faderift | [closed] if you're here and I'm here then who's flying the plane

Entry tags:

james flint,
yseult

[closed] if you're here and I'm here then who's flying the plane

WHO: Flint & Yseult
WHAT: Trust exercises
WHEN: Immediately pre-hasmal invasion
WHERE: Near Hasmal
NOTES: will include content warning in subject lines if applicable

It's almost guaranteed that their contact has utilized the flow of refugees across the border and toward Hasmal as a cover to pass into the South, though they aren't meant to meet them in that. Doubtless every breed of intelligencier currently peddles their trade there, for if an agent of one secret network might slip in that direction then why not agents of all?

Rather, after crossing the broad width of the Minanter on one of the point-nosed ferries (in the company of a pilot with a near supernatural skill for weaseling extra coin out of pocket, but who tactfully neglects to intervene in the debate his passengers are engaged in), they hire a pair of horses and turn west toward what is allegedly an all but forgotten trading post by the name of Drake's Landing which is said to boast such luxuries as a nearly empty inn and the cheapest drink in the political tri-corner.

At some point—perhaps after the fourth or fifth narrow bridge that they have to coax the horses across, for the landscape is threaded through with twisting offshoots of the Minanter—Flint remarks, "If we come this way again, it would be faster to row in."

Maybe that's how the Venatori beat them to the Landing. Or maybe the ferry pilot had a raven in the little cabin at the back of his boat who had carried word of a certain notable captain of Riftwatch swiftly North.

Regardless—

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She watches only for a moment, out of the corner of a low-lidded eye, as Flint hauls himself into a different position. She could help him--would--but elects not to raise it as he seems to have a serviceable pose in mind for now, turning her focus politely back to the map.

"That would mean increasing naval operations in the Waking Sea," is not disagreement. "Putting Val Chevin to use at last? But it could draw out Hercinia, Ostwick, maybe Wycome." She taps each Marcher capital as she names it. "There is some precedent for naval alliance there, against the Amaranthine pirates. Antiva would not be best pleased by so much disruption in trade."

"Do we really think increased presence there would induce Hercinia, Ostwick and maybe Wycome to be aggressive enough to jeopardize their relationship to Antiva? With the Minanter indisposed, any Marches port city stands to make a tidy profit when trade is rerouted. Dangers be damned."

In an hour, his shoulders may be recovered enough to use the empty storage racks to pull himself up to standing. Maybe the hook on which the lantern is suspended can be worked free from the ceiling. It might be fit to split a chain with. And then?

"And even if they did, would the loss to Antiva be significant enough to outweigh the danger they will have committed themselves to by having Tevinter forces on all sides save the one which the Qun occupies?"

In this hypothetical, Rivain should be concerned.

The crease of a frown forms between Yseult's brows, but whether that's a product of disagreement or simple dislike of the picture he paints is difficult to say. Whatever it is she sits with it for a minute before sitting back and scuffing a foot over the map, scraping it away.

"Hasmal, then." She sits back against the rack, and brushes hands clean before folding them in her lap. "Not a difficult journey to Kirkwall, if we can get free." If they have functioning limbs when they do. "We'll have to bide our time. It's unlikely we'll get more than one or two chances before they separate us or kill me." She picks dirt out from under a nail, worrying the edge back and forth until it's clean. "We should discuss what we can afford to give them in the meantime, should it become necessary."

Edited 2021-08-23 21:31 (UTC)

He watches the mute scrape of her fingernails. It's an absent form of observation—looking because the action is there before his eye rather than because there is anything particularly compelling about Yseult picking the dirt from under her nails.

But also: "The longer we wait, the less likely we are to get very far."

He looks at her and doesn't gesture to the mangled state of his knees or the raw dark shapes a hot knife leaves on skin. Surely he doesn't really have to.

That there's any action at all is unusual. Yseult in her office, in the map room around the big table, is preternaturally still, uncannily devoid of the small fidgets that move most people. Picking at a nail there would be deliberate, calculated to signal her boredom. Now, harder to say. The dirt was there and now it isn't. The look she casts him is more familiar in its dryness. He already can't walk.

"All the more reason to avoid a fight, or wandering the halls. At minimum, we'll need something to pick the locks. Or a key, but Fidan is careful with hers and I have yet to see another. If they'd feed us anything with bones, that would do. Are you avoiding my suggestion because you think it unnecessary?"

Here, an equally familiar retort in the form of the flat look he gives her in return.

"Are you interrogating me because you think I need the practice?"

Actually-- "Have you had any?"

"We've both spoken to Byerly Rutyer. Help me," precedes the offer of his hand. He needs to leverage against something more than just his own weight in order to shuffles to join her with his back to the empty wine racks.

The ragged sound which punctuates the necessary shift of heels and calves and knees is something between a croak and a hiss. When he has finally re-oriented himself under the watchful eye of the lamp, it takes a series of miniscule hissing adjustments before Flint's anything like satisfied with how his limbs lie.

Fuck this actually.

"I should leave you to manage on your own for suggesting Rutyer's better practice than I am." She doesn't.

She also doesn't leave it. Once he's settled and had a moment, but before the acute pain of that rearrangement is likely to have faded back into duller persistent misery, she says: "Eventually, everyone breaks. It would be a mistake for us to leave the decision about what we would rather die than give them to that moment."

He's the more insufferably relentless of the two, he might have suggested. But even Byerly Rutyer would have allowed him a few minutes of abject suffering before pressing after him with all the temerity of a finger on a bruise. So maybe not.

"Then by all means." Maker, he is exhausted. "Lead on."

He can consider that an object lesson. Yseult folds her hands in her lap, fingers laced.

"Old information first, like our dead contacts in Perendale. Information about Riftwatch they could learn with a few weeks of decent surveillance. Names, numbers, organization, donors. Then agents and operations in areas we control. Kirkwall and Ferelden, southern Orlais, contacts in the March and the Chantry. People they'll struggle to get to. Then those in quiet places, working up to the higher value agents. They cannot have our contacts in Tevinter or the Anderfels, the location of the eluvians, or Research's project."

He listens with his head cocked faintly to one side as his hand absently feels along the outer seam of his trousers. It's an unconscious examination—a quiet, unthinking assessment of how far pain travels and radiates and to what degree. The more viciously efficient thing to do would be to submit each knee to a thorough prodding to determine the extent of the damage there, but he can't bring himself to do it and it doesn't really matter besides. Without a healer, the difference between how they might be broken makes only a nominal difference.

(Sweat has sprung back onto his forehead as accessory to his move. Or because he has been sitting long enough while his joints swell that everything else has finally decided to go crooked along with them. Who fucking knows.)

"And you?" His eyes rove over to her; the angle of his temple reverses direction. "How long are we committed to keeping you a secret?"

It is the natural next question. Not one she could raise herself without it seeming she had begun the conversation precisely to answer it. She is watching the hesitant press of fingers to knee, but looks up when Flint turns back, without any of the speed or subtlety that would suggest guilt over the observation.

"They will believe I know details that others do not about our networks and communications and those of our allies. And I do. If they know who I am, they'll likely insure I don't die until they have it all. How motivating you find that is not a question I can answer."

His examination of her is similarly guiltless, something that is both patient and measuring coiled in the shape of it. What good would it do at this point to surrender her to Tagaris? It gains nothing but her very temporary security. It risks a great deal. It will not lift either of them out of this cellar unless it's to travel somewhere else. To be sucked deeper into the Imperium where some blood mage will be conveniently to hand in order to trivialize the work being done here in this moment.

"Nina, then," is something they've already agreed on. "Unless we find ourselves in a position where more time becomes a luxury."

If there estimation is even remotely correct, they're not far from Drake's Landing. Failing all else, it's not unbelievable to suspect that someone might come trailing after them.

She observes Flint's measurement without offense for the calculations it suggests. Instead there is the sense of Yseult tracing along the paths of his mind beside him, watching as he follows a parallel route of logic she's already walked a half-step to the side (when she said they won't let me die she'd meant it as a warning). She knows him enough to know he will most likely think through the problem in a similar way, enough not to trust an answer that isn't preceded by that work. She knows, too, that a moment ago he could hardly move without her help.

His agreement is met with her own, a nod and then a tip of her head back against the wine rack. There is more that could be said, plans for the worst that might go without saying but probably shouldn't. But she can see the sweat and the pallor. The situation is escalating, but no so quickly (especially for her) that she needs to press him now. So she waits a minute or two to see if sleep begins to take him, and when it doesn't it's only a conversational tone without the keen edge of earlier when she asks, "Have you done this before? Been interrogated. Tortured."

A warning, a promise; the gradations of the thing hardly matter. What's true is simple—that they are most likely to leave here together, either under their own power or at the hands of some rescue, or they won't leave at all. They will slip away, spirited off into the dark toward some unknown place inside the Imperium where the value of them in combination will quickly become inconsequential.

He thinks of that black pit down which they'd thrown Valeriantus and feels some vague stirring of resentment for the idea of it.

"Not in this fashion, no," is what he eventually answers when Yseult finds her way back to asking. You? he is meant to ask then, an easy deflection disguised as conversation.

"I was once held and tried in a Seheron outpost. The workings of that and this are remarkably similar."

Yseult, who has read reports of that episode (and was about to say as much), tips her head as if puzzled. "In what respect?"

A turn of the hand; a low rasp of metal.

"Both rely on the idea that you will feel some"—what? He searches for the word—"Obligation to return yourself to an earlier state. One in which you're the only person in control of defining who or what you are rather than some monster on a gallows or a prisoner at their mercy. That eventually, you will use whatever justification you can in an attempt to exert control. Which they will then happily use to hang you."

Or lever information free with. Or, or, or.

It sounds good, so it takes Yseult a few minutes to work out what part of that comparison it is that niggles at her, the wrong note hidden in seeming harmony. "The trial cannot have relied on that; they were going to hang you no matter what you said or didn't say.

"But you are right about this. If they were more crude, or in more of a hurry, they would just flog us until we talked or died. But these two are more subtle than that. Our food comes in irregular intervals, the lantern filled with a different amount of oil each time, the banging on the door at random times. Disorientation to speed the sense of helplessness."

"Executing someone isn't the point of a trial anymore than making us miserable is the point of this," is a mild check. "Both are concerned with the effect produced. The person at the center is only as important in as much as they can be leveraged."

Tagaris, making a point to remind him why he is there with Riftwatch to begin with. It's the illusion of a foothold in the same way the invitation to speak there in that square had been.

(If all goes according to the the Magister's intentions, they'll no doubt be stripped of what they know and eventually killed in this place too.)

"My point," speaking of torture, time to argue, "Is that your experience being held for a day and paraded to the gallows is not as relevant to this as you suggested. What mattered there was the effect produced in the crowd, not in you. That was the focus of any manipulation. You were a prop. This is the opposite."

Mildly, in the loose way someone might deal out cards very late at night (or in the way that someone who is tired of a great many things, but particularly matters of semantics might say)—

"It's more relevant than you're insisting. What reason is there for putting us together if not to shine a light on the current discrepancy between us? I'm here so you can see this," with a gesture to his knees. "And so I can it when they heal you. But by all means. If you can think of some alternative purpose, I'd be very interested to hear it."

"Of course that's why. And we would both know that anyway because we're not stupid." Sharper, quicker--if he's going to play her part of irritating placidity, she will fill the space vacated. "I wasn't asking about your familiarity with the philosophical theory of torture."

The look he tips in her direction is all shaded by the lamplight—flat, because no illumination finds what might otherwise ordinarily appear to be some low spark of irritation. So. Patiently:

"What you asked is how I thought the two things were similar. Listen or don't."

"My mistake," is in no way an apology, "I assumed you had brought it up because it was useful." Keeping them in the same room does have its benefits for the Venatori, even if they're not the ones expected.

She doesn't really believe that's going to be the last word, but is done regardless. She sets her head back, rearranges shoulders against the rack and, in just a few minutes more, has dozed off with remarkable ease.

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katabasis - 2021-08-26 02:42 (UTC) - Expand

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hassaran - 2021-08-26 04:04 (UTC) - Expand

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