On a typical day, Martel wouldn't come to work at the library in tight trousers, a black dress shirt and riding boots; on a typical day he wouldn't be in such a hurry that he'd have to make do with the uniform he'd left after hurling himself out of the shower at the guild hall to ride hard to his other job (Kalten enjoys it a little more than his master does when he gets to vault things in the street) without stopping at home between.

Which is why when he glances up, in the process of rolling his sleeves to the elbows, his expression is unfairly sharp-- he has an office partly for the purpose of being easy to find if somebody needs him, and evidently somebody does. His irritation isn't at Mycroft, however, and despite initial appearances (and the way several of the library staff had suddenly found things to do in other areas when he came in like a hurricane) he's not inclined to take it out on someone merely because they're conveniently present; the way his expression tightens just before he smooths it into something more presentable is telling of a man who finds the mere passing urge to do so inherently irritating in and of itself. (What he was known for was always ironclad self-control; anything less than that is demeaning.)

"Of course," he says, and as he goes on his accent is strange; the most similar equivalent would be perhaps an upper-class Brit who's spent too much time in the south of France, but it's similar and not the same, "I'm going to assume it's not sorcery, leaving us with the most likely suspects of local politics or something to do with the cohort."

(Not his only qualifications or interests here in he library, but certainly what his coworkers think of his name first for.)

"Come in, then."