This elicits a snort from the man across the table—a certain curling of the lip and a wrinkling of the nose. It is a brief, but blatant flash of something very like impatience and shockingly candid in its shape for a man who is so thoroughly opaque for so many hours of the day.

He raises his cup, saying,

"Unfortunately, there would seem to be little means by which to cross that particular gap."

And takes a brisk sip of lukewarm ale. This southern mage business is a shit show.