Put that together with his long, hooked nose, and any who saw him would immediately understand the nick-name, even a year ago, before he’d first donned the high-collared cape. Any minor wizard could easily discern that there was magic in that garment, powerful magic, and such items were often reputed to affect changes on their bearer. As with the renowned girdle of dwarvenkind, which gradually imparted the characteristics of a dwarf to its wearer, so too Kensidan’s cloak seemed to be acting upon him. His gait grew a bit more awkward, and his nose a bit longer and more hooked.

His muscles were not taut, and his hands were not calloused. Unlike many of Rethnor’s men, Kensidan didn’t decorate his dark brown hair. He carried nothing flashy at all on his person. Furthermore, the cushions of the seat made him appear even smaller, but somehow, inexplicably, all of it seemed to work for him.

Kensidan was the center of the room, with everyone leaning in to hear his every soft-spoken word. And whenever he happened to twitch or shift in his seat, those nearest him inevitably jumped and glanced nervously around.

Except, of course, for the dwarf who stood behind and to the right of Kensidan’s chair. The dwarf’s burly arms were crossed over his barrel chest, their flowing lines of corded muscles broken by the black, beaded braids of his thick beard. His weapons stabbed up diagonally behind him, spiked heads dangling at the end of glassteel chains. No one wanted a piece of that one, not even Suljack. Kensidan’s “friend,” recently imported muscle from the east, had waged a series of fights along the docks that had left any and all opposing him dead or wishing they were.

“How fares your father?” Suljack asked Kensidan, though he hadn’t yet pried his eyes from the dangerous dwarf. He took his seat before and to the side of Kensidan.

“Rethnor is well,” Kensidan answered.

“For an old man?” Suljack dared remark, and Kensidan merely nodded.