Nether-Bane had expected complaints about the engineering. The first complaint was about his name.
A woman held up the consultation notice.
“An undertaking supported by the Sovereign of the Nether Roots,” she read. “How fortunate that you’ve discovered somewhere else to put a throne.”
“It says supported.”
“It says Sovereign.”
“That is an accurate—”
Maud Till cleared her throat.
Nether-Bane stopped. He had been holding a watering can. It made the unfinished sentence feel considerably less imposing.
