Lucian waited in the corner booth of the eatery, back to the wall. The lamps were dull, their smoke mixing with the smell of broth and pan-fried dough. It was busy enough that no one paid him attention, but quiet enough that talk could pass between them unheard.
Sagiel slid into the seat across from him. His servant's livery looked wrinkled, collar too tight for his neck. He dropped onto the bench with a groan like a man who had carried buckets all day.
"Never thought I'd curse ironed cuffs," Sagiel muttered, tugging at the sleeve. "Half their rules are for the sake of crushing dignity. Shoes polished till I could see my own miserable face in them. Do you know how hard it is to keep a straight back while some hawk-eyed steward looks for dust on your buttons?"
