Mendoza seemed content with Orsa's efforts at obeisance, exhausted enough to see a smile flirt at the corners of the king's mouth, however transiently. It was certainly an improvement over his earlier scoffing. There was no sign of Rafe on his way back up the stairs from the cells, and when he inquired of the nervous guard lingering at the top which way the man had gone, the confused fellow confessed he'd not seen him at all. Unsurprised (and not a little peeved that the assassin seemed to be able to vanish like a ghost in his own damn castle) he ordered that assistance be provided for the necromancer's relocation, and that the mayordomo be informed upon waking that he was to organise suitable staff to attend him both at his work and for the more mundane necessities of surviving life in a royal household.<br/><br/>The servants didn't light a fire in Orsa's rooms, not with the heat still so oppressive, but they did illuminate his new quarters efficiently, the wall sconces revealing the extent of his bedroom, the adjoining privy, a separate study and receiving room. Hardly extensive by the standards of the nobles, but an indication that Mendoza saw worth enough in the new arrival not to consign him to some poky little box of a room unfit for visitors. The light, golden masonry of the walls was bare for the most part, nothing ostentatious beyond a few subtle embellishments in the coving, and the furniture was plain but functional, the study boasting a walnut armchair and matching bargueño, although the fold-down writing desk was stained with ink splotches, the little drawers hosting the remnants of some earlier scholar's tools, all in need of disposal.<br/><br/>Orsa was informed by one of the more gregarious servants (who nonetheless still seemed wary of him) that the King's orders were known to come at all times of the night and day, confirming suspicions of impulsive behaviour. Beyond that, none seemed keen to speak with him, and most went about their business, hauling boxes, seeing the bedding was fresh, and opening the windows to help air out the space with little more than a glance in his direction. They did not have the look of ill fed, abused staff - their meekness was purely a result of Orsa's exhausted rambling. If the King meant to keep his presence a secret, he was doing a poor job of it. No doubt there would be whispers on the morrow, connecting him to the terrifying sound that had passed through the castle's halls and disturbed many from their sleep.<br/><br/>They left him to sleep with hastily bobbed half-bows and curtsies (his status was still a mystery to most) and it was not until morning that a tentative knock sounded at his door, a chambermaid come to begin her duties. Thankfully, the mornings were cooler, and there was a breeze freshening the necromancer's rooms to accompany the riotous birdsong. A dawn chorus more lark than crow, though perhaps in his fragile state Orsa might sleep through it. A tall lad in his late teens arrived an hour later, announcing himself as his aide in 'all things of a non-professional manner', which might be construed to be such tasks as organising his meals with the kitchens, delivering messages should they need sending and helping him into the frustrating laces of formal attire should he be required to attend something with living people instead of dead ones. Despite his somewhat pimply youth, he was earnest, keen to please, and less alarmed when Orsa spoke to him than the other servants - or at least had too much decorum to allow it to be obvious. He identified himself as Raoul, and didn't seemed ashamed to admit that Orsa was his first assignment.<br/><br/>It was near noon when word arrived from Mendoza - or rather, Mendoza appeared unannounced at Orsa's door without bothering to knock. He was clad as if from riding, boots dusty and a few unruly curls of dark hair obdurately refusing to remain bound. It was not as dark as Orsa's, a rich, deep brown that looked mahogany in some lights, likely coarser. Clean shaven, despite the popularity of the spade shaped beards most of the nobles were sporting, his jaw had not softened into jowly-age as some men did with their twenties only a memory, but his tawny skin had a somewhat weather beaten look to it. This was a man who did not avoid the sun for the pretense of a pale, nobleman's hide.<br/><br/>"I trust you slept well," he remarked with unguarded amusement. "You looked ready to drop last eve. Have you eaten? Boy, fetch us some food. And wine." Apparently he meant to dine whether Orsa felt inclined to or not, and Raoul hopped to the task with eager efficiency.