"For Christ's... no, not knitted booties. Chain-sandwiched-between-thick-leather booties. What in good hell's use would knitted booties be?"

Ah, you recognize me. I wasn't sure that you would. There are hundreds of officials in your court, and I have noticed that your eyes tend to glaze over when they're introduced to you. No, no offense meant or taken. Just because the likes of me has to remember every country squire and his bastard son that passes through, that's no reason to expect someone of your importance to remember the Supervisor of the Accountants to the Second Under-Treasurer.

Two corners, three, it's still on them, four, six, nine. Then Vik stumbles, trips, scuffs across the floor. When he picks himself up, his fibrous face mask is torn and shredded.