The room was filled with a quiet hum of industrious activity and a delicious smell of linseed oil and leather. Maerad sniffed appreciatively. Indik glanced up when they entered and, despite himself, smiled broadly. He was a stern-looking, stocky man, the severity of his face exaggerated by a savage scar that drew the skin around his eyes into a squint. "I'll be leaving you scoundrels for a while," he said to his students. "If I find that any of you have been lazy while I'm away, a price will be exacted. Don't think that I won't notice. I will. That includes you, Rundal," he said, turning his fierce gaze onto a young man whose undisciplined hair framed his face with a mass of curls. This imp-faced lad of about fifteen looked up and nodded seriously. As Indik turned away, he winked slyly at his friend next to him. Maerad was quite certain that Indik saw this, but he gave no sign as he greeted them. "So you're still alive," he said gruffly to Maerad, unable to entirely conceal his pleasure.
