[Like the question is a hand being reached out to a drowning man, he practically leaps at it, quickly taking the few steps to stand in front of the man's desk as he answers.]
Josias di Jaconissa.
[The letter is offered unceremoniously, hand thrust out, ready to finally release the crumpled and possibly slightly dampened paper to someone else's care.]
I do books. Ledgers. [He glances around the offices suddenly, as if desperately looking for some sign that such work is readily available, or perhaps a physical example to point at if he hasn't managed to choose the right words.] Keeping the accounts.
[ That's said with equal parts pleasure and surprise. It's not too often that someone shows up with actual, true skills outside of, say, fighting or doing science. Maker, Byerly himself is proof enough of that - a spy who's turned diplomat, Maker help them all. ]
[ Interesting. Byerly has noticed Silver getting close to the mages, of late - hasn't fully understood his angle in doing so. Byerly's not displeased by it, to be sure, because it's useful to have a member of the division that the mages trust. But it does make By wonder what it grows out of - prudence? Or some design of Flint's? ]
What'll the pamphlets say?
[ - which is, unspoken, permission. By certainly isn't of a mind to block this enterprise. ]
[ Smoothly, implicit permission marked and absorbed as John sets cup back to saucer. ]
One detailing the triumphs and utility rifters and mages have been accomplishing in the course of the war. I've a fair number of tales of Rifters from when last I was seeking to improve our reputation, and the Conclave has given me enough ideas of what's happened on the war front for us to make something of beyond our own company.
[ Are all of those rifters still among their numner? Don't worry about it. ]
Then I would say the second should be an accounting of the many sufferings and hardships they've faced. The sort of thing that might tug the heartstrings.
[Ha. He might like this one, he thinks. So ready to make comments like that, and to a newcomer, no less. He would likely never have to deal with anyone saying anything of the sort, back home - at least not to his face - and in that there is even some new interest to be wrung from the persona he's worn for years.
A pinch of confusion, first. Then slow dawning outrage. Let it bubble a little, but then, stop before the boil. Smother with some more confusion, a touch of fear, as if this stranger he has only just met might know something he doesn't.]
Of course. [Insistent, but somehow uncertain.] My father-- [The letter, still being held out, shaken for emphasis.] our business reputation would be at stake if there were any errors in the numbers. By intention or accidental.
[ Byerly nods, his face a mask of false innocence - a twinkle in his eye, though, and obviously so, to tweak this serious lad's sense of outrage. How funny it is, how this line of work seems to attract this sort of fellow: the former seneschal and young Josias might well have been cut from the same Antivan cloth.
He takes the letter, then, with an elegant gesture, and opens it deftly. And he reads the note contained within. ]
[There's a sense of relief, almost, for the letter finally being opened and read. It's much the same as might have been witnessed were Josias' father to be physically present in the room, and have stepped ahead of his son to take over the conversation. An understanding that his father would, as always, sort it all out, regardless of his words being spoken or written.
And Josias knows what's been written. The letter, though not obvious unless under proper examination, has been opened before. He'd done it less to read what was in there, and more to confirm that yes, he knew exactly what his father would have sent as missive with his precious heir and only child.
A trade. Not that his father had the leverage, given the shard of green lodged in Josias' palm, but how else was he to tackle the situation? So it is written - polite and diplomatically, of course - that Riftwatch may have his son, so long as he is kept safe and well, and returned as soon as may be possible. As incentive for this, funds, supplies and support could be provided, if needed. Riftwatch had wanted to make grounds in Antiva, had it not?
And scattered throughout, tactful and veiled, but quite clear, is conveyed the understanding that his son is not a particularly remarkable man. Not a fighter, not a scholar, not much of anything at all. To expect more, to push for more, would be met with disappointment and possibly some tragic failure - and the latter would not be abided. Because he was still Lazzaro di Jaconissa's only son, and to have him gone this far out of his sight was awful enough already.
Had the letter not otherwise been incredibly useful, Josias might have thrown it overboard when he read it for that sentiment alone.]
[ The irony, of course, is that those half-veiled insults actually do more than the introduction itself. Byerly is, himself, despised: a hated son of a hateful father. To be sure, his own father's letter of introduction - had one ever been written for him - would have had slightly different content (blatant, rather than insinuated, and focusing on his dissolution as much as it focused on his uselessness); but the contempt, the arrogance, the cruelty is familiar. Even if the letter did not promise that dowry for this young bridegroom, Byerly would have accepted him at once.
Which, he reflects, is something he should be careful of. His own rift with his father is no secret. Lazzaro di Jaconissa is a real man, with a real heir (if memory serves, indeed named Josias), so this lad has not been invented out of whole cloth to tug on the ambassador's heartstrings - but that doesn't mean that someone isn't calculating how this story will be received. ]
Very good.
[ Some sympathetic part of him is tempted to lie - a fine endorsement - but he'll be damned before he does any work to repair a rift between a bastard father and his despised son. So, instead, with a certain briskness: ]
I'll put you to work first on some of our paperwork while I send out inquiries regarding your person. Making sure you're not a Venatori agent who killed young Josias and took his letter of introduction. [ A smile like it's a joke; it's not a joke. ] If all seems in order, then I shall hand you the keys to the kingdom. How does that sound?
[Diplomacy indeed, both in the lack of much noticeable expression during the letter reading, and in the response afterwards. In honesty, Josias had veered this way only because it was the one place Benedict had not pointed him towards, despite (or, suspected, because of) being his own department, but he's beginning to think it was the right choice. There might be something to learn here, even outside of any interesting nuggets of information. Such as the Venatori targeting Riftwatch so specifically that they might assassinate and replace a newcomer.]
My wife travelled with me. She would have noticed.
[With the right tone and inflection, that would be a joke. Josias does not have the right tone or inflection, in fact looks a little dismayed and quite serious about it. And clearly as if the thought would not occur that she, too, could have been killed and replaced.]
[ Byerly does not point out the possibility of wifely murder. The man might faint dead away - or, perhaps, if he's henpecked, start looking interested. (Dear Josias, poor lad, seems the sort who would be henpecked.) ]
I'm sure she would have. Will your wife be joining us here at Riftwatch?
[ The fox mask comes off eventually, along with everything else they're wearing. But afterwards Bastien emerges from the toasty depths of their shared blanket cocoon to stretch over the edge of the bed and grab a dropped practice sword (also relevant to the evening's events), which he in turn extends, hilt first, to snag the mask out of the mess of discarded clothing and reel it in.
He puts it back on and looks down at By from behind it, chin propped on one fist. ]
Do you have time to come to Hightown with me tomorrow? During the day, [ is the catch, not a late-evening after-work visit— ] to the Orek bank. [ He is wearing the mask again to look handsome in the dim firelight and to take the edge off the dry sobriety of the topic. ] I want you to have access to my account. They will make you sign something, but it should be quick.
[ Even in the sleepy, contented, glowing, goo-brained happiness of the moment, that's enough to startle. By pauses with his fingers on Bastien's lower lip, halfway through tracing that beloved smile, and blinks up at Bastien. ]
Your - money?
[ Because money has always been something guarded, for Bastien. Not in the way that Byerly's miser father guarded it, pinching every copper till it screamed, but - In a dragonish sort of way. With a happy satisfaction all his own. Willing to spend, but clearly comforted in some way by its presence and bounty - and happy in his successes with it. ]
[ He has already worked through his hesitation; he wouldn't have said it otherwise. So there's none in his manner, except— ]
Not to spend. I mean, I don't spend it. It's for later, you know? For something sound. Maybe a house. But if something happens to me—I was going to write a will, but then that would mean you would have to go prove something had happened to me and deal with a magistrate and everything, and I don't want you to have to do that. [ He knocks the nose of his mask against By's hand. ] This way you can walk in and take it.
That is the cruelest thing you have ever said to me.
[ —so not very cruel at all. His pleased eye crinkles are visible even in the mask's shadows. ]
I can't keep it here. I don't know how things are up in your fancy quarters, but down here we have had three break-ins in as many years. [ He settles in a little closer—assuming, at least, that he has Byerly's agreement to go do the boring bank thing and doesn't need to be businesslike anymore. ] And not even one of them was my doing.
[ Bastien laughs, then hums. A reflexive bit if playacting, as if he needs to do arithmetic. As if he doesn't know exactly how much down to the copper.
The number he provides only goes down to the gold piece. The value of the shop and additional printing presses he'd owned in Val Royeaux, what had been left of his ill-gotten Bard gains after putting most of them into a struggling business, the significant majority of three years' wages. Altogether, it's not a fortune, but enough to make owning a sliver of property—especially in Ferelden—a perfectly attainable possibility.
He pushes the mask up onto his forehead so he can press his bare nose into By's temple. ]
I know it is a lot, [ is meant as a joke, ] but don't get any ideas about clearing me out and running for Gworn. Unless it's foreplay. That would be alright.
You know my opinion on risky bedroom activities. That'd be far too over the line into potentially deadly.
[ Byerly has learned enough to understand the scale of cost, now, for the movements of armies, for uniforms, for the bartering of luxury goods. But there are areas he's still blind to. ]
[ Bastien laughs through his nose at deadly, assuming the fact that he’d never ever goes without saying, and makes a lazy and nearly-toothless attempt at biting the side of his face.
His mouth stays pressed there, lips pinned open. ]
Not for long. A few years. But then it would be gone.
[ Even garbled by his pinned-open mouth, that doesn’t sound like a prospect he’s pleased about. He moves his head back and inch. ]
We will have time to get on our feet, though. And I want—I don’t know. If we own a place to live, we won’t owe a landlord. Only taxes. And we’ll always know we have somewhere we can go. But if we are traveling—I want to travel. I want to be able to go wherever we feel like for however long we need to and not fuss about whether brigands have moved in and started sleeping in our bed.
[ And it's the smallest bit frightening. For all the good game he can talk about change and novelty and movement, he's still a man who lived in the same city for thirty-four years, clinging to it through three different identities, hardly ever venturing outside the country, cleaning his floors and organizing his bookshelves with some satisfaction.
But home can be a person, or whatever. It's really only a little scary, and assuaged by snaking his arm around By's middle to hold onto him. ]
Less than half mad would be best, though, so nowhere too long. We can keep the money for emergencies and... [ He is boring even himself. ] Do you think we might ever make it up to Rivain? I would like to see a banana tree.
No? [A slight shake of the head, a nervous frown, as though it was a trick question. What wealthy merchant's wife would be expected to stay in a repurposed Circle?] We have taken rooms in the town.
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