I am still feeling my way around in this one, but I have an idea about what it needs to accomplish. I'm hoping throwing words at the page will magically make clarity happen in the old gray matter. Yes, one can always hope.
"I don't feel well." Baxente pushed away from the worktable and grimaced as he used both hands to lift his aching leg over the bench.
"You rarely do, Peirain."
That time the reproach was more thinly veiled, and from the hard look in Omusul's eyes, Baxente was meant to hear it. Omusul lowered his gaze and shook out the bundle he was carrying: Baxente's tamba of office, the heavy scarlet fabric glimmering with borders worked in gold and silver.