Heroism is Vastly Overrated

In Case Anyone Missed It

“On my Radar—Work: I just finished my semi-final proof of Scholar’s Plot. One more run over, to make sure the spaces around the ellipses are right (yes, it’s that detailed) and we’re good to go! And I’m thrilled with it. Work—PS: Oops! To all of you asking when Scholar’s Plot would be available, I forgot one of the steps when I made my estimate! We need not only need another day or so to finish up, and the few days it will take to percolate through to Amazon and other online bookstores—I have to order a print proof from Ingram’s, which will take at least a week. So it may be around Thanksgiving, after all. But I’m pushing as fast can, honest.”

“Master Benton Sevenson? Good. And these gentlemen would be Master Fisk and Master Michael Sevenson?” It could sound threatening when a guardsman said things like that, but this man’s eyes lit with enthusiasm when they fell on Michael. Once again, I congratulated myself on having made sure that, even though I’d sent for them, Michael was the one who’d dealt with the Liege Guard when they arrived in Tallowsport. The dog, never fussy, pranced over to the stranger for a pat, and the man demolished his dignity even more by obliging. “We are.” The resignation in Michael’s voice wouldn’t have been audible to someone who didn’t know him well. I did know him well, and I wasn’t sure I’d had enough time to convince him to keep what we’d learned to ourselves. I picked up a biscuit, split it, and began spreading butter, trying to think how I could shut him up if he started to confess, without looking too suspicious. Nothing occurred to me. “Captain Chaldon sent me,” the guardsman went on, “to ask Master Benton Sevenson if he, and the rest of you, have an alibi for last night.” The biscuit crumbled in my fingers, leaving butter behind. “Last night? Has something else happened at the university?” For once, we hadn’t even been there.

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A man in the blue and silver of the Liege Guard stood on the threshold, and the silver bars on his shoulder announced a sergeant. A man in my profession makes a point of knowing guard uniforms, and their ranks, too. “Master Benton Sevenson? Good. And these gentlemen would be Master Fisk and Master Michael Sevenson?” It could sound threatening when a guardsman said things like that, but this man’s eyes lit with enthusiasm when they fell on Michael. Once again, I congratulated myself on having made sure that, even though I’d sent for them, Michael was the one who’d dealt with the Liege Guard when they arrived in Tallowsport. The dog, never fussy, pranced over to the stranger for a pat, and the man demolished his dignity even more by obliging. “We are.” The resignation in Michael’s voice wouldn’t have been audible to someone who didn’t know him well. I did know him well, and I wasn’t sure I’d had enough time to convince him to keep what we’d learned to ourselves. I picked up a biscuit, split it, and began spreading butter, trying to think how I could shut him up if he started to confess without looking too suspicious. Nothing occurred to me. “Captain Chaldon sent me,” the guardsman went on, “to ask Master Benton Sevenson if he, and the rest of you, have an alibi for last night.” The biscuit crumbled in my fingers, leaving butter behind. “Last night? Has something else happened at the university?” For once, we hadn’t even been there.