[ Bastien’s smile is fond, his eyes serious above it. ]

I don’t have the first idea what any of them are doing, either. And why should we? Mages and rifters and Valentine de Foncè—I don’t mean they aren’t brilliant, some of them, but they understand all of those things because they’ve spent years learning to. Or they got spit out of the Fade with ideas about magic gloves. One of the two.

And the things I like to read don’t make anyone smart. Not more than going to the theater. And—

[ Sums, fishermen’s daughters. He shakes his head a little and climbs out of the quibbly weeds. ]

I can’t play like you. I’m not sure I’ve met anyone who can. Not just the technical proficiency. The improvisation. The feeling. It is like you speak another language—which you also do better than me. I know you grew up on Orlesian, but you didn’t grow up on Antivan. I watched you learn bard sign in an evening that took me weeks, maybe months.

I’ve watched you pull together information, the sort that matters for what you are doing. How you focus in. And arguing with people the way you like to, spinning them up and letting nothing pass. That takes a quick mind.

And I think there is such a thing as moral intelligence, which, [ with affectionate sternness, ] I refuse to argue with you about. I’m right.