While we waited, Phaelan used the toe of his boot to push a bucket next to one of the office’s chairs. I just looked at him.

“What?” Phaelan asked. “You want Mago throwing up on your boots?”

Minutes later, a miserable groan came from the open doorway.

Mago was your basic tall, dark, and handsome elf. Phaelan shared the dark and handsome moniker with his older brother, but Mago had “tall” all to himself. Phaelan had always claimed that Mago stole all of the height so there’d be none left for him. Probably not possible, but if it were, Mago would have been the one who could have stolen it. Mago Benares was the master. He could rob a man blind and have that same man thank him for his diligent work.

Though right now, the master was miserable. His dark eyes were bloodshot from what I imagine was lack of sleep, he was pale from lack of what he’d last eaten, and most of his black hair had escaped the silk ribbon that always tied it back.

Phaelan looked past him. “Damn, brother. Did you even close the door?”

Mago looked at Phaelan like he’d punch him if he could just convince his hand to make a fist.

I pushed the chair closer to where Mago was leaning shakily against the door frame. After a moment’s thought, I pushed the bucket over to the chair. Mago looked at me and nodded gratefully at both.

Phaelan offered him his flask. “Here, this’ll help.”

Mago glanced distastefully from the proffered flask, to his little brother, and back again. “If that’s the vile liquid that you consider to be whisky, I’ll pass.”

Phaelan shrugged. “Suit yourself. Never let it be said that I didn’t try to help.”

“By poisoning me.”

Phaelan popped open the flask and raised it in salute. “Mother’s milk.”