In an unconscious mirroring of the progression of that thought—
"A meeting with his granddaughter as an intermediary might be productive. Which I think," he adds, his head canting gently under the guidance of shifted weight and the shadow sensation of John's hand to better expose some habitually tricky spot to the razor. "May be the only time in the history of the world that anyone has proposed that role for Gwenaëlle."
But if they're to go mucking about in the Orlesian courts, they will need someone who can play the Game. Gwenaëlle can't; de Coucy can, and must have enough of a weakness to mouthy granddaughters or scoundrels or both else why be in Kirkwall otherwise? Who knows what a united front of the two might persuade him to invest in.
"And if it turns out that Cuissard really is speaking for the Empress, I can imagine little else that would satisfy Gwenaëlle more than further evidence for her vendetta."
Vendetta, he says, as if he isn't a fine purveyor of the thing.
"With that motivation, I can't imagine her not rising to the occasion."
It's a satisfying start, all the better if it turns up something that motivates Gwen and de Coucy both. John's understanding of his acquaintance with de Coucy refuses to coalesce into something he's comfortable putting his weight against, but he knows where he stands with Gwen, and he knows where Gwen stands with Flint. It feels less like an uncertain gamble, approaching the Duke.
It wouldn't hurt to have another, but John is content starting small.
And perhaps giving things a little nudge, where he can. Word of mouth can be a wondrously effective thing.
A pause in the rasp of the razor, giving way to the stroke of John's thumb along scalp to measure his work. It occupies him for a moment, enough so that his tone is a little absent as he says, "We might pay some attention to Debuchy's history. I imagine there's some unknown moments of valor worth shedding light on."
He hums, allowing the angle of his head to give under whatever mild pressures Silver exerts against it.
"It's been a long war," is an absent kind of agreement. Yes, there must be something. Yes, surely there are only three kinds of Orlesian leadership at this point: the brave, the foolish and the dead, luck having long reached the bottom of its cup. And he'd not marked Debuchy as a coward. Otherwise why bring it up at all in the first place?
And yet.
For a beat, he's quiet. In that suspended space between his knees, Flint's restless hands quiet. Then he laughs, a rasping sound.
The answering chuckle holds John's place, knife working so carefully at the delicate stretch of scalp behind Flint's ear.
"Agreed," comes after, carrying along with it John's impatience and frustration. The limitations of his own ability never quite stops rankling. What good is all his oratory in the face of the Orlesian court?
It's been a long war, Flint says, and John feels the way that truth sticks. Yes, it's been a long war. Longer than either of them had planned for.
"I'll try to suppress the sentiment while I consider how best to sing Debuchy's praises to the court," is what John says instead, reaching back again to dip the razor into the bowl, rinsing the lather from the blade. "But it can only help us with Gwenaëlle."
Practically a joke: how much help do they really need to solicit Gwen's assistance?
"I don't know. You'd certainly make an impression if that's what you took to Val Royeaux."
It's punctuated by a sidelong look, some faint cock of his temple and the absent sweep of his hand across the back of his neck to mop up the drips there now that the threat of interrupting the blade's edge has receded. That is a joke.
"There is another option. Maybe not an alternative to swaying the court's opinions of Debuchy, but something which might encourage the generals themselves to make their decisions sooner rather than later."
The look is met with a smile, the pull of amusement on John's face holding for a moment before passing into curiosity.
"Something more direct?" John questions, tone prompting. His fingers return to Flint's shoulder, pressing there as he turns back to the task at hand. "What do you imagine that to be?"
Creating urgency in such a way that their hand could not be discerned in the making is difficult, but not impossible. There are ways such a thing could be done. (An assessment helped along by success in dislodging seemingly unmovable pieces once already.) And if Debuchy is poised to receive the admiration of the court in the aftermath of whatever Flint is considering, all the better for their purposes.
He bows his head again, giving to the set of the hand there at his shoulder. It gives him little to do but to lace his fingers together, the calloused pad of a thumb scuffing restlessly along the first knuckle of his other hand. For a man given to severity and a kind of ravenous patience, he has little skill for maintaining stillness.
"If the army under them were to demand action or threaten to abandon the effort entire - that might serve to pressure the leadership waiting at Val Chevin's fringe to make some decisions. But they would have to be taken seriously, and we would have to find some way of motivating an army which has been fighting since some of them were boys without being seen as provocateurs."
"We could try what I'd attempted with the army stationed in the Anderfels," John suggests. "Maybe to greater effect, since I imagine motivating them to action is easier than persuading our enemies to desert their cause."
Though of course, the point stands: they'd have to do it without being seen as providing provocation.
"I can't get up on a box in the middle of camp, but we could see if Debuchy could suggest a handful of soldiers to do so on our behalf."
And surely they have enough agents in Riftwatch capable of making covert contact with those soldiers once they had the names. The blade works smoothly as John speaks, before he pauses again, shifting the blade from hand to hand as he moves to work at the bristle on the opposite side of Flint's scalp.
"Perhaps. Though better to identify likely speakers on our own. If someone were to discover Debuchy passed along the names of likely candidates to spark revolt among the foot soldiers, I can't imagine that would reflect kindly on him among his peers."
To say nothing of his reception at the Orlesian court, where a host of nobles--the sensible ones--must already be courting their own anxieties regarding what a peasant is likely to turn against when they are sick of fighting a common enemy and decide instead to find one which serves more specific interests.
"And," is like a new thought, one which is only just occurring to him as he sits quietly under the scrape of the blade. "If we were to bypass the generals to build trust among the men on the ground, that might later play to our advantage should we ever need to to circumvent them."
A pause, John humming agreement over the suggestion. His thumb runs along the stretch of newly shorn scalp.
"We could send a group. You were watched closely, I assume, but perhaps healers, some of our better fighters..."
People of apparently little importance, John means. Agents there to better the quality of life of the common soldiers, offer some minor pieces of assistance and pose no real interest to the generals. Who would look so closely at them?
"Do you think they'd be allowed to circulate without a chaperone?" is posed as John's fingers shift to his temple, John leaning in and against Flint's shoulder to avoid stepping around to stand face to face just yet.
"It's possible. Likely, even." It wouldn't be the first time that members of Riftwatch had worked with the Orlesian army. They're allied forces, after all.
With the blade not yet set against him, he shifts in the chair by the degree necessary to turn and tip his face back enough to look at least in the direction of Silver. The necessity of his shoulder as support keeps Flint from twisting far enough to meet his eye.
"Ket and Bastien," John says, reaching farther forward still to pass the blade into Flint's hands. "If we don't think rifters would create too much of a stir and distract from our purpose, Holden, Erik and Loxley as well."
As he speaks, John carries that forward momentum around, circling the chair. Meets Flint's gaze, some minor, fond quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he continues, "Maybe myself, if only to obligate them to entertain me while the rest do their work."
"Yseult likely won't care for it, but Rutyer might be convinced." A foothold for Ferelden among the ranks of the Orlesian army is unlikely to be something he could bring himself to refuse outright. Not if presented in that fashion. "I've no idea where Stark would fall, but if Bastien is involved then the rest would have to be."
Call him unnecessarily suspicious, but that much seems a given.
Casting a hand up to scuff his palm across the close shorn surface of his scalp, he says, "In any case, any reinforcements from Riftwatch will require a certain number of anchors in hands"—or wherever—"to appear legitimate. A rifter or two in addition to Ket and Bastien under your supervision seems plausible."
But after, "Rutyer will be interested in the prospect of interesting information to pass back to Aurora, if retaking the city isn't tempting enough for them both."
The state of the Orlesian army certainly must qualify as intriguing. John can't imagine Byerly would pretend otherwise.
But there is no contradiction to be made. If they use Bastien, and John sees few other candidates capable of the task, then they will have to assume the details of their objective will pass to Byerly then to Yseult, at the least. It's hard to know immediately where Stark fits into that configuration.
John draws the blade back, to attend to a missed patch with a few careful strokes and a hand at Flint's shoulder.
"Maybe we offer Yseult a few people of her choice, to accompany mine."
That hand is obedient enough, floating back down to the chair's arm again in time with the lowering of his brow. He addresses the point of his knee:
"And if her concern is a matter of personnel, that might work. But I suspect her qualms will have more to do with appealing to the rabble over the army's leadership. Maker forbid we hand anyone without a title any measure of leverage. Whoever she worked for must have been people of means."
Though that much likely goes without saying. Who else has the coin to afford such services? Yseult can hardly have been the intelligencer of farmers and seamstresses.
"I don't imagine she'll object to personnel, but affording her the chance to send along a few of her choices might make her feel as if she has a hold of the reins alongside us."
Punctuated by the last clink of the knife against the bowl, rinsing and then laying alongside it as John hooks the cloth and offers it to him. There is an easy comfort to inhabiting Flint's space, something long-established and well-worn by now, and while John returns the whole of his weight to the crutch, he doesn't step back to offer, "There's enough to counter her objections. We aren't alone in wanting to see Tevinter engaged rather than allowed to retreat and consolidate their power to create a problem elsewhere."
Maybe a reference to the disparate Orlesian leadership, but also a glancing estimation of Rutyer. Stark is still such an unknown quantity, but he's struck John as pragmatic. Maybe it wouldn't be such a struggle to sway him.
The cloth is accepted, some flickering look of skepticism casting across it in Silver's direction as he turns it over once. With a low hum of consideration, he takes the cloth to his scalp and mops up the damp at the back of his neck. Dries his hands, rings turning on their respective fingers.
"Given that we can't simply go around her,"—though it's clear where his preferences lie with respect to manuevering about Yseult—"It's likely the best argument that could be made to her. Though I doubt she'll hear it from me."
Here, now, his hand does make an inspection of the top of his head and behind his ears. The nape of his neck. Shifting the lay of his collar.
Whatever John says about common sense, he knows that's rarely the deciding factor in this organization. Or any organization, really.
"I can discuss it with Rutyer. Considering my involvement it would fall within our purview. If he agrees, and he is the one to raise it further, it may resolve the issue of Yseult altogether."
"I can raise the subject with Stark." His hand has returned to the crown of his head, not critical of the work he can't see but rather like a compulsive kind of thing. It's as if his hands require some occupation, and there is nothing quite like a scraped smooth surface to compel a person to put their hands all of it.
The cloth, faintly damp now, is laid across his knee and folded a handful of times into until it has taken the shape of a neat square.
"Be certain that if nothing else, he is acquainted with the relevant facts rather than whatever someone else might tell him regarding the motivations for our interest. From there, it will be only a matter of determining the correct message to rally the army behind Debuchy's interest rather than simply drive them away entirely."
The progress of his hands is marked, all the familiar gleam of rings and habitual, small movements. John finds a small impulse to mirror the restless motion, but it goes no farther than his own hands shaking the last drops of water away.
"I have the sense he'd be more interested in what could be salvaged of Tevene weaponry than inclined to balk over circumvented protocols and chain of command."
Something to recommend him, in John's opinion.
"I'll find a moment to speak with Rutyer. I think I can put this to him in such a way that he feels comfortable putting his support behind it," John says, before suggesting, "We might still let her supplant my chosen team with her own, even if Stark and Rutyer agree to support the course of action."
A small gesture, likely not enough of one to smooth over all discord, but one that still feels useful to make.
The quiet shift of his fingers is slow, tempo in keeping with the low thoughtful humming sound he makes in reply. And then, as if deliberating a course of action was the thing which had been keeping it in motion, his hand falls away and Flint moves to lever himself up from the chair.
"She's likely pull similar names," he agrees. "So I see no obstacle with giving her that much."
There is only so much competence to go around in Riftwatch.
Yes, there are only so many in Riftwatch worth sending on such a mission. Allowing Yseult her pick is a small risk overall.
The only drawback John could see is that whoever she chose would turn back to her to report all that occurred, and what did that matter? For this, something so straightforward, there would be nothing of interest to be had. John's answering hum of agreement is all the response there is, for the moment. They are aligned in this. What else need be said?
Flint rises, and John claims the vacated seat left in his wake, crutch slanting across one thigh.
"What else?" is open invitation. For their business, yes, but for whatever else on his mind that might be said in these early, quiet hours before every other aspect of this place intrudes too closely.
There is a little polished mirror glass on the table beside the basin. Flint trades the damp towel for it as Silver helps himself to the vacated chair. His assessment of his own reflection is brief, uncritical. They have done this enough times that there is little reason to look save perhaps for habit, or to note how much older he looks when he has been shorn down to the scalp like this. Not that a little bristle really does so much to soften certain haggard edges, but—
"Else?"
He divorces his hand from where it's risen to tug absently at the whiskers of his beard, smoothing this corner or that across his upper lip. And the mirror is set aside, the image of him in it sliding free beyond its edge.
"Rivain—Darras"—Fuck the man for not having taken on a less ambiguous surname—"Has an eye set toward some treasure in the Amaranthine." It's a throw away thing. Inconsequential until Darras makes it real. But the thought which is drawn in after it is—
More than maybe John has let on. He has wondered about her. Even after all that had passed between them, what she had nearly delivered him into, he has thought of her leaving and considered whether or not he might have pressed her to be more specific as to her destination.
She might be dead. She might be rich, as they'd both hoped to accomplish, and vanished somewhere the war wouldn't touch. (Antiva, maybe.) Max might have reached a place where she need not consider pirates and their wars, and put them from her mind. John wouldn't hold that against her.
"What made you think of her?" is a more pertinent question. Max had been an obstacle to Flint on more than one occasion. John doubts Flint thinks of her in the same way John has.
"Darras' business," he says, shifting his attention to the razor and lather block, rinsing the former and drying both before tucking them neatly back into the small lacquered box missing them. They're traded for a vial of oil, something to be worked briefly between the palms before he runs his hands once more across the scraped close scalp. A practiced, thoughtless ritual.
"She took a piece of a sizeable fortune with her."
So no, nothing so sentimental as whatever might be occurring to John Silver in this moment.
(Though Antiva would almost certainly be his wager also.)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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"A meeting with his granddaughter as an intermediary might be productive. Which I think," he adds, his head canting gently under the guidance of shifted weight and the shadow sensation of John's hand to better expose some habitually tricky spot to the razor. "May be the only time in the history of the world that anyone has proposed that role for Gwenaëlle."
But if they're to go mucking about in the Orlesian courts, they will need someone who can play the Game. Gwenaëlle can't; de Coucy can, and must have enough of a weakness to mouthy granddaughters or scoundrels or both else why be in Kirkwall otherwise? Who knows what a united front of the two might persuade him to invest in.
"And if it turns out that Cuissard really is speaking for the Empress, I can imagine little else that would satisfy Gwenaëlle more than further evidence for her vendetta."
Vendetta, he says, as if he isn't a fine purveyor of the thing.
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It's a satisfying start, all the better if it turns up something that motivates Gwen and de Coucy both. John's understanding of his acquaintance with de Coucy refuses to coalesce into something he's comfortable putting his weight against, but he knows where he stands with Gwen, and he knows where Gwen stands with Flint. It feels less like an uncertain gamble, approaching the Duke.
It wouldn't hurt to have another, but John is content starting small.
And perhaps giving things a little nudge, where he can. Word of mouth can be a wondrously effective thing.
A pause in the rasp of the razor, giving way to the stroke of John's thumb along scalp to measure his work. It occupies him for a moment, enough so that his tone is a little absent as he says, "We might pay some attention to Debuchy's history. I imagine there's some unknown moments of valor worth shedding light on."
And if not—
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He hums, allowing the angle of his head to give under whatever mild pressures Silver exerts against it.
"It's been a long war," is an absent kind of agreement. Yes, there must be something. Yes, surely there are only three kinds of Orlesian leadership at this point: the brave, the foolish and the dead, luck having long reached the bottom of its cup. And he'd not marked Debuchy as a coward. Otherwise why bring it up at all in the first place?
And yet.
For a beat, he's quiet. In that suspended space between his knees, Flint's restless hands quiet. Then he laughs, a rasping sound.
"Maker, fuck Orlais."
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"Agreed," comes after, carrying along with it John's impatience and frustration. The limitations of his own ability never quite stops rankling. What good is all his oratory in the face of the Orlesian court?
It's been a long war, Flint says, and John feels the way that truth sticks. Yes, it's been a long war. Longer than either of them had planned for.
"I'll try to suppress the sentiment while I consider how best to sing Debuchy's praises to the court," is what John says instead, reaching back again to dip the razor into the bowl, rinsing the lather from the blade. "But it can only help us with Gwenaëlle."
Practically a joke: how much help do they really need to solicit Gwen's assistance?
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It's punctuated by a sidelong look, some faint cock of his temple and the absent sweep of his hand across the back of his neck to mop up the drips there now that the threat of interrupting the blade's edge has receded. That is a joke.
"There is another option. Maybe not an alternative to swaying the court's opinions of Debuchy, but something which might encourage the generals themselves to make their decisions sooner rather than later."
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"Something more direct?" John questions, tone prompting. His fingers return to Flint's shoulder, pressing there as he turns back to the task at hand. "What do you imagine that to be?"
Creating urgency in such a way that their hand could not be discerned in the making is difficult, but not impossible. There are ways such a thing could be done. (An assessment helped along by success in dislodging seemingly unmovable pieces once already.) And if Debuchy is poised to receive the admiration of the court in the aftermath of whatever Flint is considering, all the better for their purposes.
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He bows his head again, giving to the set of the hand there at his shoulder. It gives him little to do but to lace his fingers together, the calloused pad of a thumb scuffing restlessly along the first knuckle of his other hand. For a man given to severity and a kind of ravenous patience, he has little skill for maintaining stillness.
"If the army under them were to demand action or threaten to abandon the effort entire - that might serve to pressure the leadership waiting at Val Chevin's fringe to make some decisions. But they would have to be taken seriously, and we would have to find some way of motivating an army which has been fighting since some of them were boys without being seen as provocateurs."
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Though of course, the point stands: they'd have to do it without being seen as providing provocation.
"I can't get up on a box in the middle of camp, but we could see if Debuchy could suggest a handful of soldiers to do so on our behalf."
And surely they have enough agents in Riftwatch capable of making covert contact with those soldiers once they had the names. The blade works smoothly as John speaks, before he pauses again, shifting the blade from hand to hand as he moves to work at the bristle on the opposite side of Flint's scalp.
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To say nothing of his reception at the Orlesian court, where a host of nobles--the sensible ones--must already be courting their own anxieties regarding what a peasant is likely to turn against when they are sick of fighting a common enemy and decide instead to find one which serves more specific interests.
"And," is like a new thought, one which is only just occurring to him as he sits quietly under the scrape of the blade. "If we were to bypass the generals to build trust among the men on the ground, that might later play to our advantage should we ever need to to circumvent them."
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"We could send a group. You were watched closely, I assume, but perhaps healers, some of our better fighters..."
People of apparently little importance, John means. Agents there to better the quality of life of the common soldiers, offer some minor pieces of assistance and pose no real interest to the generals. Who would look so closely at them?
"Do you think they'd be allowed to circulate without a chaperone?" is posed as John's fingers shift to his temple, John leaning in and against Flint's shoulder to avoid stepping around to stand face to face just yet.
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With the blade not yet set against him, he shifts in the chair by the degree necessary to turn and tip his face back enough to look at least in the direction of Silver. The necessity of his shoulder as support keeps Flint from twisting far enough to meet his eye.
"Who might you suggest for the work?"
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As he speaks, John carries that forward momentum around, circling the chair. Meets Flint's gaze, some minor, fond quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he continues, "Maybe myself, if only to obligate them to entertain me while the rest do their work."
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Call him unnecessarily suspicious, but that much seems a given.
Casting a hand up to scuff his palm across the close shorn surface of his scalp, he says, "In any case, any reinforcements from Riftwatch will require a certain number of anchors in hands"—or wherever—"to appear legitimate. A rifter or two in addition to Ket and Bastien under your supervision seems plausible."
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But after, "Rutyer will be interested in the prospect of interesting information to pass back to Aurora, if retaking the city isn't tempting enough for them both."
The state of the Orlesian army certainly must qualify as intriguing. John can't imagine Byerly would pretend otherwise.
But there is no contradiction to be made. If they use Bastien, and John sees few other candidates capable of the task, then they will have to assume the details of their objective will pass to Byerly then to Yseult, at the least. It's hard to know immediately where Stark fits into that configuration.
John draws the blade back, to attend to a missed patch with a few careful strokes and a hand at Flint's shoulder.
"Maybe we offer Yseult a few people of her choice, to accompany mine."
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"And if her concern is a matter of personnel, that might work. But I suspect her qualms will have more to do with appealing to the rabble over the army's leadership. Maker forbid we hand anyone without a title any measure of leverage. Whoever she worked for must have been people of means."
Though that much likely goes without saying. Who else has the coin to afford such services? Yseult can hardly have been the intelligencer of farmers and seamstresses.
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Punctuated by the last clink of the knife against the bowl, rinsing and then laying alongside it as John hooks the cloth and offers it to him. There is an easy comfort to inhabiting Flint's space, something long-established and well-worn by now, and while John returns the whole of his weight to the crutch, he doesn't step back to offer, "There's enough to counter her objections. We aren't alone in wanting to see Tevinter engaged rather than allowed to retreat and consolidate their power to create a problem elsewhere."
Maybe a reference to the disparate Orlesian leadership, but also a glancing estimation of Rutyer. Stark is still such an unknown quantity, but he's struck John as pragmatic. Maybe it wouldn't be such a struggle to sway him.
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"Given that we can't simply go around her,"—though it's clear where his preferences lie with respect to manuevering about Yseult—"It's likely the best argument that could be made to her. Though I doubt she'll hear it from me."
Here, now, his hand does make an inspection of the top of his head and behind his ears. The nape of his neck. Shifting the lay of his collar.
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As if these are easily accomplished things.
Whatever John says about common sense, he knows that's rarely the deciding factor in this organization. Or any organization, really.
"I can discuss it with Rutyer. Considering my involvement it would fall within our purview. If he agrees, and he is the one to raise it further, it may resolve the issue of Yseult altogether."
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The cloth, faintly damp now, is laid across his knee and folded a handful of times into until it has taken the shape of a neat square.
"Be certain that if nothing else, he is acquainted with the relevant facts rather than whatever someone else might tell him regarding the motivations for our interest. From there, it will be only a matter of determining the correct message to rally the army behind Debuchy's interest rather than simply drive them away entirely."
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"I have the sense he'd be more interested in what could be salvaged of Tevene weaponry than inclined to balk over circumvented protocols and chain of command."
Something to recommend him, in John's opinion.
"I'll find a moment to speak with Rutyer. I think I can put this to him in such a way that he feels comfortable putting his support behind it," John says, before suggesting, "We might still let her supplant my chosen team with her own, even if Stark and Rutyer agree to support the course of action."
A small gesture, likely not enough of one to smooth over all discord, but one that still feels useful to make.
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"She's likely pull similar names," he agrees. "So I see no obstacle with giving her that much."
There is only so much competence to go around in Riftwatch.
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The only drawback John could see is that whoever she chose would turn back to her to report all that occurred, and what did that matter? For this, something so straightforward, there would be nothing of interest to be had. John's answering hum of agreement is all the response there is, for the moment. They are aligned in this. What else need be said?
Flint rises, and John claims the vacated seat left in his wake, crutch slanting across one thigh.
"What else?" is open invitation. For their business, yes, but for whatever else on his mind that might be said in these early, quiet hours before every other aspect of this place intrudes too closely.
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"Else?"
He divorces his hand from where it's risen to tug absently at the whiskers of his beard, smoothing this corner or that across his upper lip. And the mirror is set aside, the image of him in it sliding free beyond its edge.
"Rivain—Darras"—Fuck the man for not having taken on a less ambiguous surname—"Has an eye set toward some treasure in the Amaranthine." It's a throw away thing. Inconsequential until Darras makes it real. But the thought which is drawn in after it is—
"Do you sometimes wonder where Max has landed?"
—Less so. Or more so. He's not certain which.
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More than maybe John has let on. He has wondered about her. Even after all that had passed between them, what she had nearly delivered him into, he has thought of her leaving and considered whether or not he might have pressed her to be more specific as to her destination.
She might be dead. She might be rich, as they'd both hoped to accomplish, and vanished somewhere the war wouldn't touch. (Antiva, maybe.) Max might have reached a place where she need not consider pirates and their wars, and put them from her mind. John wouldn't hold that against her.
"What made you think of her?" is a more pertinent question. Max had been an obstacle to Flint on more than one occasion. John doubts Flint thinks of her in the same way John has.
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"She took a piece of a sizeable fortune with her."
So no, nothing so sentimental as whatever might be occurring to John Silver in this moment.
(Though Antiva would almost certainly be his wager also.)
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