When royalty sends for you, it's either a reward… or a public beheading.
"Never trust a quest that starts with 'there'll be gold.'"
— Fenella Quickwit, allegedly
—————
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."
——————
Three days, two borrowed boots, and one suspiciously well-fitted waistcoat later, Bartholomew Blunt stood before the gates of the Royal Palace.
He stared up at its towering golden spires, the elaborate stonework carved with saints, serpents, and a particularly smug-looking pigeon. Sunlight gleamed off the marble steps in such a way that Blunt instinctively squinted and whispered to himself:
"So this is what taxes look like."
He stood awkwardly, in his best approximation of formal attire, and held his chin high, as he'd seen important people do, until his neck cramped.
One of the guards, a thin fellow with a mustache that looked drawn on with charcoal, stepped forward.
"Name?" the guard asked, unimpressed.
"Sir Bartholomew Blunt," he said, placing a hand to his chest. "Possibly expected."
The guard consulted a scroll.
"You're on the list," he said flatly. "Wait here."
Before Blunt could ask whether the punishment for impersonating a noble was still hanging, the doors swung open with theatrical grandeur. Trumpets blared, and an announcer in absurd colored breeches stepped into view.
"Sir Bartholomew Blunt!" the man declared. "Hero of the Realm!"
Blunt flinched.
The guard nudged him forward.
"Go."
He entered.
The Grand Vestibule was a marble ocean of excess. Statues of important-looking men with incredibly bored expressions stood by the sides.
He moved slowly, half-worried that breathing too hard might incur a fine. Then, without warning, a dozen footmen in matching sashes flanked him and began a ceremonial walk toward a grand hall.
"Is.. this the arrest procession?" he asked one.
"No, sir. This is the honor guard," the footman replied, trying not to sigh.
"Oh good," Blunt mumbled. "So I'll be honored before I'm executed."
Finally, they arrived at the Grand Hall.
Blunt had never seen so much gold in one place. Not in a chest, not in a bishop's purse, and certainly not stacked in every corner of a building so large it could house the entire town of Rottelbury-on-Slush… twice.
"Dear God," he muttered under his breath. "It's like walking into a pudding made of diamonds."
He hesitated for a bit, then remembered everyone was staring and took one very awkward, ceremonial step inside.
> Thump.
Clink.
Crash.
He knocked over a decorative spear in the doorway, and it clattered to the floor like thunder.
"It was already leaning," he said quickly.
A sharply dressed attendant appeared beside him.
"Sir Blunt, you are our honored guest. Please, enjoy the feast. Partake in anything you wish."
"Is there a seating chart?" Blunt asked.
"There's a table. If you don't knock it over, you may sit at it."
Blunt wandered in, nervously picking at things.
He squinted at a jelly mold in the shape of a duck, "I've seen war wounds less jiggly."
Moving on, he picked up a spoon, and weighed it, sniffed a napkin, and gently poked a roast pheasant like it might explode. One noblewoman recoiled.
"I believe it's already dead, good sir."
"Yes...yes."
As he hovered over a mountain of jellied eel towers, a man stepped beside him. Late twenties, well dressed, with an effortless grace that suggested sword training, poetry lessons, and a life unburdened by overdue debts.
"You're the man of the hour," the stranger said with a smile. "We were beginning to think you'd gotten lost in the cloakroom."
Blunt turned to him, mouth half full of trifle.
"Charles," the man replied, extending a hand.
Blunt shook it firmly.
"We meet again, Charles. You've got the handshake of a man who owns at least three swords."
"Only two," Charles said with a chuckle. "The third is ceremonial."
"Are you in the service?"
"In a manner of speaking," Charles replied, sipping wine. "I serve under my father—the king."
Blunt choked slightly on his trifle.
"Wait—your father? As in the king of Westmere? As in the reason I'm here right now?"
"The very same. You did save my life, after all."
Before Charles could say further, the music drew to a dramatic halt. All heads turned toward the grand staircase, where the king of Westmere stood with a goblet raised high and cheeks as red as a sunburned beetroot.
"Ladies and gentlemen, lords and ladies!" he boomed. "Today, we honor a man of courage, instinct, and—dare I say it—remarkably creative swords skills. Sir Bartholomew Blunt!"
There was a stunned silence. Then confused applause. Some clapped earnestly. Others glanced at their neighbors as if hoping for context.
Blunt looked around to make sure there wasn't another man named Blunt behind him, then raised his goblet in return and said:
"Huzzah to me!"
> "Remarkable is putting it mildly," someone whispered.
"You think it's really him?" said a nobleman to his wife.
"Does it matter?" she replied.
The King continued.
"To the brave soul who saved my son from doom, we feast in his honor!"
The music resumed, and the nobles returned to their merriment.
As Blunt tried to discreetly sneak another pastry into his coat pocket, a page in royal blue approached with a deep bow.
"His Majesty requests your presence."
Blunt stared.
"The King?"
"His Majesty. The King."
"Right. I see. And... is this good?"
"I was not told."
"Could you be told?"
"This way, Sir Blunt."
Blunt followed, weaving through the crowd like a man approaching a firing squad. Every noble he passed whispered or glanced at him.
> "Is that him?"
> "The one who saved the Prince?"
> "I heard he bit a wolf."
He reached the far side of the hall where the King sat under a canopy of silken banners, flanked by guards and advisors.
Blunt cleared his throat and bowed—awkwardly, nearly headbutting a candelabra.
"Your Majesty," his voice, an octave too high. "Lovely party. Love what you've done with the tapestries."
The King raised one eyebrow and smiled faintly.
> "So you're the man who saved my son?"
Blunt blinked.
> "According to several witnesses, yes."
The King leaned forward curiously.
> "Then let's have a little chat."
....
"I've heard you are the finest warrior in the land."
Blunt puffed out his chest. "Well, I don't like to brag. But yes, that's largely accurate. In the right lighting."
"You are…not what I expected. But perhaps that's what this requires."
"This?"
The King clasped his hands behind his back. "Tell me, Sir Blunt. How much do you charge for your services?"
"Ah, I usually wait to hear the job before I put a price on it. Could be anywhere from a bottle of port to an entire duchy, depending on the level of risk required."
"I see," said the King dryly. "Well, what I ask of you is of great importance. A matter of royal legacy...." He turned to meet Blunt's eyes.
Blunt nodded slowly. "Ah, one of those."
The King finally turned. "I need something retrieved. Something precious to my family, stolen many years ago and lost in a place where few dare go."
"Stolen?" Blunt tilted his head. "From this palace? With all the guards?"
"It vanished decades ago. But only recently did I learn of its whereabouts," the King said, leading him toward a long corridor lit by flame-cradled chandeliers.
"I'm asking you," he stepped forward, "to bring back the Goblet of Veritas."
Blunt frowned, confused. "Is that… a weapon?"
"It is an heirloom. A sacred vessel used in coronations for centuries," the King replied. "One that holds immense value to the monarchy."
"Does it do anything?"
"Only gather dust when unused," he said quickly. "Its value is ceremonial. A symbol of truth, loyalty, and history."
Blunt scratched his chin. "And… where exactly is it now?"
The King hesitated a bit. "In the possession of a dragon."
Silence.
"Pardon?"
"An old dragon. Retired. Hoards in the Whispering Vale. The goblet is in his collection."
Blunt paled. "You want me to rob a dragon."
"'Retrieve' sounds more noble, don't you think?"
Blunt gave a nervous chuckle. "And your knights? Soldiers? Royal bashers?"
"All tried. All failed. A royal banner only paints a bigger target."
He glanced toward the door. "And I suppose running is frowned upon in royal circles?"
"Only if you get caught," the King replied.
—The Vault of Forgotten Things
The doors slowly creaked open, showing a room full of shiny, old things. Like ancient swords, torn flags, broken crowns, and even what looked like a dried-up badger wearing a tutu.
"This," said the King, pointing to an empty pedestal, "is where the Goblet of Veritas once sat."
Blunt leaned closer. "Goblet of… Verrrrr-i-tas." He gave the word an exotic spin.
"Bring it back to me, and you shall be rewarded handsomely. Gold. Lands. A title, if you desire one."
Blunt's eyes gleamed. "Would 'Royal Knight' be too much?"
"We'll work something out."
The king's tone darkened. "However, I must warn you, I cannot offer royal escorts. The last three retrieval parties failed. Horribly."
Blunt raised an eyebrow. "How?"
"Let's just say they encountered… resistance. Too much attention ruins subtle efforts."
Blunt sniffed. "I'm nothing if not subtle. I once snuck out of a duel before it was scheduled."
"Excellent," said the king, ignoring that entirely. "Do you accept?"
Blunt hesitated just a second too long, just enough to suspect there was something the king wasn't saying.
But then he imagined piles of gold. Titles. His own private latrine. "Of course, Your Majesty. You have my sword."
"Good," said the King with a small smile. "Try not to die."
Blunt gave a confident bow that nearly knocked over a vase.
"Death fears me, sire."
"Let's hope the dragon does too."