All The King's-Men (The Yellow Hoods, #3) by Adam Dreece Page B

before we smack that grin off your face.”
    Nikolas steadied himself and stepped through the doorway. “What grin? Am I grinning?” he said to another one of Marcus’ entourage who was motioning for him to come to a particular table. He couldn’t help but smile. These men were professionals, but they were sloppy, tired, and might just give him the opportunity he needed.
    The inn seemed bigger on the inside. Nikolas loved that sense of disparity between how something appeared on the surface, and how it truly was. The inn was essentially a two-story rectangle, with chairs and tables swarmed by patrons. There was some smashed furniture piled up in a far, dark corner. Despite oil lamps hanging every six or so feet, the inn seemed intimate; it was just dark enough to feel you had some privacy while being light enough to give you confidence that the food you received was likely what you’d ordered.
    Laughter regularly erupted from various parts of the inn. Servers swam through the sea of people, trying to keep up with the impossible demand, and flipping from exhaustion to elation as drunk patrons showered them with coins, paying many times over what was owed.
    Nikolas felt a shove from behind and started making his way towards the table. As he walked, he noticed the stone wall and hearth at the opposite end. Decorating the giant fireplace were many small shields, each about the size of a hand. They were all perfectly lined up, except for one near the bottom that caught Nikolas’ eye. Its paint was faded, but he could still make out two lines with a spring around it. He knew the symbol well.
    Just as Nikolas arrived at the table, he pretended to trip, knocking over a woman who’d been balancing flagons on her head to the delight of her comrades. The flagons came crashing down.
    “You made me lose a week’s wages!” yelled a large, shaggy man, drawing a dagger from his belt.
    Nikolas gave them an innocent look, and then pointed at the captain.
    “Oh, he did it?” said the flagon-woman angrily, grabbing the captain.
    As a tussle started, Nikolas carefully made his way to the fireplace. He double-checked that there was only one shield out of alignment, and then overcorrected it, taking it from leaning too much to the left to leaning too much to the right.
    He turned around, scanning everyone. To his surprise, it was a young barmaid who locked eyes with him.
    “Ever the perfectionist, but clearly missing your specs,” said Marcus, correcting the shield to be perfectly straight. He handed Nikolas his spectacles, which had been left in the carriage. “That would have driven you mad all meal, wouldn’t it?”
    Nikolas nodded. He quickly thought out how to reinforce the idea. “It’s only gotten worse with age,” he said.
    “Now, let’s sit and eat,” said Marcus, putting his arm around Nikolas. 
    He glanced up at Marcus, who was a couple of inches taller than him. Marcus had always made him feel like the welcome little brother, even though there were fifteen years between them.
     “These soldiers, you don’t know them, yes?” asked Nikolas as they sat.
    Marcus turned his studious gaze to Nikolas. He relaxed, and rubbed his short, white hair as if shaking off the vestiges of responsibility for a moment. “No, I don’t. I should know them, however. Though my memory isn’t what it used to be, I should be able to recognize the party they are pretending to represent.”
    Nikolas examined the soldiers’ uniforms.
    Marcus pointed to one. “Take the loud man there, with the long sideburns and no beard. The line that separates the red and the gray on his uniform—it’s slightly curved on him, but not on the woman next to him. That’s not a design detail; it’s a manufacturing flaw. I’ve had those problems before. They were made in different batches, at different facilities. I count at least five different batches.”
    Nikolas nodded in agreement. “But by skilled hands. They are still well-made.”
    “Yes,”