I’m not sure we’re on speaking terms, Silas said recently of Val de Foncé. He starts to say it again, only to lose the will somewhere in a pluck at one brow and a swirl of broth over bones, still scraps of meat to pick away with the tip of his spoon. It doesn’t matter.

He nods.

It only makes sense that he should pin his fate to the good will of a claptrap Orlesian he slapped at a wedding once.