His eyebrows go up at, literally, all parts of that, and to his credit, takes this fairly low-key level of bollocking with good enough grace to then move to the end of the bench as indicated, undeterred. It's a side-on sit, one leg folded, the other foot braced on the packed earth.
"Well, very glad to have amused you," Loxley says, the corner of his mouth turns up. "I can never tell what to do with names when there's more than one of them, with titles and everything. I imagine it a little like dinner placings somewhere fancy. Start from the outside, work your way in."
His accent sort of lists fancy too, in a Tevinter sort of way, but it sounds more like theatre than the true thing. Then again, who can say.
"'Gwenaëlle' it is. I was hoping you might help clear something up for me. It's to do with your grandfather."
Her head tilts sideways as she evidently decides she is satisfied with his pronunciation and lets it stand, and considers the rest of that. She pinches her needle into the fabric of the shirt she's mending and sets it aside, because if she's going to be startled by anything else this involves she doesn't want to start tangling herself up in sharp objects and thread—
Because that just immediately feels like it can't be going anywhere good.
“The rest of his grandchildren do have titles accordingly,” she says, “but he only lets me still call him that now everyone knows we aren't related because I remind him of my father's mother.”
This may or may not actually be true; she's never asked. It had taken some time for her to accept that his determination to remain her grandfather was sincere, and without obvious strings attached, and she's still easily derailed by it. This is, however, her best theory. Emeric had told her once or twice how she favoured the late Comtesse de Vauquelin; she had seen it for herself in portraiture.
“What's my grandfather got to do with anything after the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden?”
The intricacies of the situation don't appear to land for Loxley, who is working off a high level of hearsay and conjecture, but this information is absorbed, and he nods to it. Noted. And the next thing he can tell is probably a joke, so he doesn't allow it to derail him as he goes to flip open the binder.
"It's really about what he's not involved in, ideally," he says. "And you'll have to bear with me a little, because there's actually a fuck load of paperwork involved that I couldn't possibly bring about to you down all those stairs, but I'd be happy to walk you through it—"
The document he produces is a single sheet, stamped with some emblem of a Hightown family. Likely recognisable as just one of the many viper pits in the neighbourhood.
"This, though, is a letter, signed by a Lady Cora Fiske, referencing the Duke Romain de Coucy's financial ties to the Tevinter Imperium. Well," Loxley tips his head, "it doesn't come right out and say that, but, I believe it implies knowledge of such a thing." He offers it out for her to read. The receiver, a Mssr Kel, does not appear to be of Hightown stock.
For all her—everything, the way that she's received Loxley thus far has been personable. In her way. Amiable, if a bit much. The way that her eyes narrow as she looks down at the letter he's handed her underscores as much, because it looks very different when she's memorizing all of the identifying information in front of her for the sake of shortening the immediate life-expectancy of Lady Cora Fiske.
“This is bullshit,” she says, flatly. “He has no financial ties to the Imperium, and I know where this bitch lives.”
Gwenaëlle, after all, has herself long been an in and out resident of Hightown. She's well-acquainted with some of its brighter stars, and familiar with its ways and means. The ebb and flow of its wide streets and their habits.
He has a moment of concern, like he hadn't factored in any vengeful wrath, but it's only momentary. Anger is fine, and it's a long hike up the stairs if Gwenaëlle were inclined to move directly to strike at Fiske with her fists, and Loxley has longer legs.
And information that is probably of value. "A well connected man," he says, "with ties to the office of the Viscount and the city guard. He's a consultant of some kind, it's not completely clear to me, so I expect most of what he does is off the books. But he builds cases that deal in," he gestures, "sensitive matters. Dukes moving gold over enemy lines, for instance."
Spoken in a tone that does not imply he believes the thing he's presented to her.
"I believe someone does have financial ties to the Imperium, and they're building a case to make it seem as though paths lead elsewhere. Which is strange, given the better plan should be to make paths disappear. Because on one end, you have elves disappearing out of the alienage," and he's watching her a little, there, as he says it, "and on the other end, the Imperium. And I can't imagine Kel or really anyone would actually give a shit about it, especially these days."
Not to worry; Gwenaëlle favours a longer game, where vengeful wrath is concerned.
(That is a different worry altogether.)
She hands him back the letter after a moment longer—scrutinizing it, and its particulars, and long habit of recording everything about her time attached to first the Inquisition and then to Riftwatch has made this sort of thing second nature. It makes it harder to assess her reaction to the question of disappearing elves, because she is still frowning down at the words in front of her.
“I'm intimately familiar with how few fucks are given about disappearing elves,” she says, briskly, “but people care a lot about financial ties to the Imperium. I can think of about seven reasons to pull this shit off the top of my head, and if we were in Orlais, I'd have a short list of who'd probably have the balls to do it, too.”
Her brother would be on that list, if she didn't think he had at least enough self-preservation instinct to steer clear of a scheme involving her grandfather, which at some point soon is going to be very funny. They aren't in Orlais, though, and Gwenaëlle's knowledge of Hightown is...particular. Familiar, but not intimate. If her personality hadn't been enough to fail to endear her to her neighbours, her subsequent disgrace had complicated matters all the more before her grandfather had proceeded to take simply ignoring her altogether off the table by refusing, himself, to do it.
Loxley takes back the letter, slipping it into his binder.
"So the chattel could be anything," he says. "If this were a simple frame-up. The chattel could even be non-existent, with the right sort of documentation. But the chattel is living bodies, elves or not, and they really are going missing. That's quite a costly endeavour, and I can't imagine that whoever is behind it isn't turning a profit, even if there's some other play going on."
He glances away from them, double-checking they're alone. It's not out of a need to keep secrets, really, but all of this could get messy fast, if the wrong people pick up on the wrong thing. It's with some calculation, then, that he continues;
"How well do you know Hightown? Well enough to help get a grasp on whether Fiske actually makes money out of slave trade?"
A cynical lift to his voice, despite it being a true question. He can't fathom that whoever is clever enough to have so effectively covered their tracks this far would have written this letter.
“Define help,” she says, dry, but it doesn't sound like dismissal so much as—well, exactly the question that it is. Hightown has been the nearest thing to a home she's had for some time now; she is not well-liked or particularly social in it, and when she has made a habit of accumulating all the information that she has at her disposal because you never know what might be important—
sometimes, you don't know what the fuck might be important.
“I doubt she is. I heard the Fiskes were bleeding money, or something, and even if you had the good sense to keep your slave money on the quiet I can't imagine you would go as far as to try and embarrass yourselves to cover your tracks. Wouldn't that defeat the purpose?”
The purpose, that is. Far-fetched that the Fiskes are so desperate for money that this is the enterprise they'd pursue, but of course: Loxley knows next to nothing of Hightown. As far as he knows, they could all be involved in some strange elf trafficking racket, and so he listens, echoes back to Gwenaëlle mostly to demonstrate understanding.
Define help. "We need opportunities to observe the Lady Fiske. Salons she might be invited to, or—whatever they do up there to wile away the hours. We can't set obvious traps, we can only shadow what she does and find opportunities to get closer."
He splays the hand resting on his knee. "I'm a little conspicuous if I were to try to do so on my own, and further, we can't have just any Riftwatch agent try to play at masquerade—they'd need reason to be near. You have connections already."
“Yeah, ouais, not as you're hoping. And ordinarily, I'd throw Lexie under the carriage wheels,” without a second thought, “but under the circumstances I think that'd muddy the waters unnecessarily.”
Gwenaëlle's problem wasn't a failure to understand how the game was played; she didn't need someone to explain to her why someone whose surname was d'Asgard and whose Tevene in-laws certainly owned slaves was not going to be the right card to play. It isn't even that she thinks she couldn't be useful, only if this is what they're poking at the shape of being—
she's such an obvious weakness to exploit. If someone is trying to make Riftwatch look dirty, the last thing they need is the other Orlesian disgrace dangled in arm's reach.
“I can force my way in, but that's a different sort of conspicuous, too, so I can't be doing it by myself. I can find out where she goes that we don't need invitations to and I can have my grandfather get me invitations to anything necessary, but I have to show up with either an obvious explanation or someone who can make sure no one cares what the explanation is.” Loxley is charming; Loxley has horns, so that's not him.
There is a faint twist of a smile at some inner thought that he doesn't bother sharing: that being, if he was home, this would be an easy obstacle to overcome. He could look like anyone he wanted. Part of him never liked that, preferring to leave a mark more easily attributed to himself, but gods know it's a nice and simple solution.
"I can find someone," he says.
It might be Ket, but he would prefer it wasn't her when she already has a reputation, and the whole thing could easily smell of subterfuge if it isn't the sort of person that the denizens of Hightown would expect to see. Still, he's in the Diplomacy division. Someone there will be suited.
He pauses, and then says, "I believe this isn't the first time this has happened. Elves going missing, that is. Those from the alienage willing to talk about it said something to that extent, a year ago or more. That, along with the care being put in to track-covering, tells me that whoever's behind it is easily spooked. So if we're going to start putting necks in nooses, such as your new friend," he taps the binder, "they can't notice until we're ready to kick the stand out from under them.
"So I'd prefer to play all this rather close, for now."
No one, Gwenaëlle decides, is allowed to ask her any favours or clarifications for at least a full year after this. This is it. After this, it's strictly on the basis of explicit and direct orders from an appropriate hierarchy, or things where she might get to make something explode, and no exceptions.
“Guilfoyle will look into Fiske's usual haunts,” she says, “and I'll pick a few by myself so it isn't as obvious.”
Hightown is not typically somewhere that she socializes; not somewhere that she spends time doing anything that doesn't have a direct purpose, outside of either her grandfather's home or Alexandrie's. That will need to change, or it's going to look like subterfuge more or less immediately.
“Bon-papa doesn't know what to do with himself if I don't want him to buy me things, anyway, I can expand on my usual errands. My modiste won't be mad about seeing Charnier on her invoices more frequently.”
Loxley ducks his head in a nod, a gesture of gratitude. "No doubt you'll want company," he says, because we have fun here. "Perhaps along with Ket Perrino of Scouting, too. She's been looking into things with me, and I'm—fairly certain she'd welcome a change in scenery," with a genuine half-laugh. He never takes her anywhere nice. Good thing she likes cardgames.
He slides a look to the sewing she'd set aside, then back to her. Pleased, is the easy read, and perhaps cognizant to the non-zero chance she might have told him to go fuck himself. "My thanks," is quick but not insincere, as he goes to pick up the binder, and leave her to her afternoon.
Once on his feet, he adds, "And I'm mainly based in Lowtown, but do be in touch if you need anything too."
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no subject
"Well, very glad to have amused you," Loxley says, the corner of his mouth turns up. "I can never tell what to do with names when there's more than one of them, with titles and everything. I imagine it a little like dinner placings somewhere fancy. Start from the outside, work your way in."
His accent sort of lists fancy too, in a Tevinter sort of way, but it sounds more like theatre than the true thing. Then again, who can say.
"'Gwenaëlle' it is. I was hoping you might help clear something up for me. It's to do with your grandfather."
no subject
Because that just immediately feels like it can't be going anywhere good.
“The rest of his grandchildren do have titles accordingly,” she says, “but he only lets me still call him that now everyone knows we aren't related because I remind him of my father's mother.”
This may or may not actually be true; she's never asked. It had taken some time for her to accept that his determination to remain her grandfather was sincere, and without obvious strings attached, and she's still easily derailed by it. This is, however, her best theory. Emeric had told her once or twice how she favoured the late Comtesse de Vauquelin; she had seen it for herself in portraiture.
“What's my grandfather got to do with anything after the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden?”
no subject
"It's really about what he's not involved in, ideally," he says. "And you'll have to bear with me a little, because there's actually a fuck load of paperwork involved that I couldn't possibly bring about to you down all those stairs, but I'd be happy to walk you through it—"
The document he produces is a single sheet, stamped with some emblem of a Hightown family. Likely recognisable as just one of the many viper pits in the neighbourhood.
"This, though, is a letter, signed by a Lady Cora Fiske, referencing the Duke Romain de Coucy's financial ties to the Tevinter Imperium. Well," Loxley tips his head, "it doesn't come right out and say that, but, I believe it implies knowledge of such a thing." He offers it out for her to read. The receiver, a Mssr Kel, does not appear to be of Hightown stock.
no subject
“This is bullshit,” she says, flatly. “He has no financial ties to the Imperium, and I know where this bitch lives.”
Gwenaëlle, after all, has herself long been an in and out resident of Hightown. She's well-acquainted with some of its brighter stars, and familiar with its ways and means. The ebb and flow of its wide streets and their habits.
“Who's Kel?”
no subject
And information that is probably of value. "A well connected man," he says, "with ties to the office of the Viscount and the city guard. He's a consultant of some kind, it's not completely clear to me, so I expect most of what he does is off the books. But he builds cases that deal in," he gestures, "sensitive matters. Dukes moving gold over enemy lines, for instance."
Spoken in a tone that does not imply he believes the thing he's presented to her.
"I believe someone does have financial ties to the Imperium, and they're building a case to make it seem as though paths lead elsewhere. Which is strange, given the better plan should be to make paths disappear. Because on one end, you have elves disappearing out of the alienage," and he's watching her a little, there, as he says it, "and on the other end, the Imperium. And I can't imagine Kel or really anyone would actually give a shit about it, especially these days."
He holds out a hand for the letter back.
no subject
(That is a different worry altogether.)
She hands him back the letter after a moment longer—scrutinizing it, and its particulars, and long habit of recording everything about her time attached to first the Inquisition and then to Riftwatch has made this sort of thing second nature. It makes it harder to assess her reaction to the question of disappearing elves, because she is still frowning down at the words in front of her.
“I'm intimately familiar with how few fucks are given about disappearing elves,” she says, briskly, “but people care a lot about financial ties to the Imperium. I can think of about seven reasons to pull this shit off the top of my head, and if we were in Orlais, I'd have a short list of who'd probably have the balls to do it, too.”
Her brother would be on that list, if she didn't think he had at least enough self-preservation instinct to steer clear of a scheme involving her grandfather, which at some point soon is going to be very funny. They aren't in Orlais, though, and Gwenaëlle's knowledge of Hightown is...particular. Familiar, but not intimate. If her personality hadn't been enough to fail to endear her to her neighbours, her subsequent disgrace had complicated matters all the more before her grandfather had proceeded to take simply ignoring her altogether off the table by refusing, himself, to do it.
no subject
"So the chattel could be anything," he says. "If this were a simple frame-up. The chattel could even be non-existent, with the right sort of documentation. But the chattel is living bodies, elves or not, and they really are going missing. That's quite a costly endeavour, and I can't imagine that whoever is behind it isn't turning a profit, even if there's some other play going on."
He glances away from them, double-checking they're alone. It's not out of a need to keep secrets, really, but all of this could get messy fast, if the wrong people pick up on the wrong thing. It's with some calculation, then, that he continues;
"How well do you know Hightown? Well enough to help get a grasp on whether Fiske actually makes money out of slave trade?"
A cynical lift to his voice, despite it being a true question. He can't fathom that whoever is clever enough to have so effectively covered their tracks this far would have written this letter.
no subject
sometimes, you don't know what the fuck might be important.
“I doubt she is. I heard the Fiskes were bleeding money, or something, and even if you had the good sense to keep your slave money on the quiet I can't imagine you would go as far as to try and embarrass yourselves to cover your tracks. Wouldn't that defeat the purpose?”
no subject
The purpose, that is. Far-fetched that the Fiskes are so desperate for money that this is the enterprise they'd pursue, but of course: Loxley knows next to nothing of Hightown. As far as he knows, they could all be involved in some strange elf trafficking racket, and so he listens, echoes back to Gwenaëlle mostly to demonstrate understanding.
Define help. "We need opportunities to observe the Lady Fiske. Salons she might be invited to, or—whatever they do up there to wile away the hours. We can't set obvious traps, we can only shadow what she does and find opportunities to get closer."
He splays the hand resting on his knee. "I'm a little conspicuous if I were to try to do so on my own, and further, we can't have just any Riftwatch agent try to play at masquerade—they'd need reason to be near. You have connections already."
no subject
“Yeah, ouais, not as you're hoping. And ordinarily, I'd throw Lexie under the carriage wheels,” without a second thought, “but under the circumstances I think that'd muddy the waters unnecessarily.”
Gwenaëlle's problem wasn't a failure to understand how the game was played; she didn't need someone to explain to her why someone whose surname was d'Asgard and whose Tevene in-laws certainly owned slaves was not going to be the right card to play. It isn't even that she thinks she couldn't be useful, only if this is what they're poking at the shape of being—
she's such an obvious weakness to exploit. If someone is trying to make Riftwatch look dirty, the last thing they need is the other Orlesian disgrace dangled in arm's reach.
“I can force my way in, but that's a different sort of conspicuous, too, so I can't be doing it by myself. I can find out where she goes that we don't need invitations to and I can have my grandfather get me invitations to anything necessary, but I have to show up with either an obvious explanation or someone who can make sure no one cares what the explanation is.” Loxley is charming; Loxley has horns, so that's not him.
no subject
"I can find someone," he says.
It might be Ket, but he would prefer it wasn't her when she already has a reputation, and the whole thing could easily smell of subterfuge if it isn't the sort of person that the denizens of Hightown would expect to see. Still, he's in the Diplomacy division. Someone there will be suited.
He pauses, and then says, "I believe this isn't the first time this has happened. Elves going missing, that is. Those from the alienage willing to talk about it said something to that extent, a year ago or more. That, along with the care being put in to track-covering, tells me that whoever's behind it is easily spooked. So if we're going to start putting necks in nooses, such as your new friend," he taps the binder, "they can't notice until we're ready to kick the stand out from under them.
"So I'd prefer to play all this rather close, for now."
no subject
“Guilfoyle will look into Fiske's usual haunts,” she says, “and I'll pick a few by myself so it isn't as obvious.”
Hightown is not typically somewhere that she socializes; not somewhere that she spends time doing anything that doesn't have a direct purpose, outside of either her grandfather's home or Alexandrie's. That will need to change, or it's going to look like subterfuge more or less immediately.
“Bon-papa doesn't know what to do with himself if I don't want him to buy me things, anyway, I can expand on my usual errands. My modiste won't be mad about seeing Charnier on her invoices more frequently.”
no subject
He slides a look to the sewing she'd set aside, then back to her. Pleased, is the easy read, and perhaps cognizant to the non-zero chance she might have told him to go fuck himself. "My thanks," is quick but not insincere, as he goes to pick up the binder, and leave her to her afternoon.
Once on his feet, he adds, "And I'm mainly based in Lowtown, but do be in touch if you need anything too."