“I wasn’t planning to ask for any,” Kostos says—flippantly, in his own dark style, nearly a joke—but underneath that he’s thinking of Nell and Gareth and their bright red blood, and dead Templars climbing back to their feet, and the smell of burned hair and skin, and the dazed look on someone’s face when they’ve been struck by lightning but haven’t quite realized that their heart’s no longer beating.

He downs most of what’s left in his tankard in one go.

“Do you have any playing cards?”