Jash walked toward us carrying a stack of something dark. “Paladin, here are the clothes you requested.”
Mychael jerked his head at Piaras. “They’re for him.”
“Change out of my uniform, sir?”
“If you have to step foot outside of this house, what you’re wearing will get you killed. You’ll attract less danger to yourself and others if you get out of that uniform. A Guardian isn’t the uniform he wears, but the actions he takes.”
Piaras looked down at the pile of miscellaneous dark clothing topped by a quilted leather arming jacket with steel plates glinting dully on the underside. It wouldn’t keep out a bolt, but a crappy shot would probably be deflected. It would serve him well against most small arms attacks. I’d prefer it if Piaras was going to be encased in head-to-toe armor, or best of all if he weren’t here at all, but this would have to do.
Talon appeared from around the corner. He’d changed out of his uniform, too. Talon wearing dark clothes in less than optimal condition made him look like a young highwayman who’d been too long between a good score—dashing, yet disreputable.
Talon picked distastefully at the frayed fabric. “I had to do the same thing.” He shrugged. “I’ve worn worse.” He brushed at mud that looked like it’d been on there a long time, and wasn’t coming off any time soon. “Once.”
“It’s called blending in,” I told them both. “Sometimes being the center of attention only gets you killed first.”
“Then I’ll suffer the indignity,” Talon said.
“I thought you might.”
“One more thing, Cadets.” Mychael handed each of them a gorget. The steel collars were high enough to protect their throats with a bib of overlapping armored scales to keep a blade from going up underneath it.
Talon took the gorget, but held it with as few fingers as necessary. “And I would want to wear this because . . . ?”
“Because the preferred way to kill a spellsinger is with a bolt through the throat,” Tam told him.
Talon’s eyes got a little wide. “Got anything bigger? Even tackier, perhaps?”