John draws in a sharp breath, then exhales, chuckles bitterly.
"Fuck."
What more can John say? For the moment, there is nothing but the confirmation Flint offers. John sees no immediate path forward, but a breath later he thinks: the supplies, that woman—
"They'd rather..."
John trails off. What can he say that Flint hasn't already thought? Grappling with the immediate, furious need to put this right comes to nothing. John cannot manage this from this vantage point.
"I'm truly sorry."
The words come easily, but they're weighted. John has more to apologize for the inaction of the other division heads, and those sins drag at the simple offering.
What had he thought? That he'd Eshal, at least. And that between the pair of them, they might have had Thranduil. The other two were some useless endeavor, but at what point should be point have become inarguable? Fuck the means; this is still true. It feels uncontested, and so very like something unfinished as a result.
He narrows. Balks. It's the sharp drawing up of a man certain he's ready to apologize being beaten to it.
There is a beat of silence. John looks across the table at Flint. You know what I have to be sorry for.
But in the more immediate sense—
"I'm sorry they refused to hear you," John says, withholding several other remarks that would do no one any good now. "And I'm sorry that I was not present to help you make the case."
There are limitations to this place, and they've run full tilt into one of them. Decisions are made between a handful of individuals, cloistered and removed from the whole of this place. John remembers this sensation from the business with the Archon, the sense that whatever happened would be wholly beyond his control. It is the same now, but worse. Worse because they were very close to something, and it has been lifted from their hands.
"It wouldn't have made any difference." Which has some sharpened edge of contempt in it - for the room in which those decisions had been made and the people who'd made them and the circumstances the lead here to this conversation. "Yseult made it quite clear she believed that whatever occurred in Nevarra was to the benefit of you and I alone. Altering that perception would have required drastic steps that I don't believe we were prepared to make."
Naming the interests of their collaborators - that any collaborators even exist - had seemed premature to the extreme. But what leverage does that leave them, and in which direction is it best plied?
In which John pretends that is singularly about their three co-conspirators, and nothing to do with him.
"We can still reassess. There's no guarantee the Pentaghasts emerge as the victors, even with Riftwatch's support."
John's still thinking about the suppliers, regretting allowing Mhavos to write the report. He could have pressured Ilias into cutting off the Pentaghasts then, though it would have been a risk.
He takes a breath, sets that aside. John taught himself a long time ago not to look backward. He can't afford to forget that now.
What a profoundly unsatisfying assessment of their current state. Rather than say anything in answer, Flint presses his knuckles hard against his upper lip and lets his eye slide from the man sitting across from him and back to the narrow alley running below them.
(What was he expecting? Something more than this. He's certain of that much. He just can't fix from which direction he'd been anticipating it to come from. )
When at last he rouses, it's with a sudden jerk and a startled scrape of the chair as he shoves back and rises. "I'll find you a glass."
It's not enough. It's not an answer, not a plan. When everything had gone wrong in their attempt to bring war to Nascere, they'd regrouped and come to Kirkwall. Now John has the awful sense that things have gone wrong here, and they're lacking another option.
All that's left is to regroup. Somehow. He watches Flint, assessing the toll this setback has taken on him.
"Thank you," John tells him absently, though he doesn't need the drink.
Snares. All this venture has brought them is snares. There are pieces of information he has, but he sees no way to use them without further compromising Flint's position. He accepts the glass, trying to smother the sickening awareness of how much has been lost.
"I suppose we need to revisit something, in light of this," John asks. "Do you want to try to put this all back together? Should we proceed here?"
It burns him to ask the question. John is still painfully aware of what they've put into the Inquisition, and now to Riftwatch. To give it all up would be...
There isn't a word yet. John doesn't have it, but he feels how overwhelming it is to even think it.
There, in as many words, lies the impulse he's been resisting. It's the thing Charles Vane had all but said before leaving Riftwatch and the Gallows - what the fuck are we doing here? What do we have to show for all this time you've wasted here? Maybe it has been wasted effort. There are other ways forward - other places they might go, other people they might find some kind of currency with. Llomerryn may yet be in a state of disorder. There are unhappy soldiers being made to fight in Orlais who might be convinced to put themselves to better use. There must be alternatives and all it takes to leverage them is to admit to the thing that everyone in that room had suspected: that the reason they'd gone to Nevarra and given those papers to the Van Markhams was for no greater purpose than some instinct toward selfishness.
The implication sticks like as sharp pain between the ribs - a sensation he's grown rather intimately familiar with as of late -, and try as he might, he cannot bring himself to stomach it. Fuck that impression. Fuck Rutyer's suspicions. Fuck Fazon's instinct to listen only to the simplest version of the truth, and the Provost's penchant for gossip, and Yseult's resistance to bending in any direction she hasn't first personally pointed them in.
Flint doesn't retake his chair; he splits what remains of the bottle between both their cups, then posts up against the balcony's rotting railing.
"The better question is do we trust any of these people to fight the war?" Not our war. It can be just the one.
John notes the choice of words without comment, understands the necessity of it. What passed between Flint and the other four in that room may not have been rendered in detail, but John can surmise enough to make a guess.
"Some," John says finally. "But not all. Not right now, at least."
The Nevarrans are still promising, regardless of John's personal feelings. And there are others. Other apostates, others who simply cannot tolerate cruelty. If all is framed correctly, and they can repair the fallout of this misstep, then it's possible they can still bring this organization around to bear. John's fingers tap lightly on the handle of his cup.
"Can this be remedied?" John asks. "Will any of those four hear your counsel in a week or a month?"
They'll have to hear John. That's what this comes to. Where Flint's voice has faltered, John's will have to be heard. Carefully, yes, but inevitably this is how it must go.
The flash of irritation - How the fuck should he know - shows clearly there on his face and in the hard look cutting toward Silver in the dying light. But what he says, what he amends into the clipped sharp lines of his expression, is, "Only if it means throwing something else away they can't afford to lose. If I'm still in this position given a week's time, the odds are good they've decided they can't risk what removing me might imply to the rest of the organization."
And if he isn't? Then it clarifies their position considerably. But nevermind it. Even in the sullen evening, he can feel the point in that:
"Whether they care to admit it or not, Riftwatch is made up of a dozen personal vendettas," he says. This part is like pulling teeth. "If no one else is willing to capitalize on that, we might."
Flint's anger is like a thundercrack. John watches it roll across his face, waits it out. He was unclear, but his deficiency is shown to him now: John does not know these other Division Heads well. And he cannot press Flint now, cannot rely on the connection between them to draw out the impressions he needs to try to gauge the scope of the work that needs to be done.
"We will," John echoes back, shifting from proposition to certainty. It's what he would have wanted to do whether the Division Heads backed Flint or not. But now they are backed into a corner. They need to take stock and see what can be used.
"We have options. We can take inventory in a week, and decide what is best to utilize once we have a better understanding of the landscape. To do something now would be too much of a gamble. There's too much we don't know."
To do something now, when no one will anticipate it, feels like a necessity. It's as a sharp point set against a delicate place. Will anyone else in that room be inclined to wait, to say nothing, to see what he does? It seems unlikely. If they act now to make arrangements for the future, they retain some modicum of control over whatever in a week looks like.
(--He thinks, and does not say, setting this alongside a growing collection like arranging pieces along the edge of a gaming board.)
There is an unsettled line in him where he's posted there at the railing, knuckles moving impatiently under his chin against the edge of his beard. But what he says is, "Let this settle then. We'll see where we are once the dust clears."
Silence stretches between them. John watches the restless grind of Flint's knuckles, watches the dissatisfaction harden in his expression. There's weariness. John looks at him for a long moment and feels a single impulse rise in him. (A name, James.) He sets it aside.
"Would you have us do something different?"
There is dissonance between them. John has the sense that he's missed something, that his counsel is simply wrong. Caution feels like the only approach. Losing Flint's seat now would be yet another setback, and John's instincts are, as ever, to preserve what power they've gained.
But he can read the urge toward action in Flint. It's a dangerous impulse. Earlier this evening he had assured Emlyn that he was not in danger, but John knows better than most that he could be. The destruction Flint carries in him can consume them both, if John cannot manage it well enough.
At this very moment? He considers the question, the street, the failing light. "No," he admits.
But in an hour? In ten? What happens if Warden von Skraedder comes back four days from now with the specifications of her contacts within Nevarra City and he's required to make some decision? What if tomorrow Rutyer appears in the Forces office again interested in bargaining with his new leverage? What if?
(And at arm's length, kept purposefully removed from this balcony, there is a second version of this story. What does John Silver say if he knows how far the damage extends? If he knew what Rutyer knows and could now use as a weapon; if he knew about Kitty Jones and the mess between them, the Provost, and his wife? What then? Do we trust these people to fight the war?, he'd asked because with all those pieces put aside he is still at liberty to. But on that other page, he isn't and the question being asked is, How can I trust you to keep this secret safe?
He can't afford that. The risk of it at the edge of his vision makes him ill.)
"Better than we act from a position we know well," he says, taking up his cup. "And I have no doubt that given the perspective of some distance, some of these problems will begin to look less critical."
The chasm that has opened between them is not unfamiliar. John recalls the shape of the distance between them, recalls grappling with it through the pain of his leg, the enormity of the role of quartermaster forcing him forward to toe the very edge of it as he tried to tempt Flint forward to close it. It had felt beyond his capability then, but compared to now, John would take that instance over this one. How does he repair this? How does he give counsel when he can sense something withheld but can't bring himself to ask and be denied?
"Alright," John says finally, cautiously. He has no appetite for the drink in his cup, but he lifts it anyway. "We're agreed."
What a bleak state of affairs. He considers Flint's shadowed face before he drinks, draining his cup.
"Will you come down to sit with the men, or will you need to go now?"
He doesn't need to go; he doesn't want to stay. The thin line of his mouth says as much, though it's smoothed away by the time Flint finishes his own portion of the wine.
"I'll make an appearance. Someone should raise the possibility of work to be had prowling the channel past Brandel's Reach."
He'll slip away in the buzz which comes after, leaving the men to their crowing and fussing and Silver both with another half bottle of wine to find some way of finishing and the persistent examination Emlyn has spent the last hour casting out in their direction from across the public house. The night has closed in fully by then, black enough that even notable men might disappear into it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
"Fuck."
What more can John say? For the moment, there is nothing but the confirmation Flint offers. John sees no immediate path forward, but a breath later he thinks: the supplies, that woman—
"They'd rather..."
John trails off. What can he say that Flint hasn't already thought? Grappling with the immediate, furious need to put this right comes to nothing. John cannot manage this from this vantage point.
"I'm truly sorry."
The words come easily, but they're weighted. John has more to apologize for the inaction of the other division heads, and those sins drag at the simple offering.
no subject
He narrows. Balks. It's the sharp drawing up of a man certain he's ready to apologize being beaten to it.
"What could you possibly be sorry for?"
no subject
But in the more immediate sense—
"I'm sorry they refused to hear you," John says, withholding several other remarks that would do no one any good now. "And I'm sorry that I was not present to help you make the case."
There are limitations to this place, and they've run full tilt into one of them. Decisions are made between a handful of individuals, cloistered and removed from the whole of this place. John remembers this sensation from the business with the Archon, the sense that whatever happened would be wholly beyond his control. It is the same now, but worse. Worse because they were very close to something, and it has been lifted from their hands.
no subject
Naming the interests of their collaborators - that any collaborators even exist - had seemed premature to the extreme. But what leverage does that leave them, and in which direction is it best plied?
no subject
In which John pretends that is singularly about their three co-conspirators, and nothing to do with him.
"We can still reassess. There's no guarantee the Pentaghasts emerge as the victors, even with Riftwatch's support."
John's still thinking about the suppliers, regretting allowing Mhavos to write the report. He could have pressured Ilias into cutting off the Pentaghasts then, though it would have been a risk.
He takes a breath, sets that aside. John taught himself a long time ago not to look backward. He can't afford to forget that now.
no subject
(What was he expecting? Something more than this. He's certain of that much. He just can't fix from which direction he'd been anticipating it to come from. )
When at last he rouses, it's with a sudden jerk and a startled scrape of the chair as he shoves back and rises. "I'll find you a glass."
no subject
All that's left is to regroup. Somehow. He watches Flint, assessing the toll this setback has taken on him.
"Thank you," John tells him absently, though he doesn't need the drink.
Snares. All this venture has brought them is snares. There are pieces of information he has, but he sees no way to use them without further compromising Flint's position. He accepts the glass, trying to smother the sickening awareness of how much has been lost.
"I suppose we need to revisit something, in light of this," John asks. "Do you want to try to put this all back together? Should we proceed here?"
It burns him to ask the question. John is still painfully aware of what they've put into the Inquisition, and now to Riftwatch. To give it all up would be...
There isn't a word yet. John doesn't have it, but he feels how overwhelming it is to even think it.
no subject
The implication sticks like as sharp pain between the ribs - a sensation he's grown rather intimately familiar with as of late -, and try as he might, he cannot bring himself to stomach it. Fuck that impression. Fuck Rutyer's suspicions. Fuck Fazon's instinct to listen only to the simplest version of the truth, and the Provost's penchant for gossip, and Yseult's resistance to bending in any direction she hasn't first personally pointed them in.
Flint doesn't retake his chair; he splits what remains of the bottle between both their cups, then posts up against the balcony's rotting railing.
"The better question is do we trust any of these people to fight the war?" Not our war. It can be just the one.
no subject
John notes the choice of words without comment, understands the necessity of it. What passed between Flint and the other four in that room may not have been rendered in detail, but John can surmise enough to make a guess.
"Some," John says finally. "But not all. Not right now, at least."
The Nevarrans are still promising, regardless of John's personal feelings. And there are others. Other apostates, others who simply cannot tolerate cruelty. If all is framed correctly, and they can repair the fallout of this misstep, then it's possible they can still bring this organization around to bear. John's fingers tap lightly on the handle of his cup.
"Can this be remedied?" John asks. "Will any of those four hear your counsel in a week or a month?"
They'll have to hear John. That's what this comes to. Where Flint's voice has faltered, John's will have to be heard. Carefully, yes, but inevitably this is how it must go.
no subject
And if he isn't? Then it clarifies their position considerably. But nevermind it. Even in the sullen evening, he can feel the point in that:
"Whether they care to admit it or not, Riftwatch is made up of a dozen personal vendettas," he says. This part is like pulling teeth. "If no one else is willing to capitalize on that, we might."
Then it wouldn't matter what anyone else thought.
no subject
"We will," John echoes back, shifting from proposition to certainty. It's what he would have wanted to do whether the Division Heads backed Flint or not. But now they are backed into a corner. They need to take stock and see what can be used.
"We have options. We can take inventory in a week, and decide what is best to utilize once we have a better understanding of the landscape. To do something now would be too much of a gamble. There's too much we don't know."
no subject
(--He thinks, and does not say, setting this alongside a growing collection like arranging pieces along the edge of a gaming board.)
There is an unsettled line in him where he's posted there at the railing, knuckles moving impatiently under his chin against the edge of his beard. But what he says is, "Let this settle then. We'll see where we are once the dust clears."
no subject
"Would you have us do something different?"
There is dissonance between them. John has the sense that he's missed something, that his counsel is simply wrong. Caution feels like the only approach. Losing Flint's seat now would be yet another setback, and John's instincts are, as ever, to preserve what power they've gained.
But he can read the urge toward action in Flint. It's a dangerous impulse. Earlier this evening he had assured Emlyn that he was not in danger, but John knows better than most that he could be. The destruction Flint carries in him can consume them both, if John cannot manage it well enough.
no subject
But in an hour? In ten? What happens if Warden von Skraedder comes back four days from now with the specifications of her contacts within Nevarra City and he's required to make some decision? What if tomorrow Rutyer appears in the Forces office again interested in bargaining with his new leverage? What if?
(And at arm's length, kept purposefully removed from this balcony, there is a second version of this story. What does John Silver say if he knows how far the damage extends? If he knew what Rutyer knows and could now use as a weapon; if he knew about Kitty Jones and the mess between them, the Provost, and his wife? What then? Do we trust these people to fight the war?, he'd asked because with all those pieces put aside he is still at liberty to. But on that other page, he isn't and the question being asked is, How can I trust you to keep this secret safe?
He can't afford that. The risk of it at the edge of his vision makes him ill.)
"Better than we act from a position we know well," he says, taking up his cup. "And I have no doubt that given the perspective of some distance, some of these problems will begin to look less critical."
Give him time and he will make that true.
no subject
"Alright," John says finally, cautiously. He has no appetite for the drink in his cup, but he lifts it anyway. "We're agreed."
What a bleak state of affairs. He considers Flint's shadowed face before he drinks, draining his cup.
"Will you come down to sit with the men, or will you need to go now?"
no subject
"I'll make an appearance. Someone should raise the possibility of work to be had prowling the channel past Brandel's Reach."
He'll slip away in the buzz which comes after, leaving the men to their crowing and fussing and Silver both with another half bottle of wine to find some way of finishing and the persistent examination Emlyn has spent the last hour casting out in their direction from across the public house. The night has closed in fully by then, black enough that even notable men might disappear into it.