"Is that how he put it?" Redvers says to Cedric—right, Cedric—as he slides his hand in to shake. "Feels the other way around most of the time. I've told him so."

More or less. Redvers' letters to the Templars on the front are 40 to 80 percent complaints, saved from outright whining by wryness of tone.

He doesn't ask Cedric what brings him here. Matching green hands answer that.

"How were things when you left?"