"Worst table I've had since Ashmark," Cedd said.
He pressed the near corner with the heel of his hand. The left joint shifted slightly as new timber rubbed against old before easing back into place. The repair held, but only just.
He studied it a moment, then lifted his cup with the hand that still closed properly.
"Another deployment in a row I'm doing an after-action report over somebody else's furniture."
They were in a town called Osford, in their local hall. The ceiling sat low overhead. The stone floor had been worn pale through the center by years of traffic. A lamp burned on a shelf against the far wall, and the fire had been going long enough to leave a thick bed of ash beneath it.
The table itself had been repaired at least twice.
Three cups sat on its surface, each roughly two-thirds empty. That told its own story. The meeting had gone on long enough that nobody cared about formality anymore.
