The stocky soldier made a poor manservant and an insufficiently respectful companion. He hadn’t troubled himself to disguise the fact that he regarded Rustem as no more than a burdensome civilian: the traditional soldier’s attitude. Rustem had made a point in the first days of mentioning his travels a few times, but when that elicited no useful response he stopped, finding the exercise of attempting to impress a common soldier to be undignified. Having acknowledged this, it remained to note that the casual killing of a companion—whether one was partial to him or not—was hardly something one ought to countenance, and Rustem had no intention of doing so. He was still outraged about the morning’s deadly encounter and his own humiliating flight through the Jaddite city. This information he conveyed to the big, red-haired artisan at the wedding celebration to which he’d been brought. He was holding a cup of excellent wine, but could take no pleasure in the fact or the reality of his arrival—finally—in the Sarantine capital after a hard winter trek.
