[ Some of the wet droplets tickle the nape of his neck. The rest dampen his finely-cut surcoat only a little, which he can't feel beneath the layers of fabric he's wearing. The cloth is black, but the vining stitching along the hems are white, pale, delicate little vines and leaves. Golden-threaded flowers winked here and there, no bigger than a fingernail. A month or better of someone's work had cone into the single garment alone, into the stitch-perfect tailoring.

A queer stiffness traveled up his back and shoulders. Even from behind one could see he he squared them, and lifted up his chin. And then, quietly, looked over his shoulder. His mouth was smiling; but his eyes were not. His tone was no less jovial when he said, ]

You are what you let yourself be, little man. And here you are, Fade-touched or no, scrubbing dirt on someone else's word. Whatever else you are, whatever else you've been, whatever else you might be in other moments...

[ The black leather of his boots creaked when he turned, but only quietly. His long sleeves whispered as they brushed against his surcoat, the sound of it suddenly louder than his voice when he pitched it very low, raising his hands, ]

You are a servant now. Should I pity you, for the work you resign yourself to? Commend you for such a noble dedication to the drudgery only ever assigned to the low?

[ His fingers crooked, and the water in the bucket filmed with ice. The cold spread, so that both their breaths steamed and plumed in the air before their faces. The water on the other man's hands frosted and formed stinging crystals; beautiful patterns of ice formed on the water spread along the floor. Even the droplets on Lucarius' back froze pale, and hardened. ]

Wisen up. The Inquisition has made a tool of you, and you're being used. And I have no time or patience for the tools of other men.