Evening in Garrow's hall smelled of wet fur and old wine, with a faint note of burnt bread.
Hajin walked the length of the hall with hands in his pockets, studying the fur banners one by one. Every banner carried boar tusks stitched in gold thread, the finest needlework in the Sixth, wasted on a bandit.
"These cost more than the whole village eats in a winter, my lord," Marrick said, hurrying behind him with the registry hugged to his chest, "Garrow never spent a copper on anything except himself."
"Then we burn them for heat and stop pretending they're art," Juna said from the window seat, one boot kicked up on the sill.
"No, Mutt, we hang them upside down, so everybody knows the boar lost."
"That's the dumbest thing I've heard all evening."
"It's also the best thing, admit it."
Loccy ladled soup into a bowl for the little girl, who sat cross-legged by the hearth. The girl ate with both hands, glancing up often as if the bowl might simply vanish.
