He was surprised at the collection of men who awaited him, but did not show it.
They showed their surprise that he did not wear the “Strick uniform” of unfashionably long tunic over unfashionably matching blue leggings. Today he boldly displayed large bare calves and big bare arms in the undyed tunic with the extra-short sleeves and extra-large opening at the neck. He had chosen to appear as colorless as he had been when he arrived in Sanctuary, three months agone. The cloak, however, was no inexpensive garment.
“So the moneyhandlers of Sanctuary are not enemies, hmm?” he asked, looking blandly at Renn. And at Volmas, and Shafralain, and another man he did not know, and then at Melarshain. “A moment, please.” He turned back to the doorway.
“Fulcris? It seems that I have not been invited here to be murdered after all.
Come and take this, will you, and find some aide of Melarshain’s to go down and tell Frax he can relax his guard.”
While five men of wealth sat staring, an armed man Shafralain recognized came into the chamber. He wore a blue tunic with darker bands at hems and over both shoulders. Without so much as a glance at them, he accepted the weapons belt
Strick unbuckled, and took it away.
Strick turned to face the seated men, who were staring and exchanging looks of surprise or worse. These five represented a fifth of the wealth of Sanctuary.
Strick nodded to them, and sat. He gazed at Melarshain with a mildly questioning look and an expectant air.
“This is Noble Izamel, Strick.”