Night fell. On his third day as a man of standing, Old Jack had deliberately changed into his brand-new blue uniform, its brass buttons polished to a shine. He swaggered out with two newly recruited Squad Chiefs and five militiamen.
As he stepped into the tavern, the iron bell hanging from the doorframe rang shrilly. A dozen men drinking cheap, watered-down beer all turned toward the entrance.
"Old Jack?"
Hank, the lame blacksmith, nearly knocked over his cup.
"That uniform of yours..."
"Call him Precinct Chief Jack!"
Little Tom, the cobbler's son, sprang up eagerly. He quickly wiped the cleanest table three times with his own clothes, then hurried over to escort Old Jack to it.
The slippery lad, who was always drinking on credit, now had eyes as bright as if he had discovered a gold mine. As eager as a dog that had spotted a meaty bone, he fussed around Old Jack.
Old Jack sat down with an air of composure. The newly issued short sword at his waist dug painfully into his ribs. Imitating the tax collectors he remembered, he curled his fingers and rapped his knuckles on the table.
"Landlady, a bottle of wine from Minisia!"
Stifled gasps rose around the tavern.
In truth, how could the Broken Iron Tavern possibly stock such fine wine in glass bottles, the sort only rich men and tax collectors could afford in the old days? Old Jack had only said it to show off.
At his call, Martha, the broad, stout landlady, emerged from the kitchen with coal dust still clinging to her apron. She stared at the brass eagle badge on Old Jack's uniform, then suddenly broke into a fawning smile.
"I'll open it right away, my lord!"
With that, she rummaged beneath the counter and produced a