Marcus does not see the fine manifestations of this thought process. He is watching, too intently, the slope of Richard's shoulders, the movements of his hands, to clock Bastien's disapproving tip towards him. He spares a look towards Derrica to divine some meaning, there,

but there are meanings he can fill in. He shares his life with a rifter, knows the calculations she makes about how long away she can travel when duty takes her further afield than the rest of the company.

"And coming back was no choice at all," he says, in case Bastien and Derrica make the mistake of straying towards more generous interpretations of Richard's appearance on the road. "Your dagger. Remove it, drop it."