The boy ascended slowly, stolidly, one step at a time. He seemed bound to a gallows, rather than a greater destiny, as his head hung and his shoulders bowed leadenly. When he arrived at Epsilon's table, he deposited the quills and ink well, then simply stood there silently, his hands dangling limply at his sides.
"Have a seat, boy, and raise your head." When Vernin was seated across the table and his gaze had risen to Epsilon's chin, the Warfarer continued, "I should like to know if you have the stuff of a man in you." Vernin said nothing. "Well? Have you?"
"The stuff of a man, sir?"
"Precisely. Do you prefer thievery to an honest day's work? If I filled your hand with a hammer and placed an anvil before you, would you use them or sell them? If I secured for you a smithery and procured contracts for your service, would you conduct your business honestly and fairly? Or would you be greedy and underhanded?"
"Beg pardon, sire, but I do not understand any of this business. Your words are most generous. I have considered them all through the night, scarcely sleeping, and I have decided there must be something amiss. Something horribly amiss."