The dining hall is not as full as it might be at the peak of dinner hour—a steady churn of people coming and going, broken off conversation, chairs scraping and clay plates and tin cups. If Gela had started her meal in company, she is now set to finish it alone as the table clears.

And then she isn't, a plate set down on opposite her at the same table.

It wouldn't occur to Marcus to ask to do so, or sit down just after, despite that he never has before, certainly hasn't since the Dirthamen temple. He makes for a more ordinary shape out of his armor, less bulk about the shoulders in grey linen, greyer cotton, the faint scent of horse and hay about his person, and also he isn't half-cowering in a simultaneously waterlogged and dust strewn sunken temple bleeding from the leg.

He also has a tankard, and this stays in his hand as he says, "Evening," before taking a swig.