36
	Jacob didn't get drunk as often as he had when he had been a young pup.  There were too many things to do now, and he never knew when Macus might want him for something.  The old fox saw enemies in every shadow, and it kept them both alive, that was true.  It was just that, sometimes, Jacob would be willing to risk the occasional assassin for the sake of forgetting everything for a day or two.  Some nights he would even welcome a hidden knife, if it would spare him the torments of Hell afterwards.  He had spent two hours in the chapel and then gone and bought the biggest bottle of whiskey he could afford.
	He was almost half way through the bottle, and starting to drift off, when there was a frantic clatter at his front door.  He startled and reached for his sword, then got hold of himself and poured out another tumbler of liquor instead.  If something was happening he would already know about it.  It was tempting to ignore the knocking and get back to the business before him, but curiosity ate at him until he got up and pulled back the bolt.
	Richard tumbled in with a yelp and clutched at him, shaking, splashing whiskey on the carpet.
	“For God's sake, boy, calm down.  There's nothing in this city that could possibly hurt you,” he said.
	“You haven't seen what I have.  I know where the rebels are, and there are more of them than we ever imagined,” Richard said.
	“More than you ever did, perhaps, but only because your father thought it was better if we didn't worry you,” Jacob said.
	“He knows?  How?” Richard said.
	“We've had someone on the inside since this whole rebellion started.  You'd think people in this city would be more careful who they trust,” Jacob said.
	“And he's let them gather out there, planning who knows what, and he didn't do anything?” Richard said.
	“Have a little faith, boy.  These things take patience,” Jacob said.
	Richard looked so confused and unhappy that, for a moment, Jacob's own trust in Marcus faltered.  If the old fox had one failing, it was in how he treated his son.  The boy was nearly twenty and Marcus still thought he could be kept boxed up in the house like he had been when he was eight.  He would have liked to give the child a fatherly hug, something he was sure Marcus never did, until he remembered the fit Marcus had thrown, the one time he'd tried.  So, feeling guilty, he gave Richard the whiskey instead.
	“Your father knows what he's doing,” he said.
	“I used to think so,” Richard said.
	“And now?”
	Richard sniffed the liquor carefully and let just the tip of his tongue drip into the glass.  It was a childish habit, and no way to treat good whiskey, but Jacob let it pass.
	“Patience be damned.  We need to go in there and wipe them out before they decide to come here.  What happens when they decide to attack the city?” Richard said.
	“We'll push them back.  They don't have a hope of winning.  We've never been beaten, and we never will be,” Jacob said.
	Richard snorted and shook his head, but without conviction.
	“I still think we should go out and crush them.  Why do we have to wait for them to make the first move?” he said.
	“Look at it this way.  Would you rather be a bully, or the valiant defender of the city?  As long as we have the rest of the people on our side, we'll be okay,” Jacob said.
	He took Richard into the living room so the boy could finish his drink in comfort, and between them, they finished off the rest of the bottle.  But all of the pleasure had gone out it for that evening.  Though he did his best to drink more than Richard did, to save the child from poisoning himself, he couldn't get properly drunk again.  Long after Richard had fallen asleep, he sat up to watch the fire and worry.