"Well, you would think that," he says with feigned hauteur. "Or going with a microscope where others had passed through with picnic baskets," he points out.
"Hardly." He's bemused. "Rather, he let everyone know he relied on no one. He found my talents of use, that's all." He considers this. "Nationalism, certainly. 'My own, right or wrong.' But the two are often confused."
"It suits you." Clouds gather melancholically over his face. "Yes, well, he decided to act like one. Had to make a statement." He thinks about Quirinus--the god, that is. "Mulciber or Sethlans, probably. Possibly Romulus, if they weren't superstitious."
"Don't call me Master," he says irritably. "It's an academic degree, an honorific, not a... a title." He comes to look at the piles of peel parts. "I see you've erred on the side of caution," he notes. "Always preferable. Still error, of course, however expected at this point in your training. As you practice, you'll work on getting all the skin without zest, and all the zest without membrane. Again, something to practice on your own; you've made a creditable start."