Hans Capon was on one tonight.

He stood at the head of the table like a man addressing Parliament—or at the very least, an inn full of half-soused noble idiots. One boot on the bench, wine goblet in hand, his other arm cutting through the air mid-anecdote. His face was flushed with drink and pride, which was to say, not much different from usual.

"I swear to Saint Wenceslas," Hans declared, with the sort of gravity that only accompanies total bullshit, "the beast waited for me to piss. I'm not joking! I'd just—just—gotten myself out, and that bastard boar came tearing through the underbrush like God himself had fired it out of a trebuchet!"

The table howled. Sir Sebastian banged a fist on the wood hard enough to rattle the plates. Even Radzig's stiff-necked cousin—the one who hadn't smiled since Sigismund's invasion—was trying not to choke on his mead. Success.

"It made eye contact with me," Hans continued, tapping his own temple with two fingers. "I'm telling you. It knew. There was something in its snout, something wicked. You've never seen a boar look at a man like that."

"Aroused?" someone piped up from the far end. Laughter erupted again.

Hans raised his goblet in salute. "Possibly. I do have that effect on mammals."

He downed what was left in one gulp and immediately waved at the barmaid for another—Marika, or maybe Marta. Something with 'ma' and a slap-worthy smile. The woman rolled her eyes and muttered something about 'last bloody refill,' which, in Hans's experience, meant at least three more if he kept tipping in silver and compliments.

He was just gearing up for the part of the story where the boar bit the arse of the Hungarian stablehand ("yes, through the trousers!") when the inn door creaked open.

Hans's head lazily allowed his gaze to drift toward the source of the interruption then made a show of squinting. "Unless you're here to complain about the boar's legal representation," he said dryly, "you'd best come in and buy a round like a proper Christian."