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Mandragons have hated each other for centuries,” said Mattias. “Every child in the Grim Marches knows as much. Should it come to war, and I do hope that it does not, these proud lords will settle their differences with arms, not words.”
    “We’ll not know until we try,” said Gerald, crossing his arms, “and I am determined that we shall try.”
    Mattias smiled. “Ah, forgive me, for I am an old, old man, and I have forgotten the hopes of youth. I wish you the best of luck, my young lord, and hope all goes well with you.”
    “If the gods will it,” said Gerald.
    Mattias’s eyes glinted. “I find, my lord, that the gods favor those who make their own luck. In that spirit, let me pass along a tidbit of news to you. Sir Tanam Crowley is in the area.”
    “Sir Tanam Crowley?” said Gerald. “I’ve never heard of him.”
    “I have,” said Mazael. “He’s Lord Richard’s most trusted vassal. When the Mandragons rose against my father, Sir Tanam was the first to join the Dragonslayer.”
    “Indeed,” said Mattias. “And Sir Tanam would like to make the youngest son of Lord Malden and Lord Mitor’s brother his master’s ...enforced guests, no?”
    Gerald’s tankard slammed down on the table. “Is that a threat? Are you asking us to buy your silence?”
    Mattias spread his hands. “You wound me, my lord knight!  I might believe that war is coming, but that does not mean I do not wish for peace!  Lords have markedly short tempers in war, I fear, and an incautious jongleur might find himself shorter by a head.”
    “Very well,” said Gerald. “I trust you’ll not spread news of our meeting?”
    “It doesn’t matter,” said Mazael. “He could shout our names from the rooftops. If there’s trouble between here and Castle Cravenlock, it’ll find us one way or another.”
    “Then once this business has blown over,” said Mattias, “I can tell my grandchildren that I spoke with two knights of the mighty noble houses of Roland and Cravenlock.”
    “You don’t look that old,” said Gerald. “You have grandchildren?”
    “Oh, yes,” said Mattias. His eyes sparkled with mirth. “Many, in fact.”
    “Jongleur!” bellowed a mercenary in a boiled leather breastplate and dirty furs. “More music, I say, more music!” The crowd took up the cry. The assembled freebooters roared for music.
    “Ah, duty calls,” said Mattias. “I must say, it was a pleasure speaking with you. It is good to know that someone survived the carnage at Deep Creek.”
    “You as well,” said Gerald. Mazael nodded.
    Mattias Comorian hopped back onto the stage and strummed the strings of his harp. “Let us make merry, my friends, for the past is gone and the future is dark, and all we have is today!” He pointed into the crowd. “You sir, you have a drum, and you, yes, you with the lute. Come up here, my friends, and let us make music for dancing!” The two men climbed onto the stage. Men shoved aside tables and chairs to make room. Mazael saw a good number of peasant girls from the local farms. The girls eyed the mercenaries, the mercenaries eyed the girls, and Mazael supposed that many of the girls would lose their virtue tonight in the grass behind the inn or in the hay of the stables. He hoped they stayed away from his horses.
    Mattias and his conscripted musicians struck up a lively tune. The drunken mercenaries and the farm girls began to dance. Gerald looked intrigued, to Mazael's surprise. The pious knight rarely enjoyed himself. Perhaps tonight would become a first.
    “I say, Mazael, I believe I will indulge,” said Gerald. He stood and frowned. “Aren’t you coming?”
    Mazael waved a hand at him. “Go. I think I will retire early.”
    Gerald laughed. “You’re joking. You were so eager to find a whore earlier. You might not need to. That girl, the one with the brown eyes? She has been staring at you since she came in.”
    “Maybe later,” said Mazael. Gerald shrugged and joined the dance,