His hands open and close, not for want of clubs for once in his life, but for want of making leave, doing something more, bowing his head. Either way, it's a gesture of anxiousness and he's aware of it, but not caring enough for hiding to bother.

He doesn't have an answer. He doesn't know. He didn't recognize the person, barely saw them really. They hadn't needed to be in the same room for them to speak and be heard and so reach him. His will was no stronger than stardust windblown at the time. He would have done anything. He did.

He shakes his head. They'd want to bring distrust in their number. Distrust in him, in their cause, in everything. He supposes he should be angry for that but he can't be. They'd want it all covered up. They hadn't wanted their people to know there was ever any dissent. Just like he had wanted of Signless and his following, once.

He's surprised, I truth. He's surprised that less people doubt in him.