OPEN: Kirkwail

[faderifting]

WHO: Anyone
WHAT: Ghosts
WHEN: Wintermarch 20
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: OOC post. More content warnings than you can shake a stick at, probably, including allusions to slavery and violence in the body of the log post. Please use appropriate warnings in the subject lines for your own threads.

The storm sweeps in like an assassin: unexpected, in the dark, and throwing sharp pricks of sleet at exposed eyes and noses with expert aim and enough force to almost draw blood if the angle is right. Half an hour after the clouds crest the cliffs is all it takes for the city to retract indoors and huddle around fireplaces, settling in for a long night that will, unforeseen, turn into a long two days.

The Gallows, too, is pelted with ice; the walls of the cliffs and the fortress protect much of it from the worst of the wind, but when it can find a path over or through the walls, it slams through windows or doors to scatter papers and snuff out fires.

In the dark, in the rain, hurrying between towers or already accustomed to jumping firelight casting strange shadows and the wind howling like a wounded animal, people might be forgiven if they don't notice at first. But there's a hanging in the courtyard, a dozen translucent wisps of bodies dangling from the idea of nooses, and there's a girl's voice in the basement of the templar tower screaming for her mother, and there's a ghostly man in the library holding the blade of a knife to his palm and whispering this is it, this is it—or maybe there isn't, actually, when you lift your head to pay closer attention.

But as the night wears on they multiply, and they brighten, and even if you haven't noticed them, they begin to notice you.

Comments

[bouchonne]

And there it is.

There are two options before him, as far as he can tell. Well, three, but attempting to kill her and escape is out of the question for a number of reasons.

The first option is: continue to play dumb. Potential advantages are that he might be able to convince her, at least temporarily, which would allow him time to escape if this is actually a ploy to get him to admit his guilt to justify more dire consequences. It will not, however, reset the status quo: even if he manages to three-quarters convince her that he's the fool he pretends to be, she'll still maintain that last one-quarter sense of suspicion out of principle if nothing else. He will always be watched henceforth - maybe not actively, but enough to hinder his activities. So this is the good choice only if he thinks she's after a justification for doing away with him. Which - that depends on the recklessness and maliciousness of the Inquisition, he supposes. To eliminate a spy from a semi-allied power isn't necessarily in their best interests, but they also might be desperate for some sense of victory after the disaster of Ghislain.

Option two: admit to it. Potential advantages here are - well. There are plenty of them. First and foremost, he might be able to tap into her resources, if they're more formally allied. Might be able to up his efficacy. On the other hand, he'll lose a great deal of his independence. Any missions he undertakes will be examined; the pure advancement of Ferelden's interests will be considerably more difficult. But also -

But also, after Ghislain, does he even believe in the pure advancement of Ferelden's interests? Is there much point to advancing Ferelden's borders into Orlais if they're all going to be writhing and dying of Darkspawn taint in six months? The orders from home told him to not make his presence known and simply influence things when he spotted an opportunity to help Ferelden. Well - back home, they haven't had an opportunity to see just how much of a threat to Ferelden Corypheus is.

So he'll use his judgment. The Spymaster will be ever so pleased. He loves it when Byerly uses his judgment. Loves it.

So: decision made. By sits back. His expression shifts subtly but powerfully. The foolish, puzzled smile shifts into one harder and dryer. The vagueness in his eyes that suggests a morning tipple - that sharpens. Everything that was arranged and fabricated to suggest this man is a fool is abandoned; what is left behind is an expression that is focused, that is skeptical but not suspicious.

"And pray tell, my turtledove," he says, "how will that work? Working for the Inquisition in earnest? Bearing in mind that earnestness is quite antithetical to my usual mode of operation."

[hassaran]

"You know what I mean." She remains unflappable, but like his her face has quietly transformed. Everything placid and flat is gone, replaced by a sort of open inscrutability, as if vaguely mysterious is her natural state and effort has been made to conceal that before now--trompel’œil in reverse, the fake wall pulled back to reveal the tunnel yawning behind.

Her hands remain folded and her tone cool, business-like, the effect only enhanced by the odd cut-glass accent.

"The Inquisition needs information gathered and you will turn whatever skills and experience you may have to supporting that effort. I'll provide you with the targets, you will identify and cultivate agents and report to me. You may also continue to report what you like to Denerim, with three exceptions. Anything you report to them comes to me first. You do not report any information about me or about any other operative engaged in this work on the Inquisition's behalf. And you do not undermine the Inquisition's work. Simple enough."

[bouchonne]

It is always disconcerting, dealing with a professional. Byerly is, frankly, much more accustomed to the lies and obfuscations of the game; he's used to dramatics and fits of passion. Plain-dealing like this almost itches. He almost craves hostility from her, rather than this straightforward coolness.

"A point of order." He lifts a finger. Even focused and professional, he is still a performer. He can't switch the clownishness off entirely - it's a natural part of him. He just dials it back. "If my reports come to you first, then the implication is that you would send them off. You understand why I would not wish for you to be delivering information in my name." A sigh, then, and he runs his fingers over his mustache. "And that request that I not speak of you, or any others...You see, I swore an oath to speak only truth, and the truth in full, to my Queen. That's dangerously close to oath-breaking, little goose."

[hassaran]

Continuing to call her things like 'little goose' is a reliable pathway to hostility, but alas she is too professional to ever let slip her irritation. Instead she tilts her head slightly, one corner of her mouth curving briefly, a bend in her brow, as if faintly bemused.

"Your oath is no concern of mine. Assuage your conscience however you like, but perhaps consider that the alternative is truthfully telling your queen you are no longer able to be of any use to her. As for your reports, you will tell me how they are delivered now and we will devise a satisfactory system."

[bouchonne]

A regretful shrug. "Alas," he responds, his voice light - but his eyes are trained on hers. "And then I shall have to disappear, and another will come to take my place. And you'll have lost your pipeline to Ferelden...at least until you sniff out my replacement. And then they will say the same thing to you - that they will keep no secrets from the Queen - and they will be sent packing, and the cycle will begin anew."

His head tilts to the side. "You want something from me. I'm not opposed to giving it. Indeed, I'll cheerfully bend all of my not-inconsiderable skills to your cause - but not if doing so means I am forsworn. Besides - " A little flutter of his fingers. "You'll be reading over my reports, won't you? Don't you think you're keen enough to edit out any parts that might be sensitive?" And finally, a shrug - "And they already know about you, you know. I wrote about you months ago."

[hassaran]

"Are they so keen on semantic distinctions in Ferelden?" Definite amusement, now. "Will the Grammarian simply blame himself for not wording the oath more carefully to preclude you writing the full truth and then knowingly allowing it to be altered before delivery? Fascinating. Very well."

Her expression doesn't change and her mouth keeps moving, and she considers whether to correct him that she doesn't care about a pipeline to Ferelden, or the ten minutes it will take her to unmask each new replacement, she just needs warm bodies that know even a scrap about the work, but beneath it some part of her is clenched tight and quietly chanting shit. Of course he's written about her already. Because he was looking and she wasn't. Because she wanted to be useful too badly to conceal what use she would be. Was too sick of wearing someone else's skin to care about the danger to her own. And now there is some report filed away in Denerim with her real name and maybe her likeness too depending on his skills, something she has avoided for decades and now she's dropped it in the lap of some cut-rate seducer from Ferelden of all places. It's the stuff spy nightmares are made of.

"Look," she says, and her tone shifts, arms flattening on the tabletop to angle her forward over them. Cool, still, but a slight lessening of the distance in her tone, as well. He's made his priorities clear enough to necessitate a change in tactics, but she doesn't overplay it, still all business just with a thread of conviction now woven through. "You aren't sworn simply to tell your queen the truth; you are sworn, above all, to protect Ferelden and its interests. You were at Ghislain. You know what we face, and you know if Orlais falls the Frostbacks won't slow them long. I'm not asking you to work against your country. I'm asking you to keep a few irrelevant details from them in order to do work that will save Fereldan lives in the long-term. Or you can go back to drinking yourself to death and sending them bits of gossip about the people who do the real work."

[bouchonne]

Ouch. The flinch is very slight - a tiny twitch of his lower eyelids - but she most likely picks up on it. Indeed, the hit is vicious enough that he nearly tries to defend his honor - nearly protests to her that he is not drunk, at least not often, and if she falls for his slurring and stumbling then she's the fool, isn't she...But Byerly knows better than anyone the art of goading people into unwary protests in defense of their dignity. That's how he picks up a good quarter of his intel. He is not so unwary as to fall into that trap himself.

Maker willing, at least. He has few doubts that he's going to make at least a half dozen mistakes in this conversation alone. Mistakes that would be fatal, if she had a hunger to carry out the death-blow. He is at her mercy; it is a sad fact that Ferelden's spies simply aren't what the ones up here are. Himself included. He's simply surviving off determination, improvisation, and a healthy dose of can-do pluck.

"Why are you so desperate to keep everyone hidden?" By asks. "I can think of no reason unless you intend to eventually turn your agents southwards. A prospect that inflicts upon me a most unpleasurable frisson."

[hassaran]

"Why didn't you identify yourself to the Inquisition? Unless you and Ferelden intend to turn against it."

The look she gives him is dry. "Those who volunteered for this cause don't deserve to be caught up in your Spymaster's files for their trouble. Especially the amateurs. And no one will ever trust you after you've spent months laying about spying on them when you could have been helping, but the least you can do is not compound the problem."

[bouchonne]

"I was simply following orders, turtledove," he replies mildly. "If you have questions, you may apply them to our Grammarian." Of course - if Byerly had wanted to out himself, he probably could have made a campaign for it, and they likely would have respected his judgment...but following orders is such a comfortable and tidy excuse.

Still. He lets out a sigh, and sits back, arms crossed. "But - I must ask for clarification. Especially the amateurs, you say. Pray tell, just how many amateurs are we talking here? Or, more precisely, what percentage of your forces are amateurs?"

[hassaran]

"You've been in Kirkwall for half a year. How many professionals have you identified?" Dry, still. There are so few.

Thankfully, they are not the only intelligence service at the Inquisition's disposal--the Nightingale's agents, most of them highly trained, are spread far and wide across Thedas. But as the war has widened so too has their spread, and there are gaps now in that network that require filling. Kirkwall must pull its weight in this area as it has not before, and that brings them to this reluctant recruitment, and several others even more questionable. But she's not inclined to share her plans or her concerns with him.

"You would primarily work alone, so the others are my concern, not yours. If you agree to my terms." Which technically he hasn't done yet.

[bouchonne]

So...a lot of amateurs. Byerly sighs, caught between amusement and exasperation. So perhaps he was too harsh on Ferelden's intelligence apparatus. And a little too harsh on himself...Imagine - him, herding ducklings. Maker preserve them all.

"No identifying information," he says after a moment. "Nothing my superiors could use to ferret them out. But I shall need to report on missions and movements - I am assigned here to ensure that the Queen is not surprised by anything the Inquisition does, and if I am not allowed to ensure that, then there truly is no point in me being here. So if you're not comfortable with me knowing something - Well. I am but a drunken fool. I should think you, with all your experience and skill, will be able to keep it from my bleary eyes, no?"