Oddly enough, Solomon was enjoying the fitting far more, he suspected, than either Erskine or Corrival were. Actually, he didn't suspect. He knew. He had an edge: he couldn't actually see the robes. For the first time he was approaching something like gladness that he was blind.
The meeting with the Americans had, oddly enough, helped calm him. Not because of what he could or couldn't see, but because the situation was very similar to ones he'd experienced before. It was politics, nothing more, and Solomon was very used to politics. It was amazing how subtly the barbs flew once things got going. The fact Solomon could now see souls only made that easier. Wreaking havoc in the same sort of tones he'd used on Craven, except slightly more polite, had been oddly soothing. Especially once he realised that one of the American ambassadors had actually recommended Marr as a detective. Amazing, how easy it was to humiliate idiots now he could see their innermost. It was almost fun.
Which meant Solomon was actually feeling something close to enjoyment when Tipstaff reminded them of the appointment. Solomon was startled and grateful when he realised the man had minimised the number of Cleavers in the halls as Solomon passed; in return, Solomon said nothing in the way of complaint as they were taken to the tailor. (Relief, apparently, was warm, but less like a fire and more like a soft wash of water.)
Of course, that meant both Tipstaff and the tailor had decided he was the easiest to work with. Corrival's eels were snapping madly at anything nearby. Erskine was dropping pine-cones everywhere. Tipstaff's parchment was burning, but only to the point of smoking. Exasperation and indignation, but no real anger. Solomon smiled to himself and obeyed as the tailor told him to lower his arm.
"They're actually quite comfortable," he said innocently. "Soft, too." More to the point, he knew he could carry them off well. He could carry nearly anything off well. That was why Skulduggery had bribed him into wearing so many different disguises as a teen.
"You should talk," Corrival grumbled. "You can't see them."
Solomon laughed. "I think I've come out the better, in this instance. I can't feel humiliated by what I'm wearing if I don't know what it looks like."
That, and he had worn a lot worse. Posing as a baroness's daughter sprang to mind.
Tipstaff chimed. Tipstaff had been chiming, softly but pleasantly, at various points in the morning, but this time there was a definite wash of relief in the man's soul as he answered whatever it was that was doing the chiming. "Please excuse me, Grand Mage, Elders. There's someone I must greet at the door."
Solomon waited for the man to leave before lifting an eyebrow at Erskine. "Did it occur to you to just not wear it, Ravel? I'm certainly not going to. I spent nearly four hundred years in a Temple with a strict and ridiculous dress-code, and never once paid any attention to it. Why should I change now? With all due respect to your efforts, of course."
The last was said blandly in response to the sudden surge of affront (hot, not exactly fiery; more like coals) in the tailor's soul.
"Step down, please," the man said stiffly, and Solomon shrugged. Oh well; he tried. Carefully the Necromancer eased off the stool, hands raised for balance and to avoid running into anything; a moment later he felt Corrival's hand on his elbow, just a little rougher than it needed to be out of a combination of amusement and irritation. Absently Solomon prodded away an eel trying to snap at his face.
"In my defence, changing all the time would be a hassle I can't afford. And if I need to fight to defend myself, better than I do it in clothes with which I'm familiar. Otherwise I'm liable to trip over my robes, and then the Sanctuary would be down an Elder again."
no subject
The meeting with the Americans had, oddly enough, helped calm him. Not because of what he could or couldn't see, but because the situation was very similar to ones he'd experienced before. It was politics, nothing more, and Solomon was very used to politics. It was amazing how subtly the barbs flew once things got going. The fact Solomon could now see souls only made that easier. Wreaking havoc in the same sort of tones he'd used on Craven, except slightly more polite, had been oddly soothing. Especially once he realised that one of the American ambassadors had actually recommended Marr as a detective. Amazing, how easy it was to humiliate idiots now he could see their innermost. It was almost fun.
Which meant Solomon was actually feeling something close to enjoyment when Tipstaff reminded them of the appointment. Solomon was startled and grateful when he realised the man had minimised the number of Cleavers in the halls as Solomon passed; in return, Solomon said nothing in the way of complaint as they were taken to the tailor. (Relief, apparently, was warm, but less like a fire and more like a soft wash of water.)
Of course, that meant both Tipstaff and the tailor had decided he was the easiest to work with. Corrival's eels were snapping madly at anything nearby. Erskine was dropping pine-cones everywhere. Tipstaff's parchment was burning, but only to the point of smoking. Exasperation and indignation, but no real anger. Solomon smiled to himself and obeyed as the tailor told him to lower his arm.
"They're actually quite comfortable," he said innocently. "Soft, too." More to the point, he knew he could carry them off well. He could carry nearly anything off well. That was why Skulduggery had bribed him into wearing so many different disguises as a teen.
"You should talk," Corrival grumbled. "You can't see them."
Solomon laughed. "I think I've come out the better, in this instance. I can't feel humiliated by what I'm wearing if I don't know what it looks like."
That, and he had worn a lot worse. Posing as a baroness's daughter sprang to mind.
Tipstaff chimed. Tipstaff had been chiming, softly but pleasantly, at various points in the morning, but this time there was a definite wash of relief in the man's soul as he answered whatever it was that was doing the chiming. "Please excuse me, Grand Mage, Elders. There's someone I must greet at the door."
Solomon waited for the man to leave before lifting an eyebrow at Erskine. "Did it occur to you to just not wear it, Ravel? I'm certainly not going to. I spent nearly four hundred years in a Temple with a strict and ridiculous dress-code, and never once paid any attention to it. Why should I change now? With all due respect to your efforts, of course."
The last was said blandly in response to the sudden surge of affront (hot, not exactly fiery; more like coals) in the tailor's soul.
"Step down, please," the man said stiffly, and Solomon shrugged. Oh well; he tried. Carefully the Necromancer eased off the stool, hands raised for balance and to avoid running into anything; a moment later he felt Corrival's hand on his elbow, just a little rougher than it needed to be out of a combination of amusement and irritation. Absently Solomon prodded away an eel trying to snap at his face.
"In my defence, changing all the time would be a hassle I can't afford. And if I need to fight to defend myself, better than I do it in clothes with which I'm familiar. Otherwise I'm liable to trip over my robes, and then the Sanctuary would be down an Elder again."