The crew made the Mettlesome Maid fast, and all but two accompanied Clent and Mosca to the tavern’s door. Inside, the air was thick with pipe smoke and the moist scent of the earth floor and the cloying smell of overcooked tripe. To judge by their clothes and sunburned faces, most of the customers were boat crew or haulers. They were, of course, all men. The tables were a jumble of upturned coracle wrecks, and long deck planks rested on barrels to serve as trestles. The seats were bales of graying straw. Against a far wall huddled a handful of straw mattresses, on each of which a man lay sleeping in his shirtsleeves.

They sat themselves at one of the wider coracles, Mosca noticing with a hungry pain beneath her ribs that a plate of small loaves and a jug of water were already set upon the table. She was also intrigued to notice that when he took up his ale, Partridge first swayed it over the loaves for a moment, before drinking. In Chough, everybody always waved their drinking cups over a jug of water to show that they were drinking a toast to King Prael, the “king across the Tosteroy Sea.” However, she knew that Partridge’s gesture was in honor of King Hazard, the “king across the Magora Mountains,” as represented by the loaves.

At the next table a hauler spilled a little water on the table and wafted his cup over it, in honor of King Galbrash, the “king over the Fallowsmere Lake.” His friend seated opposite waved his tankard over the fingers of his own left hand, to show his allegiance to the Twin Queens, “the monarchs beyond the Jottland foothills.” A dozen or so royal allegiances seemed to be represented in the Halberd, and yet none of them showed any sign of leaping at each other’s throats amid a flurry of ale foam. The business of kings did not seem to be a fighting matter.

Mosca did not know it, but she was staring at a sign of changing times. The days when followers of rival kings would exchange blows or musket fire on sight were long gone. Every town now accepted with a sigh its share of the different allegiances, and every barkeep carefully laid out a jug of water and a bowl of little loaves on each table so that his customers might toast any monarch they chose.

A captain from a barge joined their table, and was soon deep in conversation with Partridge.

“So—what news in Mandelion?” Partridge asked, stooping to light his pipe at the candle.

“Well, the Duke’s worse each day. Did you hear about the new Spires of Prosperity?”

Partridge crooked an eyebrow. “Twin spires, would they happen to be?”

“That’s it.”

“Still pairs with him, then?” Partridge sighed, and shook his head.