“I have known your great and glorious systems of government. I have seen the hierarchies of power curl up to protect themselves—protect the guilty because they are wealthier, more powerful, more connected, and thus, better than lesser people. You say your system works? I say: you have never fallen in the cracks.”

Ser Dalimont was silent. The [Singer] raised her mug. She quoted a speech. Not all of it. Just a piece.

“Let us fight for a new world—a decent world that will give men a chance to work—that will give youth a future, and old age a security. By the promise of these things, brutes have risen to power. They lie! They do not fulfill that promise. They never will. Dictators free themselves—but they enslave the people!”

She quoted a fiery speech. A speech by a great actor from her world. People were looking at her, as she stood, exhorting them. But she should have started at the beginning.

And—she was too angry. The young woman raised her mug, broke off from the ending.

“So here’s to your sodding monarchy! To your [Kings] and [Queens]! To hell with them all!”

She upended the rest of the mead onto the floor. It splashed down, hitting Ser Dalimont’s boots, half of Cara’s now very sticky borrowed clothing from Landsmecht—and the floor.

No one spoke for a long moment. Then Ser Vimel drew his sword.

On the list of bad things to say in front of [Knights] sworn to protect their kingdom’s honor—or Afiele’s people, with Noelictus’ own monarchy—this was a pretty bad one. Cara still hadn’t expected someone to draw a sword on her.

Because she’d forgotten she was in another world. In another place, she would have gotten a cheer—or, depending on the sensibilities of the bar, just gotten tossed out on her arse.

Here? The sword came up.

“Ser Vimel!”

Dalimont was struggling to his feet. But his one bound arm was getting in the way. The man took two steps towards Cara, steel raised, aiming at the wide-eyed [Actress] from Ireland—

And folded up. The man’s eyes rolled up in the back of his head, and he sagged. Cara moved out of the way before he crashed against the tavern’s floor.

Everyone looked around. Ser Vimel’s eyes were rolled up in his head. He’d missed cutting himself on the sword. And he was…

Snoring. Ser Dalimont checked him then glanced around.

“[Sleep] spell. Who…?”

Every eye turned to the man at the bar. The one who’d pointed a finger back towards Ser Vimel. He had brown hair, was smiling slightly, and he seemed thin. Not say, of his own choice, but with that figure of someone who sometimes just couldn’t eat. A larger man’s frame slightly reduced.

He had slightly filthy travelling clothes on—very old—and he slowly took a sip from his drink.