““Yes, sir.” Max tried to read Rupert’s expression. The Sorcerer of Albion seemed more incredulous than angry. “I questioned him first.” “And then you decided it was better to give him a slap on the wrist and make him into a spy than hauling him in front of the Patroon, like regulations dictate?” “I did.” Rupert grinned and clapped Max on the shoulder. “That’s great!” He looked at the gargoyle, whose stone eyebrows were higher than usual. “And you weren’t with him, obviously.” “O...bviously,” the gargoyle confirmed. “I don’t understand why you’re so pleased.” Max watched Rupert toss his report into a tray on his desk. One of his golems—Benson or Hedges, it was impossible to tell—rolled over and cycled through the attachments on its right arm like a robot from the back of a 1950s comic book. It picked up the report with the pincers it had chosen for the task, swivelled around, and wheeled to a filing cabinet on the other side of the room, narrowly avoiding the gargoyle, who scowled at it with suspicious stone eyes.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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