The Scuffle at the Smoky Hearth

1587-10-21
The Smoky Hearth, Lower Quarter, Mulecrest

Three songs bought me stew. A fourth was demanded without coin. I refused. A knife flashed and mugs fell.

The lute came up like a buckler. Old spruce met iron and lived. I stepped wide and let the floorboards count the beat. Heel, toe, settle. The room shouted for blood. Someone called, “Keep your distance, like Merryen teaches.” I had never met Merryen. The feet knew anyway.

We circled. He pressed. I gave him a small quiet, a held breath between beats. He stepped into it. The dagger showed first. I struck the wrist and the blade skittered along the planks to the gamblers. Laughter rose like smoke.

No speeches. No clever lines. Just measure, guard, and a rest kept long enough to make a man forget himself. The lute rim splintered. I did not.

I left before the crowd remembered the bill.