The gathering began to thin.
The old nobles left in their carriages. The young nobles left in pairs. The mercenaries were dismissed by their employers. The mercenary — her name was Vess, though none of the four men cared to learn it — stood near the gates, counting her coin purse, preparing to walk back to the lower district inn where her guild had lodged.
A figure approached.
It was the Lord. He had wrapped himself in a dark cloak that did not hide his mass but at least obscured the stains. He stopped in front of her. His face was flushed from the tincture and from the humiliation. But his voice was soft.
"Miss," he said. "I am sorry for my friend's behavior. He was... overcome. He meant no disrespect."
Vess looked at him. Her hand was on her sword. But her coin purse was light.
"The night is ending," she said. "Speak plainly."
