Free Days Of Light And Shadow by Greg Curtis Page B

of Finell’s allowance. After all, he lived off the house’s coffers, and a little belt tightening would not go amiss in his life. Now that was an amusing idea.
     
    The only questions were how to raise the idea with her father. And how to do it without letting at least a small smile grace her face.
     
     
     

 
     
    Chapter Eight.
     
     
    Iros had to control his natural instinct to fidget as he sat in his assigned seat. But it wasn’t easy when he was uncomfortable.
     
    In Leafshade he wore his ceremonial armour cuirass and neatest linen all day every day. After two years in the city he had at least reached the point where it no longer chaffed, but it still wasn’t comfortable.
     
    The swords still bothered him too. As a member of the Royal Dragoons he had grown accustomed to wearing his swords everywhere. But there was a difference between how a soldier wore his arms and how a lord did. As a soldier he had carried them on a thick leather belt that strapped firmly to his waist, with a tie down the bottom of the scabbard around his leggings. It worked well as it meant his swords were always ready to be drawn. As an envoy though he wore them instead attached by a thin strip of leather that hung from the bottom of his highly polished cuirass. While it might look more respectable, it meant that the swords swung wildly whenever he moved in too much of a hurry, and threatened to stab him every time he sat down.
     
    For the same reason he wore his family cape wherever he went, the green garment with its golden fire drake covering his armour and flapping around in the wind. And when he sat down the thick material tended to bunch up behind him and catch on the backs of the seats.
     
    And though it annoyed him he shaved every day, and let his hair grow a little longer than he liked before he combed it flat. He had to look presentable at all times. The slightest sign of untidiness, of clothes not properly laundered, a face smudged with dirt or hair unwashed, would be taken as proof of his lesser blood. But still with his face constantly shaven so closely and his hair combed hard and flat, he itched.
     
    He worked hard not to show it though. An envoy had to master his expression as well as his tongue, and Iros had spent years learning to maintain an earnest, respectful demeanour. Sometimes it still didn’t come off perfectly, and he looked more naïve and even innocent than a man of his years should. But that could work to his advantage. If people saw someone young and unworldly they could foolishly believe they might have the upper hand in a negotiation. And to the high born who would always see him as human first, at least he seemed harmless to them. They wouldn’t want him as a friend, but at least they didn’t fear him.
     
    Not that the elves were bad people. They weren’t. But they didn’t regard other races as worthy. Certainly the high born didn’t. And being seated amongst so many of them, their high lord looking down on him, that added to his discomfort.
     
    Of course it could be worse. He could be a dwarf. If there was one race that the elves regarded with pure loathing, it was the dwarves. The feeling was reciprocated naturally enough, and the two peoples had a long and bloody history of wars and feuds between them. Even trolls found better acceptance among the elves than dwarves, and they were truly wild. They were also the only ones who dared to call the high lord on his edicts, and he admired them for that. They had no fear and no respect for anyone who couldn’t ride a horse, and swing a sword. Or better yet an axe. On the other hand their trade deals suffered for that boldness. But ever since Finell had ascended to the Heartwood Throne, everyone suffered. This afternoon was simply another exercise in suffering.
     
    The current victim was a wife and mother who had come to beseech the high lord for her husband to be freed from the prison. Apparently he had said something in the market and been