The gaffer still did not elevate his eyes. “I can remember, I can, how it used to be in the Grand Governor’s time, before he called himself Prophet, when on holy days we did not labor. And we going out on the streets to watch processions pass from Service with the colors and silks, but now they only sneak off to the churches as though they were ashamed of it, then work, work, work.” He drank more of his beer. Rodvard was somewhat touched by his speech, for though he was hardly one to defend Amorosians to each other, it was just these processions in silks while so many were without bread that bore hard on Dossola. He said; “Ser, it would seem to me that no man would worry for working, if he could have his reward.” The old man lifted his eyes from his mug (Rodvard catching behind them a feeling of indifference to any reward but calm) and said; “Silence for juniors, speech for seniors.” One of the maids approached; Rodvard asked for his bread and cheese and beer, and drew from her a smile so generous that he looked sharp (and saw that she would welcome an advance, but the thought at the back of her mind was money). The ancient shivered down into his cloak again, not speaking till she was gone. Then he said; “Reward, eh? What use is your reward and finding money to spend when it buys nothing but gaudy clothes and a skinfull of liquor, no credit or position at all? Answer me that. I tell you I would not be unhappy if we went back to the old Queen’s rule, and that’s the truth, even if they send me to instruction for it.” “Ser, may I pose you a question?” asked Rodvard. “Questions show proper respect and willingness to be taught. Ask it.” The food came. Rodvard nibbled at his cheese and asked; “Ser, Is it not better and freer to live here where there is no status?” “No status, no,” said the old man, gloomily. “And there’s the pain, right there. In the old days a man was reasonable secure where he stood, he could look up to those above and share their glory, and we had real musicians and dancing troupes as many as a hundred, who made it an art, so that the souls of those who watched them were advanced. Where are they now? All gone off to Dossola; and now all anyone here can do is work, work, work, grub, grub, grub. It is the same in everything. I can recall how joyous I was when I was a young man in the days of the Grand Governor before the last, and received my first commission, which was to carve a portrait bust for Count Belodon, who was secretary financial. A bust of his mistress it was, and I made it no higher than this, out of walrus ivory from Kjermanash, as fine a thing as I ever did. But now all they want is dadoes for doorways. No art in that.” “Yet it would seem to me,” said Rodvard, “that you have some security of life here, so that no man need go hungry if he will labor.”