Unlike the typical taverns found in fantasy stories, the Spear and Lance Tavern in Fisslet had no street loafers, no well-connected brokers looking for opportunities, and certainly no unofficial members of secret organizations.
All it had were ordinary citizens enjoying their leisure after a tiring day.
The ten Mettenheim Death Swordfighters were among them, drinking fragrant ale and chatting about the thrilling, perilous lives they had once led.
When you sought glory on the battlefield every day, how could life be anything but thrilling?
Allen found them easily enough, since theirs was the liveliest table in the place. Their voices, accustomed to roaring on the battlefield, drowned out the entire tavern even in casual conversation.
His arrival, however, immediately quieted the tavern somewhat. Those who recognized the king instinctively grew reserved, while others looked around, wondering why the voices around them had suddenly faded.
His expression perfectly calm, Allen paid no attention to the change in the tavern and sat down directly at the veterans' table.
The customers nearby soon realized that their king had not come here to drink and unwind, and wisely refrained from announcing his identity.
Who drank at a tavern near the Castle, anyway? Apart from Allen's old subordinates, there were only the young people employed by the Cabinet. They had at least that much sense.
The proprietress, who had recognized Allen long before, soon brought him a cup of mead. She knew her employer's tastes and even served it in his personal cup.
As for the Personal Guards accompanying Allen, well... drinking on duty was forbidden. The shrewd, capable proprietress would never risk crossing that line.
Allen's subsequent conversation with the veterans went very smoothly.
Perhaps they had grown accustomed to their leisurely lives and did not want to anger the king who had provided