The lieutenant commanding the soldiers stepped forward, unrolling a parchment with a flourish. "By order of the Captain of the City Guard," he proclaimed, his voice sharp and authoritative, "this establishment is hereby closed. The proprietor, Mr. Bones, is to be detained and investigated for conspiracy and attempted murder against three members of the City Guard."

Even before the officer had finished speaking, Mr. Bones erupted in protest. "This is an outrage!" he bellowed, his face flushed with indignation. "On what grounds am I being arrested? These accusations are madness! Someone must be framing me—it must be that fucker from the Broken Eagle! He set me up!"

The guards flanking him showed little interest in his pleas or protests. Two of them stepped forward, their faces impassive beneath the gleam of their polished helms. Clad in full city guard regalia, they seized the tavernkeeper. Iron shackles clamped around his wrists and ankles, the cold metal biting into his flesh. Mr. Bones struggled uselessly as they dragged him toward a waiting carriage, its dark wooden sides emblazoned with the insignia of the City Guard.

"This establishment will remain closed until further notice," the sergeant declared, his gaze sweeping over the assembled patrons and staff. Soldiers began herding the remaining occupants toward the door, their expressions brooking no argument.

"This is absurd!" shouted one of the regulars, a burly man whose cheeks were flushed from ale. "Where are we supposed to go for a decent drink now?"

"How will I find another job?" one of the serving girls sobbed, clutching her worn apron to her chest. Her eyes glistened with tears as she stood near the entrance, the weight of uncertainty bearing down upon her.

Jamie watched from a shadowed corner, his eyes taking in the distress unfolding around him. Outside, a crowd was gathering, murmurs of unrest rippling through. Dozens had congregated, many directly affected by the abrupt closure of the tavern. The Fat Pig was more than just a place to drink—it became a cornerstone of the Lower Quarter community.

"What will we do now?" whispered Jay, materializing at Jamie's shoulder. The cat's eyes reflected the turmoil, his usual playful demeanor subdued. "Our plan has hurt more people than we intended."

Jamie nodded solemnly. "We need to set this right," he replied.

"But how?" Jay questioned, concern threading his voice.

"We're going to the City Guard Headquarters," Jamie stated, a determined glint in his eye.

With his belongings secured in a satchel slung over his shoulder, Jamie set off toward the heart of the Commercial District. Navigating the bustling streets, he moved with purpose. The city, with all its twists and alleyways, was as familiar to him as the chords of his favorite ballad.

Soon, the imposing edifice of the City Guard Headquarters loomed before them—a massive fortress of red-hued stone that dominated the skyline. The structure spanned nearly an entire block, its walls towering and formidable. Soldiers in pristine armor patrolled the perimeter, their disciplined movements a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the streets.

All around, carriages arrived and departed in a constant stream. Some bore shackled prisoners, faces lined with despair, while others dispatched troops to various assignments across the city. The attire of those within the fortress was impeccable, not a scuff or stain to mar the gleaming metal and richly dyed fabrics. It was clear they took great care to present an image of unassailable authority.

Jamie approached the grand entrance, passing beneath an archway adorned with intricate carvings of lions and eagles—the symbols of strength and vigilance. Inside, the fortress opened into a vast hall teeming with activity. Clerks scurried to and fro, scrolls and ledgers in hand, while citizens formed orderly lines before stern-faced officials. The air was thick with the murmur of voices and the scratching of quills on parchment.

"Next!" the guard barked, his gaze fixed ahead as Jamie approached the desk.

"Good day. I'd like to speak with the captain responsible for the Lower Quarter," Jamie said politely.

The guard eyed him skeptically, scanning him from head to toe. "And what business do you have with Captain Mordrick?" he asked, clearly questioning the validity of Jamie's request.

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"I wish to discuss the incident that occurred earlier today," Jamie explained.

The guard's expression hardened. "The captain has no intention of pardoning any infractions or discussing the matter further," he said dismissively, turning his attention away. He waved a hand to signal the next person in line. "Next!"

Before stepping aside, Jamie subtly placed a silver coin on the desk, sliding it toward the guard. "I'm not here to dispute any infractions," he said smoothly. "Rather, I'd like to talk about the future of the Fat Pig tavern and how I might assist the captain."

The guard's eyes flickered with interest as he palmed the coin. "Well, in that case, perhaps the captain would be interested in a conversation. Wait here while I check with him."

Jamie nodded and took a seat on one of the worn chairs lining the stone wall. Minutes ticked by, each one stretched longer than the last before the guard returned. "Follow me," he said. "I'll take you to the captain."

They ascended a long, winding staircase leading to the third floor. The air grew cooler as they climbed, the din of the bustling main hall fading beneath them. At last, they arrived at a heavy oak door reinforced with iron bands.

"The captain is waiting inside," the guard said before turning to leave.

Without hesitation, Jamie pushed open the door. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from a narrow window that cast a shaft of pale sunlight across the floor. The scent of damp stone and aged parchment hung in the air. Seated behind a cluttered desk was Captain Mordrick, his booted feet propped casually atop a stack of ledgers.

"And to what do I owe the visit of our famous bard?" Mordrick drawled, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

The captain was a large man, his frame bearing the remnants of a once-formidable physique. Time and comfort had softened him, but the sharpness in his eyes suggested he hadn't lost all his edge. Deep lines etched his face, and a fringe of gray hair circled the bald crown of his head.

"Thank you for the kind words, Captain," Jamie replied with a respectful bow. "But I'm merely a traveling minstrel."

"You've got better manners than most in the Lower Quarter. Tell me, are you of noble birth?" Mordrick asked, adjusting himself in his chair to get a better look at his guest.

"I was, once," Jamie admitted. "But my choice to become a bard wasn't well received among the noble houses. I was... encouraged to seek my fortunes elsewhere."

Mordrick nodded thoughtfully, some of his initial interest waning. "I see."

"Captain," Jamie began, "given Mr. Bones's recent actions, the Lower Quarter has lost one of its few prosperous establishments."

"Yes, yes. That old fucker," Mordrick muttered, abandoning any pretense of decorum.

"Indeed. That's why I'd like to prevent the Fat Pig from remaining closed," Jamie continued.

Mordrick leaned forward, steepling his fingers as he considered Jamie's words. "And what exactly do you have in mind?"

"One of my patrons wishes to establish himself in the city. He's interested in purchasing the Fat Pig and reopening it," Jamie explained.

Mordrick's eyes narrowed shrewdly. "I see. And what does the City Guard stand to gain from this arrangement?" He was direct, cutting straight to the chase.

Jamie had anticipated this question. He had spent weeks observing the guards and their captains, learning their behaviors and motivations. "The Lower Quarter would become more stable," he said. "People would have a place to work and gather, reducing the likelihood of unrest. Additionally, the customary payments for protection and security would resume."

A slow smile spread across Mordrick's face. It was clear that the resume of those payments—the bribes he had received from Mr. Bones—was precisely what he wanted.

"Furthermore," Jamie added, reaching into his satchel, "we are prepared to purchase the establishment for three gold coins." He placed the shimmering pieces on the desk before Mordrick, whose gaze was locked on them with barely concealed greed. "And an additional coin as a donation to our esteemed captain."

Mordrick cleared his throat, attempting to mask his eagerness. "That is... quite generous," he said. "May I inquire the name of your patron?"

"He prefers to remain discreet—you know how nobles can be," Jamie replied smoothly. "But he goes by the name 'Ace' in his dealings."

Jamie knew that Mordrick, though not of noble blood himself, harbored aspirations of joining their ranks someday. The mention of a noble patron would pique his interest and flatter his ambitions.

"Ah, of course," Mordrick said, nodding sagely. "Nobles and their secrets. Very well. I'll have my clerks prepare a contract transferring ownership of the Fat Pig to you. It will take a couple of days—we have certain... bureaucratic processes to navigate, if you catch my meaning."

"Naturally, Captain," Jamie said, inclining his head in understanding.

"Excellent." Mordrick stood and extended his hand across the desk.

Jamie stepped forward and clasped the captain's hand firmly. As their palms met, a faint shimmer of golden letters appeared in the periphery of Jamie's vision.

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