Whee, time jump!
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It'd taken Sasha for-bloody-ever to get into this place. He'd had a right bugger of a time convincing them he wasn't some kind of extra specially crunchy variety of deluded, here to kill their Grand Master and bring down all of Connlaoth in a smoking heap. As it was, they'd searched him for at least half an hour - taken his knife away, patted him down, made a fine attempt at shoving some enormous, terrifyingly knobbly thing the size of a bear's paw up where only the Customs men on the gates of Reajh would usually dare to go, just to be absolutely sure he wasn't hiding anything there either...
They'd have taken the booze too. They'd wanted to - they weren't stupid, they knew a Hyoite mark burned into the side of the cask when they saw one, and there were enough "security concerns" to give them their reason for tasting it...these were only junior squires who'd been stuck with the boring jobs...running messages, cleaning stables, standing the gate guard in the middle of the afternoon when nothing interesting ever happened. A fully trained Mordecai would swap long and hard to get out of that sort of thing; this lot would want the grog even if they'd only appreciate it ten years down the track!
They might have gotten away with requisitioning it if he hadn't been able to produce the little chit on a scrap of paper that listed the exact same white bearskin that two of them must have staggered home carrying earlier that afternoon.
So after all that, here they were.
Him with his cask of fine spiced mead tucked under his arm, in a clean (greyish-blue; he wasn't stupid either, most of the women he'd had anything to do with seemed to think he was at least passable, and he knew he looked good in blue!) shirt that didn't smell like horses and saddle soap. Some teenage squire with spots on his jaw and far too many elbows for one person, wearing insignia that could have done with more polishing, moving at a swift trot to keep pace with his longer strides.
Michael apparently had nothing to do with the common folk in the barracks. Private quarters for her, it sounded like, up the stairs where she could have some privacy. Who knew there were perks attached to being top dog?
"Lad, just to make it clear, you're to tell her I'm here and then you piss off back to your stash of dirty pictures. She's expecting this, and I promise I'm not here to slit her throat."
The boy nodded, then knocked on the door. Heaven help anyone if they didn't knock.
His voice cracked when he spoke, lurching all the way up to a squeak he probably hadn't wanted Sasha to hear.
"Sir Michael? There's a man here who says he's got a delivery for you? Will you see him, or should I take him downstairs?"
