Chapter Text
Henry rode with purpose, the weight of the evening settling over the land in golden hues, the road to Rattay winding before him like an inevitable path. The town’s walls were still distant, but the familiar crossroads—where the forests opened just enough to grant a clear view ahead—stood waiting.
And there, leaning against his horse, arms crossed, watching with that ever-present smirk—Hans Capon.
Henry pulled the reins slightly, slowing his pace, eyes narrowing with faint amusement. "My lord? Are you-" Henry made a poor attempt to hide a smirk. "- are you waiting here for me?"
Hans tilted his head slightly, lips curling in something between impatience and knowing amusement. "Don’t flatter yourself. This is strictly poison-related."
"Oh, of course. I was getting worried there for a moment."
Hans stepped forward just enough to make the meeting feel deliberate. "For a lord of Pirkstein to wait for a peasant on some dusty crossroads? Please."
Henry huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, trying to stay silent about the fact that, poison or not, that's exactly what happened.
Hans scoffed, gesturing vaguely toward the woods. "What, you think we can just sit in my chambers and have a chat? There are too many ears in Rattay, and all of them belong to Hanush."
Henry leaned forward slightly, still amused. "So the future lord of Rattay has to sneak out of his own town just so we can talk in peace? Must be annoying."
Hans rolled his eyes. "Laugh all you like, but I’d rather not have some old steward overhearing things they shouldn’t."
Henry watched him for a beat, the humor lingering, but something else settling beneath it—something neither of them quite named. Hans held his gaze for a fraction too long before exhaling sharply. "Come on, Henry, get off that poor wannabe horse sausage. Let’s talk."
Obediently, Henry dismounted and patted Pebbles on her neck. "Good girl. And don't worry, he doesn't know what he's talking about."
Hans walked up to him, leading his own horse, his posture still relaxed despite the weight of the conversation. But then, his gaze flickered—sharp, assessing—his smirk fading just slightly.
"You’re limping."
Henry huffed a breath. "Not limping."
Hans raised a brow. "You mean to tell me you always walk like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backward? I would've known by now."
Henry rolled his shoulders, ignoring the ache settling there. "Just a few bruises."
Hans stepped closer, scanning him now—eyes catching on the faint swelling along Henry’s jaw, the stiffness in his movements. His expression shifted—not concern, not outright worry, but something close enough that Henry noticed.
"Care to explain, or should I just assume you were tossed about by fate?" Hans asked, tone still dry but edged with curiosity.
Henry sighed, shaking his head. "I had to go through several rounds of fistfights to get recruited by some bandits."
Hans blinked. "What, like some tavern brawl?"
"More organized than that," Henry muttered. "They wouldn’t just welcome anyone—I had to earn it."
Hans let out a short laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "So your brilliant plan to gain intelligence involved letting some half-drunk louts take swings at you?"
Henry shrugged, wincing slightly. "It worked."
Hans paused, watching him carefully. Then—he smirked again, but this time it was slower, more deliberate. "You’re an idiot."
Henry smirked back. "So I’ve been told."
Hans exhaled, shaking his head slightly, but there was something behind it—something quieter, something unspoken. "You know," Hans said, voice lighter now, contemplative, "sometimes I envy you."
Henry glanced down at him, brow raised in mild surprise. "Envy me being an idiot?"
"Christ, no," Hans spread his arms. "You roam wherever you please, sleep under the stars, drink in taverns without a steward breathing down your neck—throw yourself into fistfights just to earn a place with bandits - by the way, what's that about for fuck's sake?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "It’s ridiculous—but it sounds kinda nice."
Henry smirked slightly. "And you, Lord Capon, are trapped behind fine walls and silk sheets?"
Hans huffed a quiet laugh, but it wasn’t sharp, not really. "Trapped is a strong word," he admitted. "But sometimes it feels like it." He glanced toward Rattay, its distant silhouette stark against the evening sky. "Everything is decided before I even open my mouth. they want me to act like a lord but when I don't, I get scolded like a child—I play my role whether I like it or not."
Henry watched him, noticing the way his posture had shifted—no longer playful, but caught somewhere between resignation and longing.
"So you sneak out of town," Henry murmured, "just to taste a little freedom?"
Hans smirked again, but this time it was slower, edged with something Henry couldn’t quite name. A regret, maybe? "Something like that."
For a moment, there was silence—the kind that didn’t need filling, the kind that spoke just enough on its own. Henry adjusted his grip on the reins, exhaling softly. "You know," he mused, "not everything I do is as thrilling as you think."
Hans glanced at him, skeptical. "No? Drinking, fighting, chasing bandits—sounds rather entertaining to me."
Henry chuckled under his breath. "Entertaining until you wake up sore and half-starved."
Hans huffed, shaking his head. "That part I can do without."
"You wouldn’t last two days without your luxuries." Henry grinned.
Hans shot him a glance, lips twitching. "Careful, Henry. You sound like you’re daring me."
Henry laughed, nudging his horse forward. "Let’s just talk about the poison, hmm?"
Hans sighed, but there was still amusement in his voice. "Fine. But don’t think this conversation is over." And as they walked, he still lingered just a bit closer than necessary, as if reluctant to let the moment pass too soon.
"I assume you and Hynek found something?" Henry nudged him.
Hans glanced toward the treetops, choosing his words carefully. "Depends."
Henry raised a brow. "On?"
Hans sighed, rolling his shoulders. "On whether you like hearing bad news. It’s the garrison."
Henry blinked, frowning slightly. "What?"
Hans watched his reaction closely, as if gauging how much this confirmation would shake him.
"The poison isn’t random," Hans continued. "It’s targeted. They’ve been poisoning our soldiers for weeks. Not outright killing them, but making sure when the moment comes, they won’t be able to fight."
Henry felt a chill settle over him. "They’re disabling your defenses."
Hans nodded. "And with the counterfeit money they have enough coin to pay for an army when they strike."
Henry ran a hand through his hair, muttering a curse under his breath. This wasn’t just simple robbery, not just trade disruption. This was war.
Hans huffed a short, humorless laugh. "A siege without the siege weapons. Weaken the men, control the coin, and by the time anyone realizes it, Rattay falls without a fight. A work of a real devil."
Henry felt the weight of it settle. "Then we don’t have time to waste."
Hans smirked, though it lacked its usual edge. "Glad you’re finally catching up. Hynek wants to talk to you later, he's got some plan but says he rather do it without me."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Just... be careful," Hans added, his tone lighter, almost offhanded, though Henry caught the deliberate pause before he continued. "He seems all over you."
Henry blinked, glancing at him. "What?"
Hans rolled his shoulders, feigning indifference, but there was something in the way he said it—a casual remark stretched just a little too thin. "You know what they say about monks," Hans muttered, glancing toward the trees.
"Is that some - what they say about people with large feet - kind of situation?" Henry inquired, quite confused.
"What? No! It's just... you know...," Hans hesitated before lowering his voice, "you know... locked up for a life... not a wench in sight... who knows what ideas can they muster. You know."
"Well, you certainly mustered them," Henry let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "And he’s not exactly a monk."
Hans scoffed. "He plays the part well enough. He grew up among those people."
Henry watched him carefully. "You worried about him, or about me?"
Hans gave him a flat look, unimpressed. "You think too highly of yourself, Henry."
Henry grinned slightly. "Yet here you are, warning me."
Hans exhaled sharply, shaking his head, though the faint tension in his posture remained.
"Just don’t let him fill your head with nonsense," he muttered.
Henry tilted his head, watching him—watching the way Hans deflected, the way his usual confidence felt just a little unsettled. Hans was irritated. Possibly concerned. Definitely annoyed. And underneath it all—the faintest trace of jealousy.
Despite himself, Henry smiled. "Fine, my lord Capon. I’ll be careful."
Hans didn’t argue. "Since I got used to you enough to feel a search for a new page more of a bother than keeping you," he said. "Just so we're clear."
Henry let out a short laugh. "So I’m just a convenience now, is that it?"
"Of course, what else would you be?" Hans huffed, flicking his gaze toward the road ahead. "You were a bloody nuisance at first. Now? You’re tolerable."
Henry grinned. "High praise from you."
Hans rolled his eyes. "Don’t push your luck."
Henry watched him carefully, catching the flicker of something behind his words—dismissive, yes, but edged with something quieter. Hans had gotten used to him—not just as a page, but as something closer than he ever intended. It wasn’t just about replacing him. It was about the fact that Hans didn't want to.
Henry let the thought linger, smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Good to know I’ve grown on you."
Hans scoffed. "Like moss on a damp rock."
Henry laughed, shaking his head, nudging Pebbles forward as they walked toward Rattay.
The Leaky Tankard hummed with quiet conversation, the scent of stale ale and roasted meat thick in the air. Outside, beneath the dim lantern glow, stood Hynek—waiting, patient, with that gentle, composed look about him. Henry slowed his pace, eyes narrowing slightly. Something felt off. Not in an alarming way, but in a way that made him look twice, think twice. Then, as he got closer, the scent caught him—herbal, bitter, unmistakably alchemical.
Henry frowned. “You stink of an alchemy shop... my lord.”
Hynek blinked, then gave a soft, sheepish laugh, rubbing his sleeve against his collar as if that would help.
“Do I?” he asked innocently.
Henry huffed, shaking his head. “You don’t pick that up by accident. What have you been brewing?”
Hynek hesitated—not out of guilt, but out of quiet amusement, like a man who already knew Henry wouldn’t like the answer.
“Just something to help,” he said, his tone mild, sincere—but carefully vague.
Henry folded his arms. “Help how, exactly?”
Hynek glanced away, pretending to check their surroundings, though Henry knew it was part of his rhythm—part of how he bought time, part of how he softened the truth before delivering it.
Then, lowering his voice, he finally answered. "The innkeeper surely doesn't work alone with the poisoned mead. So... we'll hear what he has to say. With some gentle persuasion involved."
Henry narrowed his eyes. “Do you always look so innocent when you scheme?”
Hynek tilted his head, blinking as if entirely unaware of the accusation.
“Scheme? Henry, that's hardly an appropriate word for this.”
Henry smirked faintly, nudging him toward the door. “Right. And I suppose you just accidentally found the perfect timing, the perfect ingredients, and the perfect excuse to get me involved.”
Hynek smiled, a little too sweetly. “Well… that’s why I was waiting for you.”
The Leaky Tankard was bursting with life—laughter, the clatter of tankards against wood, the hum of drunken voices rolling through the air. Smoke curled lazily from the hearth, mingling with the scent of ale.
Hynek strode inside with a quiet determination, seemingly trying not to raise more attention than necessary. But still, Henry, trailing just behind him, caught the subtle shift in the room—the way the innkeeper straightened slightly, the way certain patrons lowered their voices just a fraction.
“My lord,” Leaky greeted Hynek, inclining his head. Not stiff, but careful. "I'm happy to see the... events of your previous visit didn't deter you from my humble establishment."
Hynek offered a small, knowing smile, resting his hands lightly against the counter. “Oh, how could it?” he said smoothly, “If anything, I owe you an apology, good man.”
Leaky sighed heavily. “You and Lord Capon ruined a fine night’s business, but of course-”
“Which is why I would like to make things right.” Hynek offered, dipping his head in a gesture of goodwill.
Leaky studied him for a long moment, clearly weighing how much patience he had left. Hynek, ever perceptive, reached into his satchel, pulling out an old bottle. “Wine," he explained. "I know you consider yourself an expert. This is from the Pirkstein's private cellars. Shared in goodwill.”
Leaky huffed, folding his arms. “You mean to drink it yourself this time, my lord, and not convince the room to flee in protest?”
Hynek laughed softly. “I give you my word.”
He guided Leaky toward the last free table near the hearth. Henry, watching closely, caught the subtle shift in Hynek’s posture—the way he gestured, ever so slightly, toward the chair opposite him.
Leaky sat with a weary sigh, eyeing Hynek with measured wariness.
“So, my lord,” the innkeeper muttered, “what exactly is this fine gesture meant to achieve?”
Hynek smiled, ever composed, pulling the cork from the aged bottle. “Peace. What else?”
Leaky huffed, rubbing his temple as he watched Hynek pour the rich, dark liquid into two cups. The scent was deep, heavy with age, undeniably fine. Even the patrons closest to the table glanced toward them with quiet envy.
Henry, leaning against a nearby post, crossed his arms, waiting.
Hynek lifted his cup smoothly, tilting it slightly toward Leaky. “To understanding, then.”
Leaky narrowed his eyes, but picked up his cup nonetheless. “Cheers,” he muttered, before knocking it back in one long, practiced gulp.
Henry watched carefully, catching the subtle flicker in Hynek’s expression. Hynek lowered his own cup, fingers curling lightly around it—but never drank. Henry’s eyes narrowed. Then, without looking, Hynek gestured toward him—just the faintest movement of his fingers, barely noticeable to anyone else. A quiet instruction. Don’t let him leave.
Henry exhaled, smirking faintly, but he didn’t move away.
Leaky set his empty cup down, sighing with quiet satisfaction. “Fine wine, I’ll grant you that.”
Hynek smiled, folding his hands together, perfectly at ease.
Henry waited.
And then—Leaky blinked.
Shifted slightly.
Frowned.
Hynek, as serene as ever, tilted his head with mild curiosity. “Is something wrong?”
Leaky cleared his throat, shifting again in his seat. “…No. I don’t think—” He blinked harder this time, his frown deepening. “What did you say this wine was?”
Hynek smiled pleasantly. “Hungarian red. Pirkstein’s private cellars.”
Leaky rubbed his chest, a slight discomfort settling in. “…Right. Well.” He shifted again, his lips pressing together.
"Granted...," Hynek continued, "... I just might have added a purgative to make this conversation more... fruitful. One spoon helps a poor man from his sluggish bowels. Two spoons make sure he won't leave privy for a substantial amount of time. Five spoons... well, you'll see soon enough."
Leaky's eyes widened. He was now visibly uncomfortable, shifting his weight as if he couldn’t quite get settled.
Hynek, still perfectly composed, offered a thoughtful nod. “You seem uneasy. Before you make any sudden movements, we talk.”
Leaky groaned, gripping the table like it was the only thing keeping him upright. “Christ—” his voice was strained now, barely keeping the panic at bay—“ask quickly.”
Hynek sighed, tapping his fingers against the wood as if thoroughly unbothered by the turmoil gripping the poor man across from him. “The mead,” he said simply, “where did you get it?”
Leaky squirmed, his leg bouncing slightly as his body threatened to betray him. He gritted his teeth. “Same as always. A merchant.”
Hynek arched a brow, smiling pleasantly. “Which merchant?”
Leaky pressed a hand harder against his stomach, breathing shallowly, his discomfort now visible. “…Does it matter?”
Hynek sighed again—dramatic, gentle, almost sympathetic. “The longer I draw this conversation out,” he said, voice as smooth as fine silk, “the greater the risk that you, dear Master Innkeeper, lose control of your gut. Here. In front of all these people.”
Leaky let out a sharp, involuntary noise, gripping the table so tightly his knuckles turned white.
“Of course,” he continued, “you could simply excuse yourself—but unfortunately, Henry won’t let you leave until I am satisfied.”
Henry folded his arms. Leaky’s breath turned ragged. Hynek leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make the words drip with malicious amusement.
“Imagine it, Master Innkeeper. All these good patrons—drinking, laughing, enjoying their evening.” He let the thought linger for a moment, then continued, “And then you, here—at the center of it all. Slowly, terribly, losing shit.”
Leaky whimpered, his whole body stiffening, his face a portrait of sheer desperation.
Hynek sighed again, shaking his head. “And what a sight it would be, wouldn’t it? A well-respected innkeeper, reduced to—” he paused, clicking his tongue, “—a most unfortunate spectacle.”
Leaky groaned, shifting violently in his seat. “…Smugglers,” he gasped, his voice hoarse now. “I get it from smugglers.”
Hynek’s smile widened. “Ah. See? Progress.”
Leaky shook his head rapidly, practically vibrating now, his knees bouncing as he fought the inevitable. “…Can I go now?”
Hynek tilted his head, considering. “Not just yet.”
Leaky’s discomfort may have hit fast, but his temper flared faster.
“You damned noble brats think you can get away with anything!” he snarled, shifting violently in his seat. “I should call the bailiff on you!”
Hynek sighed lightly, utterly unbothered, swirling the untouched wine in his cup. “Ah, but Master Innkeeper,” he murmured, “you must consider your options. You see—if you waste precious time on empty threats, you may find yourself in a far more... humiliating situation than you’d prefer. And no matter what, bailiff can't help you with that.”
Leaky sucked in a sharp breath, gripping the table as his stomach twisted painfully. Henry, arms folded, smirked, watching the scene unfold with growing amusement.
Hynek continued, voice dipped just enough to lace his words with quiet cruelty. “Besides, the bailiff would be very interested in the poisoned mead, wouldn’t he?”
Leaky blinked rapidly, his breath turning shallow. “Poisoned?”
Hynek tilted his head. “Oh, come now. Surely you know that whatever those smugglers have been selling you—cheap as it may be—is hardly what it claims to be.”
Leaky swallowed hard, shifting again, his entire body tense. “…It—it was a bargain, that’s all—”
Hynek sighed dramatically. “A bargain, indeed. And yet, here we are, discussing the aftermath of that most unfortunate purchase.”
Leaky let out a strangled noise, gripping his stomach harder, his breathing uneven.
Hynek leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing something deeply confidential.
Leaky’s discomfort was no longer just a slow-building unease—it was a full-blown crisis unfolding in real time, his body betraying him faster than his mind could keep up.
His breath hitched, his face palming with sweat, his knuckles gripping the edge of the table with a force that threatened to splinter the wood. A deep, relentless pressure coiled in his gut, twisting, cramping, growing more volatile by the second.
Hynek, utterly unbothered, merely observed the spectacle with mild curiosity. “Now, say you do call for the bailiff,” he mused, swirling his untouched wine in his cup. “Tell me, Master Innkeeper, what do you think will concern him more—the nobleman who made an innkeeper soil himself in front of all his patrons…” He smiled, “…or the fact that said innkeeper has been distributing tainted drink to the whole of Rattay’s garrison?”
Leaky froze—just briefly—but it was long enough for panic to creep into his eyes.
Hynek tilted his cup in mock sympathy. “Choose wisely.”
Leaky sucked in a sharp breath, his whole body tense, his stomach clenching violently. “…I didn’t know,” he gasped, words rushing out unevenly, his voice cracking beneath the strain. “Swear I didn’t. I just… thought… They sold it so cheaply—and wanted even less when I promised the mead would go to the garrison only.”
Henry watched closely, noting how Leaky’s leg bounced beneath the table, his foot tapping erratically, his eyes flickering to the door, calculating whether he had enough time left to make it out.
“Where can we find them?” Hynek prompted, voice still maddeningly calm.
Leaky groaned, one hand now pressing hard against his stomach, the other gripping the table as his body spasmed with warning. “They—they always leave the new barrels in a barn north of Rattay. That’s why… oh, God… that’s why I hired those Skalitz beggars to carry them for me.” He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as sweat trickled down his temple. "The smugglers even paid the skalitz folk, not me."
Hynek sighed. "And of course, nothing aroused your suspicion there, did it?"
Henry got an idea. “Did you see them pay?” he asked sharply. "With coin?"
Leaky blinked rapidly, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts, his gut twisting ruthlessly. “W-with coin? Y-yes, I think so. Please—”
“Old or new groshen?” Henry pressed. “The coins, did they shine?”
Leaky squeezed his eyes shut, a choked, desperate sound escaping him. “I don’t—oh, yes! They did, brand new!” His shoulders jerked as his body threatened to give in completely. “Please, I can’t—I need to—”
“Not yet,” Hynek snapped, his patience feigned. “I want more. How many, how did they look, what were their names?”
Leaky shuddered, his thighs squeezing together, his feet shifting erratically beneath the table. His stomach let out a sickening gurgle. “…I only know—only one name. There was this youngster in white armor, said the name’s Erik. Please, my lord, I beg you!” His voice was shaking, barely holding together. “I need to—”
Hynek considered him for a moment longer than necessary, tapping his fingers against the table.
"You can go now," he conceded.
Leaky didn’t wait for further permission—he launched himself out of his seat so violently that he knocked the chair onto its side. A few patrons turned in drunken confusion as the innkeeper half-limped, half-staggered toward the exit, one hand clenched at his stomach, the other gripping his belt as if sheer force could hold back disaster.
Henry bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright. Hynek, utterly composed, sighed lightly, lifting his untouched cup and pouring its contents on the ground. The innkeeper barreled through the door and into the cool night air, bolting across the yard toward the privy with frantic desperation—one hand fumbling with his belt, the other reaching for the wooden door.
Henry straightened himself to see through the window. "I think he made it... ugh, almost. Remind me to never ever have a drink with you."
“Apud ipsum est fortitudo et sapientia; ipse novit et decipientem et eum qui decipitur," Hynek shrugged, crossing himself. "I don't like poisoners. Or idiots, for the matter. Still, I suppose it's better than thumbscrews or the rack."
Judging by the noises from the privy, Henry found the last statement debatable.
"We need to search that barn in question," Hynek continued. "And find that Erik person."
Henry nodded. "If he's one of the bandits from around Sassau, I'll find him."