“So, the High Presider is either High Presider, Presider Sir, or… Presider Bjorskrim?”
Sir Waylar nodded; both the knight and squire were made up in the military dress uniforms that Arjes had complained of. Arjes’ spotless coat did look a little snug in the shoulders. “Never just ‘Presider’, because there are actually presiders in the six districts that also are addressed ‘Presider’, and it could be taken as an insult to suggest Bjorskrim is anything less than High Presider.” “Oh, because I know I would be mortified if someone mistook me for just a presider.” Sir Waylar frowned at Arjes. “Just say what I told you to, for today. Let’s just get through the greeting ceremony. After that, we probably won’t see him much.” Reschauld looked up at the blustery summer sky and hoped that was accurate. It was a fine day, and many a worse morning had been passed waiting impatiently for events to roll into motion. Those who had managed to sleep at all the previous night were roused early, and all the lingering preparations to disembark were hastily completed. Reschauld’s page—Tim had been volun-told for the journey—faithfully pieced his court outfit together, as always, all half-thousand buttons. “The Bench of Lords still exists, right?” “Right, but where we say ‘Lord’ this or that, here, they say ‘Faelar’.” “And ‘fael’ for gentlemen, and ‘Faellim’ for ladies, and ‘faem’ for madams, and ‘felle’ for young ladies, yeah, I know. I meant, didn’t they destroy the Bench of Lords, too? During the revolution?” Waylar sighed. “Whatever you do, don’t bring up the revolution, Arjes. Avoid it at all costs. Leap out a window, pretend you don’t understand Fjordestij, hide under the nearest lady’s skirt. Anything else.” “So is that a yes?”