"All men must serve," the old decree went.
A peasant serves the dirt and the lord who owns it. A lord serves the princes who claim the sky. For Rodry, service had been a long road. He had served in the hollow-bellied days of hunger and bone-chilling cold, and now he served in the stiff luxury of white silk and grey plate.
When he had first donned the white cloak and swore the words, he knew he was trading his life for a type of honor that only ends when the heart stops or when they willing throw the cloth away for the love of a family. He was reminded of the weight of that trade as he tilted his cup, letting the lukewarm swill slide down his throat.
"He was a good man," Shit-Mouth muttered. His eyes were as glassy and wet as the brown sludge in his hand. It was rare to hear the man speak without a string of creative profanities trailing behind, but the morning was too thick with respect for his usual vulgarities.
