Ulbarich did not attempt to stop her relieving him of his second mug. Or whatever mug it would have been. She drank like a fish and she did not care very much what it tasted like on the way down, apparently. Ulbarich thought it must be a side effect of her recent troubles. The both of them were talking. Enough that he thought they'd escaped feeling awkward at his own lack of oratory ability. It gave him time to wonder about his own father. About what it must have been like, being a general - controlling so many men, preaching that their loyalty was to the crown while secretly earning all of it for yourself. The tremendous loyalty and character that it must take to put aside your own ambitions in such a case. Ulbarich was glad that he was not a general, as he was now. His discipline had been destroyed just after his tongue.
He had not yet begun to search for more of it.
A lively band of persons was coming down the aisle toward them, with drinks and songs filling their mouths, but something about the group was wrong. He did not know what it was. The knives were too high on their belts. They acted merry and flush with ale. Yet they were not. He wore nothing that was meant to subdue a man for questioning. He also had nothing on his person that would allow him to face such odds with a comfortable advantage. The real question became quite simple. Why were they here? He would have yelled Stop!, if that were within his power. There was no way for them to know that he could not talk. Handing them a note was not going to go well.
He caught one's eye. They were staring at each other. Both aware that their target now perceived them as more than a simple passer-by.
They were here for him?
"Now!"
Ulbarich surged away from the bench. His Katzbalger came out of its sheath in a reverse-grip. The wide, flat pommel smashed into the chin of his first assailant before the fellow could clear a knife from his shirt. Ulbarich gave the wide, hacking blade a short upward jerk before he let go and reversed his grip mid-drop. Now right side up, the blade lashed forward and sideways. A wide, cartwheeling grip intended to make them take a step back. Boots were on benches as men fled the vicinity of this tight and unannounced fight. Tin plates and cups were spilling onto the floor as the unarmed took flight, rolling over adjacent tables to escape the unfolding carnage. Someone screamed as the Katzbalger cleaved through their arm. One, clean stroke. Not a bystander. There was a knife on the floor, and blood.
Fools. At least one of them should have brought a sword. It never occurred to him that he might have asked Onainat or Captain Uthral for help. Her title stayed formal, he decided with a bark of rasping laughter, because they were not friends.