Alistair reddens -- whether at the remark or the smile, who knows -- and steps outside.

(Both. The answer's both.)

The evening's rations aren't completely depleted by the time he arrives, thank the Maker: he secures a portion of meat and some kind of roasted root or another to bring back to their tent. Midway there, his foot catches a scrap of leather that must have fallen off the heap destined for the camp's makeshift armory. He doesn't notice it until it's winging forward a yard or so.

Hm.

After a couple seconds to ponder, Alistair picks it up to stuff in his pocket.




"Three," he announces as he pushes open the tent flap. "Four if you count the man looking up at the trees and whistling to himself."