If there were more time, he might wonder about the line between cultivating resources and cultivating relationships. About the value he could have imagined a disinherited Fereldan scandal would eventually have. About what greater purpose might have been served by lying on the floor of his room in Val Royeaux, draped in stolen jewelry and drunk off stolen wine, and laughing so hard at Byerly’s commentary on their mutual acquaintances that he choked.

If there were more time, he might indulge the sudden wild urge to hide a blade in Byerly’s jacket. For luck.

But there isn’t time for that. Just for a look (maybe regret, maybe pity, too subtle for there to be much of a difference in the dark) and, “Once,” before the door swings open for Fleurent the Idiot, who is hulking and bearded and flanked by smaller men with less Orlesian styling, and whose presence causes any feeling on Bastien’s face to recede.

He doesn’t move, just passes the papers into an open hand.

“Byerly Rutyer,” he says without being asked. “He’s a fool—“ It’s not a hidden dagger, but it might lower a guard or give him a turned back. “—but he is worth something. Do not waste him.”

“Shut up,” Fleurent says, and Bastien raises his eyebrows but doesn’t open his mouth while they close in to examine the catch.