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WHO: Silver, Flint
WHAT: Two pirates scouring Kirkwall's bookshops in the service of important diplomacy work.
WHEN: Early Drakonis
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Doing their JOBS.

It is their fourth stop. They've wound their way through the more prominent Hightown booksellers, having worked their way from out of the company of skittish shopkeepers anxiously overseeing the systematic scrutiny of their shelves by two alleged pirates and into the clutches of what can only be described as Kirkwall's most peevish old bat:

"I don't care who you think you are; you can't be here this long without purchasing something," she'd wheezed at them in the cavernous old place, one hand trembling at the head of her cane and the other arm wrapped around a ginger cat with large blinking eyes.

Which is why they now own a collection of romance novels with increasingly unlikely love interests, including but not limited to a Chantry sister and a shapeshifting witch, between them. It's also why they're being left alone now to pick through the labyrinthine shop's back room, wading through unorganized stacks of used titles, and--

Choking on dust, mostly.

"Have you considered simply copying the book instead?" This said into his sleeve while scrubbing a thick layer of grime from one of the room's upper shelves.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Riftwatch's Ambassador is going to travel to Orlais to broker the loan of the two merchant ships to the navy," he says without breaking the rhythm of examination - pull a book down, flip through it, replace it elsewhere, repeat ad nauseam. Tomorrow his arm may be sore from all this practice. "He expressed the need for someone who knows ships in some professional capacity to accompany him."

Here, his eye line slides down from the top of the ladder with slow, painfully desiccated humor to land on Silver. You know things about boats, don't you?

"Apparently pirates used to be fashionably outrageous."

"Perhaps I should see if Mr. DeGroot can be spared," John returns smoothly, privately pleased with the flicker of shared humor before he considers the task that's actually being put to him.

Inevitably, the same prickle of mortification and irritation rises in him. He may well be considered outrageous, but for a more singular reason than pirates of the past. The feeling will pass. Or he will be able to set it aside. He takes a moment to pluck through the contents of another box. Pamphlets, ribbon-wrapped diary, oversized, moth-bitten collection of maps—

"Why me? Is there an element of this that can benefit our business?"

Here, unearthed from behind the first layer of books, a series of Orlesian histories. They are no more or less promising than the other caches of Orlesian titles in translation in the other shops they've been to this afternoon, but he stops reviewing the first row of books - all dry treatises on Free Marcher borders and old famoly lineage books - in favor is simply reshelving them below to expose the collection in its entirety.

"As things stand here, there's no way for us to bring both ships to bear. Our odds of securing the channel and retaking Val Chevin are increased with a strong allied force at our elbow. After the breaking of the blockade Orlais' force will need to be reinforced.

It benefits the war.

"I see."

They are far removed from John's journeys to Llomerryn.

John draws a palm down the spines of a stack of books to better squint at their titles. A few would be interesting, if he weren't trying to seek out one book in particular.

"Then I'll go to Orlais with the Ambassador, and see if we can't secure the ships," John acquiesces. "Though I'd point out that you accompanying him would have much the same effect as my presence."

If this is official. If this is for the war, and not for their war, which more and more exist separately in John's mind when he considers the actions they take and which conflict is served.

"If the Ambassador and I were to be in close quarters for that length of time, he'd disappear somewhere in the middle of the sea before ever seeing Orlais,"

—is a joke, like they are still telling them.

"I've given him the idea with the expectation that he ask Orlais for something in exchange for their use of our ships. If I'm there to assist in the negotiation, he'll find some reason to suspect whatever agreement we could arrive at between us. You might have better luck. At the very least, I suspect you'll get farther with Rutyer than I would."

"There's always a chance he divines that we are working towards the same purpose."

Which they are, of course. Even in the wake of Nevarra and all that's gone wrong since, their ultimate goal is surely unchanged.

"Have you left him with some idea of what he should be negotiating for?"

"None whatsoever. I want to know what he'll ask for given the rein to do so. I want you there as security - to be certain whatever it is doesn't interfere with our work here."

A slab of books is relocated to the lower shelf, his sleeve employed for scrubbing dust from the spines of the exposed volumes behind them.

Is this some expression of trust? John can't quite decide whether or not he's being dispatched in the same spirit. The sense of fracture persists, even as Flint charges him with safeguarding their interests.

"Alright."

The inevitable acquiescence. What reason does he have to refuse?

"And is there anything else I should know?"

There's some terrible humor in John putting that question forth, but it must be asked.

That he and Rutyer have designs on the soporati in Tevinter, maybe, and how closely those designs align with Silver's work for Riftwatch. His surprise, when he'd confessed to Rutyer that were they to shift Tevinter refugees into Nevarra that it might destablize whichever party was made most subject to them and Rutyer had seemed either unaware of or to discard the potential for that to be weaponized in the conflict between Van Markham and Pentaghast. Isaac's response with respect to the question of Leander. The work Artemaeus is being forced to, and how exhausting the constant implication that he is being entertained in the dungeon for no purpose whatsoever and how that is cruel and overly considerate in turns is. Lady Asgard's sanctimony; how she is either a liar or so self involved that she cannot see past her own nose, and how dangerous either option is in the woman meant to be coordinating with their allies. That Fabria wants to send a messenger to Fiona carrying the word of the deal made with the Van Markhams, and that they will need someone trustworthy both to the rebel mages and to them to carry it. That they might a finger hold on the pulse of a would-be slave rebellion in Tevinter, if only Kitty Jones would stop cutting off digits to spite them. That he means to place Darras Rivain in charge of Riftwatch's paltry navy forces, the Walrus excluded. That there is both an upstart Qunari fresh from out of the Qun's shadow and a Neverran woman who gives every impression of wanting to wear all their skin under his command and few options for checking either. That he is tired of the view from the division office's window.

(That he is tired, he does not think.)

There is a slim volume newly exposed on the shelf, its thin spine mottled with dust which will need more than his sleeve to fully clean away. He draws it out into the light.

"Just that Madame de Cedoux knows what we did in Nevarra. That likely means Enchanter Julius will too."

John pauses, one hand flat on the cover of a decaying diary of a Starkhaven Chantry sister.

"Is that all?"

It is no small thing. How long has Madame de Cedoux known? What prompted sharing the truth with her? The question unspool further and further, but John poses just the one. Just a singular question, one that John could answer for himself.

Where he is perched high on the ladder, the book is set with a dusty imprint across his knee. Flint looks down at him.

This isn't the question he'd anticipated.

"Should there be?"

There's a slight pause as John shifts the diary aside and turns to lean back against the counter.

"I imagine there is, but you have chosen to keep your own counsel on it."

Alright, so we're doing this.mp3

His hand is careful across the book, fingers spread over the speckled cover - grey dust on his fingertips and drifting thick in the air from the disturbed shelves.

"If you have questions, you're welcome to them."

"How long are we going to continue in this fashion?"

There are more delicate ways to phrase it, but John opts for blunt, looking up at Flint haloed in motes of dust. The pretense of rare novels is momentarily forgotten.

"And what fashion is that?"

Which sounds like the quiet flex of a heel beginning to dig in.

All the reply he receives for a moment is a withering look. The implication: you know. John doesn't dignify it with spoken protest, just lets it hang between them before he speaks again.

"If we are to continue in our partnership, if I am to be of any use to you here, then we must find some way to reconcile this."

This covering so much space, the fracture that has split between them.

There is a sharp line being drawn in that. He is very still in response to it - somehow it defines the distance, provides a ruler by which to measure it.

"We." That is for making space and measuring it with as well. "I'm sorry. I was unaware you felt any desire to reconcile with any of this."

"It has become clear to me that we must."

That their discussion aboard the Walrus in the wake of their return from Nevarra had not been enough. The strain has not resolved itself.

And perhaps some of this is John's own discontent exacerbating the situation, robbing him of patience. If things had gone differently when Nevarra fell beneath waves of the dead, or if circumstances had provided John with a clear path to some utility, he may never have raised this question.

A soft noise, not quite like a scoff but breathing close to it - some point of well exercised irritation coming high enough to cut through the surface he has spent so much effort designing to sit between them. That thin book is summarily removed from its place on his knee and is set onto the lower shelf.

"You know where I stand in this. I said--" A pause, a glance shot down the length of the store room. There is no sign of their doddering old chaperone, though her orange cat is there at the end of the stack watching with fascination all the dust being stirred up. In a low, even tone that will not carry, Flint continues, "You know what was said. If you require clarification, it has more to do with your position than mine."

"Yes, my position."

It is a struggle to consider only this moment. Only their partnership.

"I cannot divine whether you attempt to protect me or if you no longer find me a suitable ear for your concerns. But either way, I am of little use to you if I am kept in the dark."

No matter how many times he repeats himself, the fact remains that he is a liability. All the utility in the world doesn't change that.

And it's simpler to look at all of this in those terms, rather than revisit their earlier conversation.

But since when has Flint let go of the opportunity to revist anything?

"Kept in the--" He bristles, catches himself. It's like a dog with something squirming in its jaws, a kind of forced moderation uneasily straddling the line between a trained soft mouth and the instinct to snap, crunching, down. "You wanted to be kept there."

"I wanted us to go on as we had been. Partners. Not stashed in the hold."

That turn of phrase is getting away from him a little. All of this has gotten away from him a little, perhaps from the moment he'd made the decision to disable the Walrus. Had that been the tipping point? Had it been before that? Had it come after? Perhaps there was no specific moment but just a series of little compromises that had ended up here, in this tiny, dust-covered shop looking up at Flint in the midst of conversation that grows more absurd by the moment.

"You don't get both."

--is snapped back, a bone crunch of temper that doesn't wholly belong to this room, or to this conversation. Or it does, but it has been dragged around behind him for long enough to have picked up all variety of sharpened edges.

"You're asking for me to be somehow transparent and simultaneously be blocked from view. How would you have me do that? When Speaker Fabria and his fellows are well acquainted with the issue and may indulge in the answering of questions. How would you have me preserve you from the obvious scrutiny that might arise were I to include you in whatever business I do with Riftwatch's mages? Which is what this position, the one I am holding for the sake of our mutual interests, presently demands."

Some line in his face goes still, then rapidly narrows to close around any vulnerable feature.

"Do you not trust me with it? Is that what this is?"

"You can't be serious."

As John pushes upright, crutch taking his weight, the haphazardly balanced box at the edge of the table tips. The resulting thud is followed by a whispery spill of yellowed paper. Their sole feline observer hisses in answer.

"You can't imagine that if I didn't trust you implicitly that I would have remained here."

The larger objections wait, momentarily stayed by the absurdity of that suspicion.

In some other circumstance, it might prompt a step forward. In this one - despite a lifetime of companion ways taken in the dark and in high weather with a ship rearing through trough and over wave -, the ladder checks him.

"You think this is a waste of time."

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three hours for this tag

#blessed

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