Tropile showed him the empty water pitcher--empty, all right; he had
emptied it out the window.
"My apologies," the Keeper said, flustered, and hurried Boyne along. He
came back almost at once to fill the pitcher, even though he should be
there to watch Boyne's ceremonial Donation.
Tropile stood looking at the Keeper, his sub-adrenals beginning to
pound like the rolling boil of Well-aged Water. The Keeper was at a
disadvantage. He had been neglectful of his charge--a broken stool, no
water in the pitcher. And a Citizen, brought up in a Citizen's maze of
consideration and tact, could not help but be humiliated, seeking to
make amends.
Tropile pressed his advantage home. "Wait," he said to the Keeper. "I'd
like to talk to you."