“Diago? Oh.” He registers I’m talking about the alupi, and smiles. “How droll. Don’t worry about that. Your arm?”
I frown, but see I’m not getting any more from him. Concentrate.
The hundred iron triangles I’ve been keeping as a snug layer of protection beneath my shirt begin to quiver. Slide, flowing upward and into the dangling sleeve on my left. Slowly they coalesce, fitting into place, filling out the cloth. At the end of it, the glimmering iron outline of a hand appears.