“‘Le roi des lâches,’” Richard repeats to himself and drains the flute. She is right. “I trust your instincts.”

No one is looking, but he reaches behind her to obscure the act of him flipping his empty glass lightly away over the cliffside all the same. It’s fine, littering hasn’t been invented yet.

“They’re sapient -- highly intelligent and capable spellcasters, with differing personalities and breath weapons by breed. Blue and bronze dragons breathe lightning. Which reminds me,” he turns to face her, while they’re alone: “I’d like to ferry a sample of bone back to a friend off the books, provided there are any left unpulverized when this is over.”