The morning before the salon, Tobian Marrow received an invitation he had not asked for and could not refuse.
It came by the council's runner, a boy who would not meet his eyes.
A senior clerk had written Tobian onto the council's rolls under the residency framework, and one of the standard invitations that came with it was the fortnightly military review, held on the wide ground outside the city and watched by the senior council from a long dais at the field's eastern edge.
The review was that same afternoon.
The Halversen line had not attended a Caelmar review in three generations, so the invitation was no coincidence.
Someone wanted Tobian Marrow standing in the open, where he could be looked at.
Alistair went anyway, since refusing would say far more than attending.
He arrived a quarter-hour early and stood with the minor nobles along the south edge, wearing Tobian's polite, slightly unfamiliar expression, the small wonder of a young man at his first review.
