Phyre's not wrong; Crow has traveled to other courts in other cities, and scholars are usually treated no better than the staff. Expected to work day and night, and harried if they don't provide miracles fast enough. The king of Azar-Ban is not uniquely gracious, he still expects everyone to worship him, but the one thing he is is fussy about his schedule βΈ» everything has its place and time, so too do visiting scholars.
Tomorrow, he is sure, Phyre will spend his time meeting the king, and Crow will almost certainly spend all day at the market haggling for whatever bizarre supplies Phyre wants. Gods, he just hopes it's not a list full of animal entrails or something. He is in no way squeamish, but the weather is unexpectedly temperate this week, and he wants to enjoy the day, not spend it carting around dripping packages of entrails and eyeballs that might splash on his new boots.
Phyre's next words have Crow's gaze darting toward him, wide in faint surprise at first, and then narrowing in cat-like pleasure.
"I suppose I could free up some time in my busy schedule," he replies, deliberately airy and casual, to offset the depths he can hear in Phyre's words but cannot yet divine what those depths might be. "I should, of course, make sure you're settled into your apartments. I can even bring a bottle or two of local wine by βΈ» for shameless advertisement purposes, you see."
What's the catch? Crow cannot help but think that there will be one. Phyre's immediate reaction to his flirtations was to warn him away, and now he's being invited in? A man like Phyre does not easily change his mind, Crow senses, but perhaps he is still subject to whims and flights of fancy like any other man. Perhaps there's a catch, perhaps Crow's flirtations just had a delayed effect, who knows?
The only way to know for sure will be to turn up later this evening, to satisfy his own curiosity.
The night is still getting darker as they continue down the path to the palace, and as they get close enough to see the battlefield carvings detailed over every inch of the columns, Crow turns them to the left instead, a sprawling complex of individual apartments built in red stone and clay. Its garden is immaculately kept, wild flowers of paradise bursting on trellises and lush grass underfoot. "Here we are," he announces cheerfully, gesturing with a gloved hand. "See the penthouse? That's yours. It even comes with access to its own private hot springs."
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Tomorrow, he is sure, Phyre will spend his time meeting the king, and Crow will almost certainly spend all day at the market haggling for whatever bizarre supplies Phyre wants. Gods, he just hopes it's not a list full of animal entrails or something. He is in no way squeamish, but the weather is unexpectedly temperate this week, and he wants to enjoy the day, not spend it carting around dripping packages of entrails and eyeballs that might splash on his new boots.
Phyre's next words have Crow's gaze darting toward him, wide in faint surprise at first, and then narrowing in cat-like pleasure.
"I suppose I could free up some time in my busy schedule," he replies, deliberately airy and casual, to offset the depths he can hear in Phyre's words but cannot yet divine what those depths might be. "I should, of course, make sure you're settled into your apartments. I can even bring a bottle or two of local wine by βΈ» for shameless advertisement purposes, you see."
What's the catch? Crow cannot help but think that there will be one. Phyre's immediate reaction to his flirtations was to warn him away, and now he's being invited in? A man like Phyre does not easily change his mind, Crow senses, but perhaps he is still subject to whims and flights of fancy like any other man. Perhaps there's a catch, perhaps Crow's flirtations just had a delayed effect, who knows?
The only way to know for sure will be to turn up later this evening, to satisfy his own curiosity.
The night is still getting darker as they continue down the path to the palace, and as they get close enough to see the battlefield carvings detailed over every inch of the columns, Crow turns them to the left instead, a sprawling complex of individual apartments built in red stone and clay. Its garden is immaculately kept, wild flowers of paradise bursting on trellises and lush grass underfoot. "Here we are," he announces cheerfully, gesturing with a gloved hand. "See the penthouse? That's yours. It even comes with access to its own private hot springs."