A ferocious sneeze resounded through the entrance hall, and turning as if at a gunshot, I saw Sir Hector Oliva standing on the threshold, his face in his sleeve. He wore a black leather case on a strap over one shoulder. It held his lute, a mandora of exquisite make. He’d played it many times—at all hours—aboard the Ascalon as we sailed for Nessus, and played it well as his own legends say. In his other hand, he clutched another, flatter case, more than half so long as he was tall.
