterized many of the divier places. Piebld’s did serve ale of course, otherwise Hannah wouldn’t be caught dead here, but they were very fastidious about cleaning up the resulting ejecta.
 
The key to living in Altdorf was knowing which Altdorf you were in at any given time. Hannah had suggested Piebald’s to Koenig as a rendezvous because it was upper class enough to be above the sectarian partisanship in the streets.  The clientele was well dressed, though like Hannah, had deliberately avoided wearing red or white, and very nervous. People didn’t give the idle rich much credit, but they were smart enough to know that rioting and mob violence, no matter where it sprang from, would naturally progress to property damage and looting, both of paramount concern to those with significant stores of loot and property.
 
“It feels very strange,” Dietricha commented for what Hannah carefully calculated was the billionth time. The acolyte of Morr looked radically different than she had earlier in the afternoon. The iconic black robes, faintly redolent of must and death, had been replaced with  a cream and green dress from Hannah’s garet. The dress was one of the few that Hannah hadn’t pawned and was a touch snugger on Dietricha than it was on her. A rather pleasing effect all things considered. Koenig would doubtlessly be pissed when he learned she had invited the death priestess along, but if he got too rowdy there was a good chance that the bouncers to whom Hannah was a renowned duelist and Koenig was guttersweepings, would take her side on the matter. The two women were enjoying thin slivers of venison cooked in wine and some kind of spicy sauce in ‘the Brettonian Fashion’ which probably reflected actual Brettonian cuisine as much as Hannah represented the Grand Duchy of Averland, but was the fashionable thing to say. A bottle of claret sat on the table between them, though so far Hannah had been doing the majority of the drinking.

“Drink,” she encouraged Dietricha with a little flick of her hand.

“Otherwise I’ll drink the whole bloody thing and Im trying to cut back,” she said by way of encouragement.
 
“Well we wu’dn’t want that now would we?” Koenig’s distinctive voice boomed as  he stepped through the door leading another man who… God's teeth, he was dressed in the armor of a bloody Templar of Ulric. Hannah was frozen with a fork full of venison halfway to her mouth.

“The great Hannah Fischer lost for words hey?” Koenig put in cheerfully, grabbing a chair from a nearby table and spinning it round so that the could straddle it with is arms on the backing. With a smooth motion he snatched up the bottle of wine and took a long pull from the neck with a satisfied smacking of his lips.
“Were you kicked in the head as a child?” Hannah enquired, her voice slightly strangled with shock.

“Did your mother pound her laundry dry with your skull?” she continued warming to the topic.

“Did all the idiots in all the villages of all the provinces hold an election for Supreme Idiot and carry you to victory by a landslide?”
“Did the Gods, in solemn conclave, come together to create for the word a single pure moron from which all other morons derive their moronity and cry out in a ringing voice: Behold for his name shall be Walther Koenig, King of the Imbeciles?” she declared portentously.
 
“See what I mean,” Koenig said to the knight, looking not the least offended by the prodigious string of insults. “Can’t get her to shut up to save me life,” Koenig said apologetically.
 
“You ask me to keep a low profile, and then march up to my table with a giant, hairy, half wolf, in thirty pounds of armor stamped with ‘I love Ulric’?!” Hannah demanded, eyes bulging with outrage. Dietricha coughed meaningfully and nodded her head towards the newcomer in warning. Hannah paused in mid diatribe and then leaned around Koenig to look at the warrior.

“No offense ahh… Sir Knight,” she put in quickly, realizing rather belatedly that being torn apart by a mob wouldn’t be a concern if she were decapitated by a touchy northerner.