Ithacles was taking great quaffs of his ale. The heady beer left a foamy ring on the inside of the tankard every time he drained a few inches of it in one gulp. He knew a horseman in the Reavers who claimed he could tell where someone was from by how many rings clung to the walls of their empty tankard. He never looked into it himself but supposedly someone from Faustben would only have five or six, while those from warmer lands sipped theirs so slowly as to leave a dozen.
He wasn't exactly cold right then, but bitterly angry and confused. Lethe had to have her reasons, but he couldn't even begin to speculate as to what they were. She loved power, policy, and administration but she was above treason...
"Huh," he mused out loud, with his tongue stuck against his cheek. The tankard came up and he finished it in one tilt.
"-necessarily but something ties you to this, and if we don't know what it is, we're never gonna get close to the answer."
Where the hell would he even start? This wasn't his game. And yet the stakes were, evidently, astronomical. Ithacles knew that when he found the truth, someone would have to swing for it.