If there was one thing Laedio loved about his job, one thing that warmed his ego with a satisfaction almost tender, it was the silence that dropped over a room the very moment he stepped through the door.
Eighty men. Cramped shoulder to shoulder in the old gate hall, the air stinging with sweat and leather and the cold breath of early winter pressing through the cracks in the shutters. Moments before, the room had been alive with chattering voices, half-stifled laughter, the scrape of boots, the clink of gear. But now?
Now a silence so complete settled over them that the faint buzz of a fly drifting lazily near a window seemed loud enough to echo.
They all turned toward him. Even those who thought themselves fearless tended to swallow when Laedio fixed his gaze on them. Yes, he was eccentric. Yes, he complained often and drank early and shouted at pigeons on the rooftops.
