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For a moment, Rollan would be very startled indeed; it seemed his talk of turned ankles and lameness had had a very dramatic effect indeed on the old Master of the Revels and his young son, who went purple and pallid respectively.
Remarkably, though, it would become apparent in some way that he had said something more helpful than disastrous. As he was in the process of hurrying off, a new intonation in the nobleman's words brought him up short. The Lord Cirdacil's reply, though still crotchety in its substance, was much more reasonable sounding in its delivery.
"Injured, eh. Well, that's dashed unfortunate. All this clambering over stages, trouble bound to happen, isn't it. Well, we shall meet later then, sirrah, in the courtyard, if you will it so. Gather as many as your men as you can, especially those I have mentioned; I want them neatly turned out, ready to listen to a serious matter. And do deliver all this correspondence to this scribbler of yours as quick as you can; he does seem to be a popular fellow."
Lord Cirdacil shot his son Sador a quizzical look, and if Rollan followed the glance with any attention he would note the young nobleman, still mounted unlike his father, sitting in an awkward posture, slightly unbalanced in the saddle by his left, malformed leg. The moment soon passed, and the old lord flashed his dark, tempestuous eyes back to the player.
"As for Mistress Celebrindal, if there is any more trouble, sir, consider yourself free to apply to me for the use of our family physician up at the House. You are soon to be in my employ, even if none of us particularly relish that fact, and I suppose I had better see you whole in limb if I can. Until soon, then."
Cirdacil gave a sharp nod in Rollan's direction to indicate their speech was now over, and the player free to depart. In the background the guards had already got the ostlers to deal with their horses, and were bustling the unfortunate Ingold about to deal with their handsome meal...
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