Don't tell me what to do, he doesn't say although it's written there in every sulky line of him and in the impatient flick of his wrist which hooks the borrowed cane at the chair's arm. One foot, still in its shoe, is kicked up onto the very edge of Kirigan's bed; and then the second one arrives as well, one ankle hooking across the other as Ralston's hands lace together over his middle. The glint in his dark eye suggests that even in Kalvad it must be poor manners to put your shoes in someone's bed.

"Don't tell me you've elected to protect someone's things while they're away. How shockingly sentimental, General."

This, as he settles into the depths of the chair with such devotion that it's as if he's willed himself to become a part of it.