"That only covers you, cub," Ferroc points out tiredly, mostly ignoring the rest with all the mockery. Nothing new there. He's heard worse every day he'd spent as a gladium. "The dead don't breathe, or joke, or drink. You seem to be doing all three."

He shrugs and finishes devouring the meat. Then he moves to get up and --

a tiny thingamabob slips out of his belt pouch, rolls a few inches on the chair and whirrs to life, floating up like a miniatiure helicopter.