He didn’t remove his trousers, thankfully, but instead threw on a different shirt. The sleeves of this one were cut into long ribbons near the wrists.

“Upon call,” he said, “become my fingers and grip that which I must.”

The cuff tassels wiggled.

“Wait,” Vivenna said. “What was that? A Command?”

“Too complicated for you,” he said, kneeling and undoing the cuff of his trousers. She could see that here, too, there were extra lengths of cloth. “Become as my legs and give them strength,” he Commanded.

The leg-tassels crossed under his feet, growing tight. Vivenna didn’t argue with his insistence that the Commands were “too complicated.” She just memorized them anyway.

Finally, Vasher threw on his tattered cloak, which was ripped in places. “Protect me,” he Commanded, and she could see a lot of his remaining Breath drain into the cloak. He wrapped his rope belt around his waist—it was thin, for a rope, but strong, and she knew its purpose was not to keep his trousers up.