He considers the turn of her profile and shoulder there from across his own, his bristled cheek set close against the dark knotwork of embroidery at his coat's edge.
"It does matter. And it should make you angry to be kept from 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."
"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?"
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.
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.
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."
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."
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.
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."
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no subject
"It does matter. And it should make you angry to be kept from it."
no subject
"Should it?"
no subject
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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
"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?"
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."