When royalty sends for you, it's either a reward… or a public beheading.
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The door to The Pickled Turnip slammed open, spilling the fading amber light of dusk onto the muddy street, and a small crowd begun to gather...drunkards, wayward gamblers, out-of-luck tradesmen, and even fortune-tellers.
They all moved toward the street, drawn by the sudden blare of trumpet and the appearance of a man in gilded livery astride a majestic, sneering horse.
He looked like someone who ironed his socks.
His white gloves were spotless. He held a scroll tightly, and his powdered wig was so tall a bird had already nested in it.
He raised his chin and barked,
"I have been told that a man named Blunt is present in this... establishment."
The townsfolk turned to look at each other. Then slowly, theatrically, turned to look back at The Pickled Turnip.
Inside, Blunt froze where he stood, tankard halfway to his mouth.
"Oh no," he muttered under his breath, "They've found me."
Fenella, lurking behind a curtain and nursing a stolen bottle of cherry cordial, snorted, then walked away.
Witlow, the tavern's surly barkeep, wiped his hands on a rag and addressed the messenger.
"Oi, which Blunt do you want?" he called, loud enough for everyone to hear. "We've got at least two of 'em. There's the drunk one, and the idiot."
From a nearby table, a boisterous gambler shouted,
"Hey, Dumb Blunt once tried to pay a debt with bad jokes! That one's definitely here."
"Ignore them," Witlow murmured, shifting his weight on a wobbly chair. "The louder the fool, the quicker they're forgotten."
"Bartholomew Blunt" the messenger said loudly.
"What did you do now? Seduce a magistrate's wife?" Witlow sighed, leaning against the tavern doorway.
The crowd shuffled aside, whispering with the excitement of people hoping to watch someone get arrested. They slowly began to part until Blunt stood utterly exposed in the middle, every eye fixed on him.
The messenger peered down at him, with a disappointing look.
"Are you... Blunt the Knight?"
Blunt swallowed hard.
"Depends. What are the charges?"
A murmur of laughter rippled through the crowd.
"I am merely required to confirm your identity before reading the decree," the messenger said, arching an aristocratic eyebrow.
"Is your name Bartholomew Blunt?"
A washerwoman leaned forward from the crowd.
"That's the one. Broke my fence last spring chasing a pig."
"He tried to rescue my cat once," an old man added, "and got stuck with it, for the better part of a day."
The messenger's eyes narrowed, but he lifted the scroll to continue.
"Well, see, I don't like to rush into these things," Blunt stalled. "Let's all take a breath. We're among friends. Mostly. Gerald can vouch—"
"He definitely cannot," Gerald growled.
"I just want to clarify that I may or may not be 'Blunt the Knight,' depending on how fatal this summons is going to be."
The messenger frowned impatiently and turned to the crowd.
"Is this man or is this man not Blunt the Knight?"
"That's him," Witlow said, cleaning a glass with the same old rag.
"Aye, that's him," called a washerwoman.
The messenger cleared his throat and unrolled the scroll with an officious flick.
"By royal decree of His Grace, King Honorius of Westmere, bearer of the Emerald Sash and Guardian of the Sixth Key of the Realm, I am to deliver this honorary royal invitation to—"
He paused and read slower, as if unsure he believed it himself.
"Sir Bartholomew Blunt... hero of the hour… for services rendered in saving His Highness the Crown Prince from mortal peril."
There was silence.
You could hear a rat hiccup.
Blunt looked around like someone who just won a duel he didn't remember fighting.
"Wait, I did what?"
The crowd burst into laughter.
"He saved the Prince?"
"Are we sure it's this Blunt?"
"Maybe they meant Blunt… Bluntley? The scholar? The one who cured hiccups in geese?"
"That'd make more sense. He wears shoes and everything."
Witlow shook his head and called out,
"Even that's still a stretch."
The messenger raised a finger, silencing them.
"The name on this decree is clear: Bartholomew Blunt. You are to present yourself at the palace in three days. A carriage will be sent. Try to look more... Presentable."
He rolled up the scroll, mounted his horse, and trotted off, his guards following with serious faces.
Everyone stood in silence.
Witlow was the first to speak. "So, saved a prince, did you?"
A grizzled butcher muttered,
"Could be a mistake... Or a trap."
"If it's a trap," the gambler said, "he's about to fall headfirst."
"Right.., well drinks half-price 'til midnight. We just met a man what saved the Prince, apparently." Witlow announced.
The crowd erupted into chaos again, laughs, skepticism, and more than a few people suddenly tried to befriend Blunt. But most drifted away one by one, whispering behind their hands.
> "Think it's real?"
> "Definitely a trap."
> "Maybe they mean to knight him so they can publicly execute him. Like with banners and all."
> "Wouldn't be the weirdest Tuesday."
Blunt was still staring down the road where the messenger had disappeared.
> "I don't remember saving any bloody Prince."
He scratched his head.
He remained where he stood, puzzled, with the vague grin of a man who couldn't tell if he was about to be rewarded or thrown in the dungeon.
Then he lifted his mug.
> "To royalty."
> "Please let it be about a reward."
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