He mulled the question over in his head. He could, the way one might be able to sense a haystack containing a needle, but not its precise location.

He was never great at metaphors - whether on sticks or thread, a dried fish was a dried fish, and it was getting to be time for dinner.

"I need the sword and scales," he said in that deliberately slow manner of speech of his, "to know for certain."

He looked to the sad heap of bones and moldered fabric and rusted mail, then back to Wren.

"There is nothing here left to do. By your leave, I will move on. ...In case something remains."