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The Majesties

Guinevere smiled gently. “If that is what you wish, Lila. Morag, take her to the armory?”

One of the maids curtseyed and peeled away from the group. Lila bobbed a curtsey to the queen, and then she followed Morag through the cluster of keep outbuildings. They passed a smithy and the stables, the kitchens and the laundry, and there, in the back near the entrance to the hall, was the armory. A large, looming man was shouting orders at a team of pages, who scrambled to lay out the shirts of maille.

“Sir Ector,” Morag said, “Her Majesty wishes to know if you need assistance in repairing the armor.”

“The smith’s down ill,” Sir Ector growled. “The pages are trying to find something that was properly taken care of in case His Majesty must ride out again.”

Lila stepped forward among the pages and reached out, fingered the weave of one of the shirts. Simple four-in-one, then. Something more dense, like six-in-one, would be heavier in battle, but also offer more protection. A good Persian weave would be good, too.

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