Temperance – Raoul
The Own are back home and in the highest of spirits. The Scanran War is over and Corus welcomes them as heroes.
Raoul looks on indulgently at the Royal Banquet in their honour as his men celebrate. He's already threatened to send to the Scanrans any soldier who disgraces the Own with his behaviour.
Shy Wolset and sullen Eldorne come up to him with Masbolle at their heels. Wolset's smiling ear to ear and even Eldorne looks grudgingly happy. Masbolle's carrying a prize; an enormous crystal decanter of brandy wrapped in his arms with the loving care a mother would give her newborn.
"Care to come drink with us Sir?" Dom grins, full of easy-going devilry. "A toast of the finest brandy in the Royal cellars to the brave soldiers of Third Company."
"Nice try Masbolle," Raoul says placidly. "You think that if you get your Commander sodden, I won't notice the rest of you louts turning a civilized affair into a back-alley party."
Wolset looks guilty. Lerant merely turns to Dom and says, "You owe me four gold nobles."
Dom shrugs, unbothered. "Just doing my best to make the banquet a success, Sir."
Raoul doesn't buy it for a second. "Don't think I won't hand out latrine duty at a banquet for the Own, Sargent."
"Right you are, Sir." Dom salutes lazily. "We'll be off then. Should I leave the brandy?"
"Take it with you," Raoul says. "I never touch the stuff myself."