The look that Byerly turns on Ivan is an unusual brand of strung-out - at least an unusual brand of strung-out for By. The taut intensity in his face is, for once, not of chemical origin: he's not amphetamine-paranoid, nor hungover, nor in the upswing of a craving for something with an edge. (Though he could do with something, anything, that isn't more of that blasted maple mead or their foul ales...) No: this is stress, pure and simple.

The source of that stress? A rolled-up carpet at his feet. A rolled-up carpet of suspicious thickness.

"Oh, Ivan, you're here," Byerly sings out with some (rather weak) imitation of good cheer. "Help me with this, would you?"