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"Yes. It should."
There is a rare frank, plain-spoken quality to this assertion. It is as direct as his attention on her. If Flint turns slightly against his shoulder in the shadow of the wall's crenal, it's only to face her more directly.
"Just because we're suited to this doesn't mean it should be required." The last time he checked, they weren't in Par Vollen. Moreover, "The only people not angry, to whom it doesn't matter to have been set into such a position, are the ones I would gauge to be the least qualified for it."
There is a rare frank, plain-spoken quality to this assertion. It is as direct as his attention on her. If Flint turns slightly against his shoulder in the shadow of the wall's crenal, it's only to face her more directly.
"Just because we're suited to this doesn't mean it should be required." The last time he checked, they weren't in Par Vollen. Moreover, "The only people not angry, to whom it doesn't matter to have been set into such a position, are the ones I would gauge to be the least qualified for it."
Yseult's frown deepens not in disagreement but thought, acknowledging the courtesy of his directness by not trying to hide the sense of gears turning, or the tension in her jaw that suggests she finds the whole process unpleasant. The dip of her chin into her own collar hides only from the wind and maybe the question of how angry she is or ought to be.
"I don't know that there will come a time when people like me are no longer required. Even in peace there will always be something that could be done. At some point, either I walk away or I continue until the work kills me. And if I walk away, it would make a great deal of sacrifice meaningless."
"I don't know that there will come a time when people like me are no longer required. Even in peace there will always be something that could be done. At some point, either I walk away or I continue until the work kills me. And if I walk away, it would make a great deal of sacrifice meaningless."
"There will be a point. You'll get too old, or someone else will just be better, or you'll have spent too long moving against the Venatori to make the right decisions when they're no longer your enemy," says the man who still wears a sword on his hip most days despite retaining only tolerable skill with it. He's too slow now to relearn what he gave away to the Arlathan, but there it sits.
"It would seem to me there are two pressing questions for people like us. How do I make it that long, and who comes next? The answer to the first one is some combination of luck and pretending in the interim. The second one, though. That you may manage to some degree."
The faint tilting of his temple has the narrowest searching quality. If she were to glance in his direction, she would find him expecting to meet her eye.
"Have you considered bringing on an assistant for the office?"
"It would seem to me there are two pressing questions for people like us. How do I make it that long, and who comes next? The answer to the first one is some combination of luck and pretending in the interim. The second one, though. That you may manage to some degree."
The faint tilting of his temple has the narrowest searching quality. If she were to glance in his direction, she would find him expecting to meet her eye.
"Have you considered bringing on an assistant for the office?"
A point at which she is too old, too slow, too known or too out of touch. In other words, a point at which she's no longer capable of doing the work. Around they come, back to the inescapable: as long as she can, she must. There's only a little arrogance in thinking that point is years off still, maybe decades, with luck. More years gone and opportunities with them. More sacrifices piled on the scales, demanding more accomplishments to balance against them. She is too tired by the idea to indulge in anger.
The turned-up lapel hides the heavy breath she exhales in the too-long moment after his question. She squares her shoulders, re-crosses her arms against her chest, and turns to meet Flint's eye and shake her head.
"I don't want someone at my elbow all day." And she still hasn't learned how to delegate.
The turned-up lapel hides the heavy breath she exhales in the too-long moment after his question. She squares her shoulders, re-crosses her arms against her chest, and turns to meet Flint's eye and shake her head.
"I don't want someone at my elbow all day." And she still hasn't learned how to delegate.
This seems to be the answer he'd expected. It doesn't affect the point of his attention on her.
"You might give it some consideration if you ever want to be in a position to be done with this. Even here, successors don't often fall out of thin air."
And a rifter probably wouldn't suit for her work even if they did.
"You might give it some consideration if you ever want to be in a position to be done with this. Even here, successors don't often fall out of thin air."
And a rifter probably wouldn't suit for her work even if they did.
Which is a problem already, because "My division's nearly all rifters. All the ones with enough tenure to consider."
"They're not bad candidates," she concedes with a grudging note, "It may be the most skilled group of agents we've had in my time here. But they've plenty to learn about the world and it's hard to invest too much in training when they might vanish."
"They're not bad candidates," she concedes with a grudging note, "It may be the most skilled group of agents we've had in my time here. But they've plenty to learn about the world and it's hard to invest too much in training when they might vanish."
It's a fair point, concedes the slant of his brow and the brief give in the fixture of his attention. But also—
"There's little telling when Corypheus' dragon might fall on the ones that come from here. There's risk either way," is a matter of semantics. It's not like she doesn't know it. They're speaking to the subject directly.
"My point is the work is like everything else. It doesn't change unless you make it change."
"There's little telling when Corypheus' dragon might fall on the ones that come from here. There's risk either way," is a matter of semantics. It's not like she doesn't know it. They're speaking to the subject directly.
"My point is the work is like everything else. It doesn't change unless you make it change."
[Not long after this occurs, Fifi's voice rings politely over the crystal:]
Madame. Another sharded upper-class Tevene is in our midst.
[Is she smirking? Is that possible to tell over purely audio?]
She commanded that I announce her. I thought you'd like to know.
[Needless to say this is the only 'announcement' Vega's getting.]
Madame. Another sharded upper-class Tevene is in our midst.
[Is she smirking? Is that possible to tell over purely audio?]
She commanded that I announce her. I thought you'd like to know.
[Needless to say this is the only 'announcement' Vega's getting.]
Typical aristocracy: arrogant, perhaps not intentionally cruel, but thoughtless in the way of one who's likely been spoiled and sheltered.
She's young. New to the world beyond her doorstep, I'd wager.
She's young. New to the world beyond her doorstep, I'd wager.
Charming. A useful addition, I'm sure. [ Comments she would keep to herself with most people, but she trusts Fifi to both agree and keep them to herself. ]
Did she come accompanied, or is she a mage? I cannot imagine she would have made it this far otherwise.
Did she come accompanied, or is she a mage? I cannot imagine she would have made it this far otherwise.
I'm not certain if she's a mage, but she had no escort, so I suppose that's a fair assumption.
Not that I saw. Our interaction was brief.
The breath she exhales through her nose is a huff of annoyance and grudging concession. She makes a face to match and just for a second as her lips thin she feels sixteen, standing in front of Isak and having to admit the point of a lesson. "I suppose not."
Would a safe pair of hands be enough to absolve her of this responsibility? She has doubts, but there's only one way to find out and it's probably nearer than victory or her fiftieth birthday. Still not near enough not to cost, but maybe that's just what she owes.
Her cigarette has burned down to a nub between her knuckles and she pinches it between fingertips and flicks it into the wind.
"Whose ring is that? The little silver one."
Would a safe pair of hands be enough to absolve her of this responsibility? She has doubts, but there's only one way to find out and it's probably nearer than victory or her fiftieth birthday. Still not near enough not to cost, but maybe that's just what she owes.
Her cigarette has burned down to a nub between her knuckles and she pinches it between fingertips and flicks it into the wind.
"Whose ring is that? The little silver one."
It catches him off guard. That much is clear in the flicker of his expression, some slackening and then redoubling about the tension he holds high about the eyes. And a momentary lag in following the direction of the question manifests as the absent motion of his hand where it lays tucked in under the coat against the warmth of his side. Which ring? His hand drawn half free from the shelter of the coat. A glance down that isn't actually necessary to recognize the band, but impulsive. Oh, that one.
It's his, he could say. Which is true enough. He has a small collection of like jewelry and it isn't the only ring he wears consistently. But it's the one without any stone, well scuffed from long wearing. It's the least likely to have been perceived as valuable and pilfered off a corpse's finger. Unlikely to have been acquired with the cash of a pirate haul. Bearing little in the way or ornamentation that might suggest some impulsive acquisition. It's just a slim silver band, one side's face hammered flat. He used to wear it on a different finger. Now it only fits the smallest.
"It was a gift," he says, setting his hand in back against his side with little fanfare. "A woman of some value to me thought I should have it to play the part."
It's his, he could say. Which is true enough. He has a small collection of like jewelry and it isn't the only ring he wears consistently. But it's the one without any stone, well scuffed from long wearing. It's the least likely to have been perceived as valuable and pilfered off a corpse's finger. Unlikely to have been acquired with the cash of a pirate haul. Bearing little in the way or ornamentation that might suggest some impulsive acquisition. It's just a slim silver band, one side's face hammered flat. He used to wear it on a different finger. Now it only fits the smallest.
"It was a gift," he says, setting his hand in back against his side with little fanfare. "A woman of some value to me thought I should have it to play the part."
She does make it to Yseult's office but did not give herself enough time to walk up there: she enters the office breathing hard, cheeks bright red from exertion and embarrassment. Searching in vain for a reflective surface (in which she might check her appearance), she starts to pat at her hair, tidying it, tucking loose, thin strands behind her ears.
The Scoutmaster is at her desk.
Vega clears her throat urgently at her. She stops plucking at her dress, leaving her arms rigid at her sides.
The Scoutmaster is at her desk.
Vega clears her throat urgently at her. She stops plucking at her dress, leaving her arms rigid at her sides.
The Scoutmaster is at her desk, a pen in hand, poised over a page on the blotter. She doesn't look up as Vega arrives, not that the extra moment will do her so very much good--there is no mirror in the office.
"Sit," she instructs, presumably meaning the lightly cushioned pair of wooden chairs set opposite her current position, not the armchairs arranged before the hearth on the far wall, upholstered in a tasteful shade of gray. Yseult herself wears green, her blouse a brilliant emerald wool, the right sleeve rolled neatly back to avoid stray ink. She makes another note.
"Sit," she instructs, presumably meaning the lightly cushioned pair of wooden chairs set opposite her current position, not the armchairs arranged before the hearth on the far wall, upholstered in a tasteful shade of gray. Yseult herself wears green, her blouse a brilliant emerald wool, the right sleeve rolled neatly back to avoid stray ink. She makes another note.
She looks very elegant; it's extra insulting to Vega that they be made to meet like this, Yseult poised behind her desk, writing and looking beautiful, Vega opposite standing her wearing red, skin to match, still breathing hard.
She sits.
Starts to fidget impatiently with a loose thread on her sleeve, left knee knocking against the edge of the desk and producing a soft, even sound. Is she supposed to wait until she has finished her thought?
Vega clears her throat again.
She sits.
Starts to fidget impatiently with a loose thread on her sleeve, left knee knocking against the edge of the desk and producing a soft, even sound. Is she supposed to wait until she has finished her thought?
Vega clears her throat again.
Edited (oops) 2024-02-22 01:28 (UTC)
Could I take Fifi into the Crossroads?
I can keep the passphrase from her, and it would only be to look have a look around nearby, [ now that they've been relocated and assembled in their tidy circle. ] Nothing dangerous. No wandering. She only wants to see, and she's been cleaning up after us for so long–and I think she could do a lot more than that, you know, if she—
[ He pulls back on the reins. ]
I am prepared to bribe you.
I can keep the passphrase from her, and it would only be to look have a look around nearby, [ now that they've been relocated and assembled in their tidy circle. ] Nothing dangerous. No wandering. She only wants to see, and she's been cleaning up after us for so long–and I think she could do a lot more than that, you know, if she—
[ He pulls back on the reins. ]
I am prepared to bribe you.
Yseult lifts a finger at this second throat clearing, looking up from the page without raising her head or ceasing to write to smile in a way that is politely warm and understanding, but not apologetic.
"If you need a cup of water, please help yourself," she says, indicating a sideboard with a pitcher atop it by the angle of her head. "This is nearly finished."
Whether Vega gets up or not, she writes what looks like another sentence or two, blots the page, and finally sets it and her pen aside, folding her hands in front of her and fixing her eyes on Vega. "What led you to choose the Scouting Division?"
"If you need a cup of water, please help yourself," she says, indicating a sideboard with a pitcher atop it by the angle of her head. "This is nearly finished."
Whether Vega gets up or not, she writes what looks like another sentence or two, blots the page, and finally sets it and her pen aside, folding her hands in front of her and fixing her eyes on Vega. "What led you to choose the Scouting Division?"
Two bottles of good wine, a jar of peach preserves, and a pair of shoes I took from a boudoir in Halamshiral. They seem like something you would wear for the summer. No heel, quiet, breathable. And they have these little embroidered flowers that are not too showy. You could never wear them around Mathilda Bonnot, is the only problem, but she does not leave Orlais, so...
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