Certainly his fellows would laugh if they knew he wasted the time he paid for here with talk, but to Ordhan it was no waste. With no one to listen to him, his spirit would surely whither; if he had no one to tell how much he hated his helplessness, he might become comfortable in it. He might become like some of the others.
His stomach turned again at the memory and his jaw clenched. Lillian had a good memory, and knew that among her clients he was one who hated the city, and knew as well that he mentioned it most often when something happened. Over the years other scars had joined the thin white line that ran from wrist to elbow, and he did not bother to hide them from her or conceal the stories behind them. The others never bothered to ask; they pretended to find them attractive, purring about how they gave him a seasoned look.
This time it wasn't an attack that distressed him so--that is, not on himself. "The Alienage, again," muttered Ordhan. That itself hinted at his troubles; he was usually not assigned there unless he was being punished, enough reason in itself to drag him towards depression.