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WHO: Kitty Jones and Nikos Averesch
WHAT: two revolutionaries walk into a bar, aka have you heard the good word about how monarchies are an oppressive and outmoded form of government here read this pamphlet oh wow you've got a pamphlet too, how cool
WHEN: vaguely Justinian after the Rifter arrival
WHERE: the Boar's Teeth, a gross tavern in Lowtown
NOTES: nah
WHAT: two revolutionaries walk into a bar, aka have you heard the good word about how monarchies are an oppressive and outmoded form of government here read this pamphlet oh wow you've got a pamphlet too, how cool
WHEN: vaguely Justinian after the Rifter arrival
WHERE: the Boar's Teeth, a gross tavern in Lowtown
NOTES: nah
Brusque, and without comment, Nikos stuffs the last of his pamphlets under the lantern sitting in the center of the last trestle table. The paper is not very thick, but it's enough to tilt the lantern a little, shifting the light across the scarred surface of the table.
The Boar's Teeth is grimy in a way that Nikos almost likes, as much as he likes anything. He has spent enough time in taverns like this one. Patrons sitting hunched over their mugs of ale, as likely to be dead silent as to be muttering in conversation with one another. Low-lit, by crude wrought iron chandeliers and scattered lanterns, with plenty of shadows. Not too crowded, and no one too friendly trying to strike up conversation. Music, sometimes, but never by any bards all glittery and obnoxiously showy. When he was younger, he sought out places like this in a desperate attempt to be less-than, to find a place among the lower and working class. Slumming. He was an idiot. He fucking knows better now.
The pamphlets are Caspar's idea. Everything is Caspar's idea. But Caspar's ideas work, usually, so Nikos does as he's told, circulates the information, plants the seeds. Seeds is one of Caspar's words, too, and who knows where he got it from as he's never farmed a day in his life. A simple metaphor, Nikos said, once, and Caspar had laughed, and turned his stupid beautiful smile on him. But it works.
The language in the pamphlet is simple and digestible, written to be read. A short summary of the history of the title of viscount, the Orlesian occupation, the sanctioned process of nobility electing a new line of viscounts from their own ranks when the viscount dies without an heir. A king who is not called a king remains a king, inevitable tyranny. It draws no conclusions but poses simple and pointed questions, questions that the reader of the pamphlet will, hopefully, answer for himself, or at least begin toward consideration.
Or wipe his arse with it, Nikos had said to Caspar. Which made Caspar laugh, which made Nikos, against all odds, smile, because--Maker's balls--he's thirty years old and still besotted.
Not right now. Not on his face, at least. It helps that Caspar isn't in the room. Right now, Nikos is ready to get down to the business of drinking the last of his wine, and going back to the bar for more. That is, until he feels the particular prickle of someone's stare fixed on him, and he turns around to find the source.
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Which is not anything even remotely like an adequate response to everything she's just laid on him. Everything: it wasn't that much, truth be told, but it merits more of a response than what is basically a grunt.
He looks bored, or at least dispassionate. Behind that, he's thinking. Is this worth telling Caspar about, or not. Do they really need Rifters. If it was up to him, Nikos would say fuck no. What matters is what she leaves behind? Sure, only her staying expectancy is nothing she or anyone else can guarantee. In the grand timeline, in the history books, in the events that really and truly matter (big ones, small ones), she'll matter about as much as a fart.
But. Nikos is a cynic. Sensible, is what his mother said, practical, and because she is his mother and she meant those words kindly, she didn't add to a fault. Before he was a revolutionary, an assassin, a professional drunk, he worked best in numbers. Lines and figures, sums that moved back and forth across ledger lines. He was good at it. Caspar measures differently, has tried to show Nikos how to measure differently, worths that have nothing to do with actual physical worth and values that have little to do with anything you can write down in an equation or ledger book.
And it might be worth it to have someone expendable. Someone without connections. Someone who might disappear any day. Practicality agrees with that summation.
"People will hear you, but will assume your opinion is uneducated," he tells her, dully, "because you are from another--whatever. Country. Read and learn, and get used to dismissal running the gamut of friendly to unfriendly. Fortunately within the Inquisition, you're at least likely to be considered a valuable resource. As you've rightly guessed. Something to leverage."
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Well - that's partially true, at least. She reflects - it's not as though she did much talking or convincing of anyone with Mr Pennyfeather. The Resistance took material action; they didn't try to change hearts or minds. That was part of why she'd liked it so much. No more struggling against prejudice and cruelty; that was replaced, instead, by quite literally burning the system down, one building at a time. But...That's not her way anymore. And she can do this.
"I mean - I can't imagine that anyone treats you and your cause with respect. Do they?" She cocks her head at him. "I bet you're constantly getting laughed out of the room - on the occasions you're not chased off at knifepoint."
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Big talk. Knifepoint got knifepoint, back when Nikos was full of fervor, and burning white-hot with the need to tell everyone about his politics. Writing letters of blistering condemnation to his parents. Refusing to eat on holidays so his relatives would realize how serious and committed he was.
Now he knows better. Less of an idiot that he used to be. Probably. Does he still want to change the world? Depends, he would say. Yes, he would mean. He does. It's the world, that barely seems to want it.
"In fact, you're lucky that I'm speaking to you at all." Very dry, and sarcastic enough that she ought to be able to read as much. "I don't usually bother. Especially with Rifters. Is that uphill enough for you?"
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That last bit comes out a bit heavy. Small numbers get wiped out very easy. Eleven of them, in the Resistance, who'd spent years fighting and struggling and giving every ounce of their strength and their passion. Gone in a single night. If there'd been another one of them, another three, they might not have fared any better, but then there'd have been a few of them left behind, to carry on...
A little glumly, she takes a bite of her tart. Then she takes a breath and braces herself and goes on, tamping down her emotions. "Revolutions aren't two-person affairs."
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And probably not punishment enough for laughing at what seems to be some misfortune on the part of the Rifter girl. Small numbers get wiped out easy. There's a heavy story there, likely similar to one that Nikos has heard before. Been around the block a few times.
The amusing part is that his revolution has, for Nikos, always been a two-person affair.
He rubs his sleeve over his mouth, cleaning off some of the wine. And does not bother to apologize, for laughing alone at his inside joke that was barely a joke.
"I have a recruiting officer. He does the talking. But your concern for our work has been noted. Perhaps I'm even cheered by it."
Which maybe explains the laugh.
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Control yourself. Kitty takes a breath, and smooths back her hair, and tamps those emotions further down. "Who's that officer of yours, then?"
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Clandestine meetings, secret contacts--all the rest. Nikos' gaze slides down to the cold bowl of stew. He must be a few shades closer to drunk. He's actually thinking about eating it.
"If you're interested," he says instead, his tone colored in flat boredom. "I suggest keeping available."
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"All right," she says, her eyes intent. "I'll keep available. You know where to find me, I suppose."
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Nikos leans forward just enough to pick up his cup once more.
"I'd like to finish this wine in peace. Which means you can go."
And he takes a sip of wine, with dismissive finality.
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"Get back safely," Kitty says, and stands. And, with a little wave, she heads off.
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