"No way to tell from here," He muses. The strangers are garbed identically, sans eclectic hair or brow, and not half so unruly as their own lot. "But I don't think we're that lucky, no."

He frowns. The intentional production of anchors has long been a consideration. In some ways, Rifters would be better – they've a way of vanishing – in most, much worse. Strange abilities, new innovations, and the thin possibility that those they have always taken for granted might find the numbers to defect.

(That he does not think they would enjoy their circumstance, well. The dream showed fears, not facts; it would be clever to spoil them under guard.)

"We need information before action," And neither of them is precisely an infiltrator. Follow the wagon, free it, and they might set off half the alarms in the city. Cassieopeia knows his face. "Perhaps we could work back from your phylactery idea."

"We don't know that they can be made of Rifters," So far as Isaac believes. "But we do know how you react to lyrium."

He really must thank Poppell some day.