"You like to gird them," he counters, leaning back and smiling with his face turned up in a sunbeam. "Arms, that is," he adds, lips widening, coming close to half a grin. "Of course, it's always grey here. A pleasant philosophical conceit of the climate's, but one does miss the seeming clarity of a naked sky." He slants a speculative look at Cesare. "Tell me, do you think machinations spawn more readily in a drizzling climate, or an iced, or a warm one?"