They wore swords and two knives apiece: a meat-knife, plus the longer blade that balanced the swords at their hips and lent them an elegant symmetry. They were not dangerous men, however, in anything but profligacy with coin; he was himself far more careful, though of them all he had less need, but saw no sense in ringing down gold so that everyone in the tavern noticed. Of course, that was precisely what they wanted, the would-be bravos, but he forgave them. It was all part of the role they played, stepping outside the truth of their lives into amusing fantasy and a freedom they craved. His own freedom was two-faced. Far wealthier than they, better served than they, his future infinitely more promising than any they might devise for themselves, and yet he was constrained by the very aspects that gifted him above others. It chafed, such freedom, when he yearned for something else, though at other times he valued it for its immeasurable wealth. Ironically, freedom wasn’t free but infinitely costly.
