The bald barkeep had been more than helpful. He'd taken the time to make sure Alexander had remembered the long, convoluted directions, even offering to write them down on a scrap of paper. Alexander turned him down, obviously, never having learned to read. Still, it was a nice gesture. 

He figured he had plenty of time to get to this Silver Dagger, and decided to spend some time at the pub. His feet ached, his back was stiff, and he was still cold from the road. A mug of warm ale and a seat by the hearth improved his condition immensely. A touch of music would have been nice, Alexander supposed, but he couldn't expect much at a few hours past dawn, and contented himself to listen to the crackling fire and the quiet murmur of people passing by outside. While he nursed his ale, he pulled a whetstone from his pack and perched his sword on his lap. The massive blade was cumbersome laid horizontally, its quillons poking him in the stomach and the pommel nearly knocking his mug over more than once, but he figured the least he could do was not scar the clean wooden floors after such good treatment. Sharpening blades had become second nature to him, after all these years. Ninety-nine percent of time on campaign was sitting around or walking, and when you've got nothing to do you make ready for that other one percent. Every soldier worth his salt kept his weapon in perfect condition, and that took work on the road. Every day of his career he'd seen men looking like they'd run through hell attending to mirror-clean weapons like they were children, fixing every blemish and mark with the fussing precision of an old housewife, and he was one of them. So, he cleaned the travelling dirt from his blade, sharpened the point, oiled it and wiped it clean while warming up and drinking, humming to himself quietly while he did so.

It was an excellent change from slogging through forest, but every good thing ends, and Alexander needed to be on his way. No point in showing up late when you've nothing to do, Alexander thought, and in good time he packed up his kit and made his way back into the street, bidding the barkeep a fond farewell. The walk to the Dagger itself was uneventful. He'd had to dodge the contents of a chamber pot falling, nearly scaring him half to death, but otherwise the trip was a pleasant one. He'd need to get used to living in cities again. It'd been years since he'd lived in one permanently, and more years than that since he'd been in one where he'd not been posted to a barracks. The walk was a good refresher, reminding him of the benefits of the city, passing merchants and milliners and a smithy all going about their business. 

The Silver Dagger building itself was not what Alexander was expecting. An old manor house, a part of disused wall, [i]something[/i] besides the nondescript wooden construction in front of him. He thought he was in the wrong place for a moment, but a sparring circle and big sign with a dagger on reassured him, and so he stepped up to the door, his eyes nearly level with the top of the frame, reached forwards and knocked three times with his big gloved hand.