"Spiking? Not sure I understand the word, but drinking, that I do." He lifts the flask, tipping it to Archeval in what would be a semi-proper showing, before he opens the flask and takes a drink. It's decent enough, but nostalgia says it's nothing like the best he's had, while also much better than the worst.

He swallows, humming at his companion's words. "She's trusting ingenuity, and it's important enough this was said in a way ears can't hear." He taps the gemstone translator that hangs off his waistband, currently sitting in his lap. The network.

"Worst comes to worse, it's the local language—there are people enough I know in our very tense citadel south of here that I could get to translate, either on a whimsy or for a fee. The tipsy ones would find it funny, forget about it before morning as we're waiting for the port to re-open."