Hermes didn't need to be able to hear anyone's thoughts to feel the heaviness in the other slave's heart. "My mistress spoke highly of him," he said offering a sympathetic smile. "Apparently, I would have delighted him. Madame Odile Montmartre, gods rest her. She never said how they knew each other, though I suppose it matters precious little at this point. Still, she praised his cunning and his poetry all at once." It was a shame she'd never taught him how to read or write, but she was foolish and overconfident and too trusting and he had Carrick now. He loved her, of course, but only one of them had survived her sons' displeasure.
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a compact, foldable canvas bag he'd swiped earlier when the shopkeeper was distracted by his petty theft of a tomato and having his thoughts rifled through. He had no need of it and the boy clearly did.
"Hermes, son of Maia. Very pleased to meet you, friend and just as sorry for your loss."