The next hour was an exercise in social torture as far as Jaenor was concerned. He was paraded through introduction after introduction, each noble more insufferable than the last. Their names blurred together—Lord This, Lady That, Sir Someone Else—but their attitudes were consistent: barely concealed contempt mixed with fascination.
It was during the third such introduction that the first direct barb landed.
"So this is Morgana's... companion," said Lord Hextor, a portly man in his fifties with a florid face and small, mean eyes. He looked Jaenor up and down as if examining a horse of questionable breeding.
"Tell me, boy, what exactly do you... assist with?"
The emphasis was deliberate, and the small crowd that had gathered around them tittered. Jaenor met the man's gaze steadily and said nothing.
"Cat got your tongue?" Hextor pressed, emboldened by the audience.
"Or perhaps Lady Morgana prefers her companions seen and not heard?"
More laughter, louder now.
