No, she says, but then her bar seems higher than Bastien would have placed it. Maybe that's just him, positioned to relate—in a way his aversion to helplessness won't allow him to look at directly—to children who were hammered into blades, insulated from a sense of the wrongness by people who made it seem natural, and who took too long to walk away. Who didn't have it in them to do anything more heroic or dramatic than just that. He didn't even have the excuse of lyrium addiction.

But you don't argue the case of the redeemable raider to the woman whose village is still smoldering. He only absorbs what she's said, considering what it says about what she's been through, what it says about her, while their neighbor holds up a hand to summon another drink. He's turned an interesting mix of ruddy-cheeked and green-gilled.

After he's sat with it for a few moments, a nod, and then a shift: "What do you think is possible? After the war, I mean—the world where the people you care for are safe. What is that like?"