open.

[cozen]

WHO: Bastien & Others
WHAT: New job, music stuff, etc.
WHEN: Harvestmere
WHERE: The Gallows & Kirkwall
NOTES: Feel free to hit me up @ circuitry if you want me to start something for you!

i. project jeshavis office

The office for Project Jeshavis hasn’t been entirely empty since Madame d’Asgard’s noble resignation, probably. The work didn’t stop for want of an organizer, and it’s still home to files and books and resources people might need.

But it’s now more occupied than before. During the first few days of the month Bastien can be found arranging piles of documents into slightly different piles, and then perhaps putting them back the way they were. Or struggling to pin twin maps of Orlais and Ferelden to the wall without leaving them crooked. Or—once the maps are up—standing in front of Ferelden and plucking out muscle-memorized snatches of melody on his lute while he stares at a bit of the map for a moment, then at the ceiling, then back at the map.

He’s learning the place names. It’s fine.

After those first few days, he starts asking Fereldans and Orlesians, or anyone with known connections there, or anyone with some other obvious potential contribution to the project’s goal to come by whenever they have a moment.

If anyone takes him up on it—or if anyone stops in just for the sake of it, that’s fine too—they’ll find the door open and him sitting against the edge of the desk rather than in the nearby chair. But he’ll stand up right away for anyone of rank or who he doesn’t know very well.

ii. musician hunt

Elsewhere in the Gallows, Bastien is on the lookout. Or the listenout, more accurately. Is someone strumming a mandolin in the courtyard? Playing an upright bass in the privacy of their own room? Mentioning, in the course of idle conversation with someone who is not him, their experience with the pianoforte?

Great. He’ll stop, he’ll wait politely for them to be finished, and he’ll knock on their door and wait outside if necessary, and then he’ll say, “Allô,” with the distinct air of a man who wants something.

Comments

[cozen]

Mmm, I would not say you were a drunken lout. More of an intoxicated degenerate. It’s a subtle but very important distinction. And I was a con artist and killer for hire, so—it is a good thing we are better than we were.

[bouchonne]

I don't know. Now we're bosses.

[ At least before they had the dignity of being nobodies. ]

What about you? Back to printing after all this?

[cozen]

[ Bastien gives a lip-inflating sigh. ]

Maybe, but—it was so boring, Byerly. Do you have any idea how long it takes to arrange those letters? Tray after tray. And then the pressing. And I am a terrible speller, especially in Orlesian.

[ He steps away from the map, finally, to sit against the edge of the desk. ]

Anyway, if you do keep working for the Crown, I will have to offer myself to the Empire. So we can thwart each other forever.

[bouchonne]

Hm.

[ He rubs his chin, and tries to pretend as though this conversation isn't intensely anxiety-inducing. ]

Or we could trade. I'll serve the Empress, you the Queen.

[cozen]

Ooh, intriguing. That definitely has potential.

[ He smiles for a moment, on a drawn breath. Thinking about saying something he doesn't say. Maybe another time. For now, he twists to rifle around the desk's clutter. ]

What I wanted to ask you, actually, is whether Ferelden knows that some of us know that you are a spy.

[ Target acquired: his tin of rolled cigarettes, which he waves as bait. ]

[bouchonne]

Ah. Of course. Yes.

[ A slight hesitation before By takes the cigarettes. He doesn't meet Bastien's eyes. ]

I tell them everything.

[cozen]

Do you?

[ He leans sideways to try to put himself in the path of that averted gaze, because that won't do at all. ]

Dear Queen Anora. [ Imitation of Byerly's accent: terrible. Idea that he writes directly to the Queen: obviously ridiculous. ] Today we all discussed who we would fuck, marry, and kill. You will be pleased to know that you fared better than Empress Celene.

[bouchonne]

Hah.

[ That cheers By up a bit. But he admits: ]

There is something to be gleaned from that, though, isn't there. Dispositions. Who seems to get stirred up about the thought of kill. [ Which: ] Averesch, of course. Not that he needs a game to slobber over the prospect of spilled royal blood.

[cozen]

He does look like a drooler.

[ He scoots over on the desk, so there’s enough room for Byerly to sit beside him if he’d like to. ]

What’s wrong? Do you feel guilty about it?

[ Which is a heavy question, of course, so he offers something he hopes is lighter—asked with the interest of someone wondering if he was newsworthy about, not worrying he’s been snitched on, a little mischief and no trepidation— ]

Did you tell them about me?

[bouchonne]

Of course.

[ By doesn't sit there, but he does lean, tilting his head to the side to cast Bastien a look from under his long lashes. Maker, he hopes Bastien doesn't hate him, doesn't feel betrayed - But no one can ever claim that By doesn't warn them that he's not a good person. ]

You didn't think you weren't newsworthy, did you?

[cozen]

[ It isn’t that some part of him wouldn’t have warmed and fluttered, to be an exception. Of course it would have. But that would have been the surprise, not this. After the fluttering passed he would have had to reassess his understanding of Byerly. And he’s rather fond of—just very slightly attached to, you know, no biggie—the Byerly he thinks he at least somewhat understands now.

So: no sting of betrayal, no chill of disappointment. It’s nothing. He grins and he shrugs. ]

Bards like me come two for a penny. And with all these spirits and pirates and regicidal assassins—I’m honored you found room for me. Do you have to write very small?

[bouchonne]

[ He relaxes. Sometimes, there are real advantages to Orlesians, or maybe to Bards, or maybe just to these people. So he grins back, and answers: ]

You got a full portrait to accompany your dossier. Which is the gravest insult of all, because you know my terrible art skills.

[cozen]

[ A laugh. ]

If I ever need to avoid being recognized in Ferelden, I will take extra care not look like a mustached potato.

[bouchonne]

You insult me. A mustached turnip, thank you very much.

[ Anyway. ]

So was that what you were going to ask me?

[cozen]

Yes. Not the part about me, I mean. About whether they knew we knew about you. I have been trying to think of what to do with all of this—

[ A gesture around the room, which doesn’t really need anything done with it. But the project does. ]

—and thinking about recommending, ah, cooperating more with the spies that Fereldan and Orlais already have. Sending them a regular report or something. Running around their territory a little less like we own it. Then maybe they are more comfortable telling us if they find something we need to know.

[ A half-solidified idea at best. Perhaps a far-fetched hope. They are awfully full of spirits and pirates and regicidal assassins, to be asking for trust from anyone with an official title. ]

But if your superiors did not know that we knew that you were one of theirs, I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble, you know. [ A shift in his voice for this imaginary, over-acted scenario: ] Hello Ferelden, we would like to offer you information that you definitely are not already receiving in secret! That would be absurd!

[bouchonne]

It's a good notion.

[ He rubs his chin. ]

It could help up here in the Free Marches, as well. Kirkwall especially. There's a reason this city is faintly dog-scented at all times. [ Then, a little wryly: ] And it could save me some time, if you started writing my reports for me.

[cozen]

[ He laughs again, and he thinks if I save you time can steal some of it—but not quite yet. A few more days. ]

I am sure you would need to provide supplements. I would not be sending anyone turnip drawings. But letting them know there was a rift here or a Tevinter spy there. It would be polite. And we come across so many problems we do not really have the authority to solve.

[ He looks at the maps. Orlais, this time, not Ferelden, and the tiny speck of Val Royeaux. It’s a little better now at least, knowing the line is behind Montfort, Tevinter that few map-inches further from home. ]

Do you think they might appreciate the gesture, at least? Even though they have you?