It rings oddly in the ear, that admonishment. What use is he as a corpse?, a knee jerk and instinctive sort of counter that fizzles against the long list (the literal stack of books) of possibilities that present themselves in this place. There is, in fact, plenty that might be gleaned from a body here.
(And good thing, given the rapid discoloration of Bertalan's flesh and the black stencil lines of his veins peeking through it like the most delicate onionskin paper.)
Still, it prompts an absent quirk of the temple and a flex of the fingers—
"I'll tell you!" Bertalan bucks up off the paving stones to sputter it. "I'll tell. Just let me up."
That prompts Flint to throw John a flat look. Fuck's sake. Somewhere in the dark, he must grind his knee sharper into a taut section of Bertalan's anatomy as the man hisses out a gasp. Wheezing out a garbled form of concession under the heel of Flint's hand:
"There's a basement storeroom. With a lift. It connects to an old chamber of the undercity. Used for smuggling."
no subject
(And good thing, given the rapid discoloration of Bertalan's flesh and the black stencil lines of his veins peeking through it like the most delicate onionskin paper.)
Still, it prompts an absent quirk of the temple and a flex of the fingers—
"I'll tell you!" Bertalan bucks up off the paving stones to sputter it. "I'll tell. Just let me up."
That prompts Flint to throw John a flat look. Fuck's sake. Somewhere in the dark, he must grind his knee sharper into a taut section of Bertalan's anatomy as the man hisses out a gasp. Wheezing out a garbled form of concession under the heel of Flint's hand:
"There's a basement storeroom. With a lift. It connects to an old chamber of the undercity. Used for smuggling."
Flint's pressing grip demands, "What chamber?"
"Can't draw a map with my nose, you fucker."
Which: fair.