Aterlacus does not so often see new arrivals. It particularly does not see arrivals quite like this - a girl, and one of rather extraordinarily tender years, straight-backed and stony-faced. (In the years to come, no doubt there will be more like her, as even children catch a revolutionary fervor and begin to organize to resist the inhumane conditions of their factories and workhouses - but for now, at least, the union men and suffragettes coming in tend to have at least reached their majority.)
The cell in which she is deposited is across from Ralston's. Irregular again, the mixing of sexes, but what is one to do in such an irregular situation? She does not resist or fight when they lock her in, but the moment the guards are gone, she's pacing and exploring - dragging fingertips over iron bars, feeling at the mortars between the stones, measuring the length of the cell pace by pace.
The cell in which she is deposited is across from Ralston's. Irregular again, the mixing of sexes, but what is one to do in such an irregular situation? She does not resist or fight when they lock her in, but the moment the guards are gone, she's pacing and exploring - dragging fingertips over iron bars, feeling at the mortars between the stones, measuring the length of the cell pace by pace.
There is no one to whom Caleb can plead his case. (I cannot be here, I can't, I am needed elsewhere, you don't understand—) Those who wield authority here do not care to listen, and in his more spiteful moments, Caleb suspects they cannot undo whatever it is that brought him to this place to begin with.
There is a castle. It is cavernous and cold and filled with possibility. If he could think of something other than the absence of Nott, or the peril with which he'd left her (and Beauregard, and then the others, Fjord and Jester and Yasha) to navigate, or the fresh-made grave in which they had buried Mollymauk—
Well. It is a place where Caleb could coax out information. He could learn here. No one is stopping him.
No one but the splinter of guilt that reminds him: He had not left them when he was able, and he is surely not excused for leaving on a technicality, so surely he must devote himself to slipping the cage he's found himself in, no matter the gilding of the bars.
Magic hums in every corner of Thorne. It makes Caleb's molars ache for biting down, tearing into it. That same fervor that had driven him through book after book once Beauregard had finally, finally brought him to the library is unchecked but for his own tenuous grip on rickety morality.
His notes diverge. What he should pursue, what will take him home, and the rest. Revenge. Rectification. A scaffolding of scribbling notes in a journal set alongside his spell book, both working in tandem.
It is harder to do on the road.
There are skirmishes at the border and their hosts have been neglectful and disinterested, but they dislodge their guests from the castle to tend to their affairs in what might be a battle, or might resolve itself before reinforcements arrive. Caleb cannot think of it.
He is hunched by the fire now, writing still, mapping what could be a spell, could blow up in someone's face. The ink shimmers faintly, even in the poor light, made worse by—
"Please, you are blocking the fire," is carefully posed, one hand hovering over the page as he looks up. This man, with his cane, who Caleb has seen in passing but said little to before now. What he is capable of is a mystery, one Caleb is not sure he needs answered. Eventually he will need help, yes, but he hardly knows what he needs yet.
And so: he is polite, quiet, easy to ignore. That has served him well so far in his life.
There is a castle. It is cavernous and cold and filled with possibility. If he could think of something other than the absence of Nott, or the peril with which he'd left her (and Beauregard, and then the others, Fjord and Jester and Yasha) to navigate, or the fresh-made grave in which they had buried Mollymauk—
Well. It is a place where Caleb could coax out information. He could learn here. No one is stopping him.
No one but the splinter of guilt that reminds him: He had not left them when he was able, and he is surely not excused for leaving on a technicality, so surely he must devote himself to slipping the cage he's found himself in, no matter the gilding of the bars.
Magic hums in every corner of Thorne. It makes Caleb's molars ache for biting down, tearing into it. That same fervor that had driven him through book after book once Beauregard had finally, finally brought him to the library is unchecked but for his own tenuous grip on rickety morality.
His notes diverge. What he should pursue, what will take him home, and the rest. Revenge. Rectification. A scaffolding of scribbling notes in a journal set alongside his spell book, both working in tandem.
It is harder to do on the road.
There are skirmishes at the border and their hosts have been neglectful and disinterested, but they dislodge their guests from the castle to tend to their affairs in what might be a battle, or might resolve itself before reinforcements arrive. Caleb cannot think of it.
He is hunched by the fire now, writing still, mapping what could be a spell, could blow up in someone's face. The ink shimmers faintly, even in the poor light, made worse by—
"Please, you are blocking the fire," is carefully posed, one hand hovering over the page as he looks up. This man, with his cane, who Caleb has seen in passing but said little to before now. What he is capable of is a mystery, one Caleb is not sure he needs answered. Eventually he will need help, yes, but he hardly knows what he needs yet.
And so: he is polite, quiet, easy to ignore. That has served him well so far in his life.
In all the most cosmetic ways, there is nothing that distinguishes Aterlacus from any similarly behemoth dungeon. There are prisons all over the world and a great many of them appear more imposing or more damp or more dreary than the old stone fort sat on its hill in the grey drizzling North. The iron bars might be the type found in any of a dozen places; the stones and the particular dimensions of the cells and the heavy doors which terminate them are solidly anonymous; and in every place where people are held against their will, there is always going to be some distant sound of someone's personal suffering.
What makes Aterlacus particular isn't the thickness of its walls or the cruelty of its masters. Rather, it is made unique by who it holds and how it does so. It's not easy, you know, to keep magicians where they don't wish to be. The whole world knows that.
The cell across from Kitty Jones is represented by a heavy door. It's closed with a simple but heavy bolt, and while there's no visible padlock the seal of enchantment on the door is evident even in the dim light of this gloomy corridor. The iron inlay grounding the spell work catches the light, glinting like the wet eye of a particularly cold blooded animal.
The particulars of what waits behind that door are more mystery than not. Save that a long time ago, someone put a boy who thought he was very clever in a box for safe keeping.
What makes Aterlacus particular isn't the thickness of its walls or the cruelty of its masters. Rather, it is made unique by who it holds and how it does so. It's not easy, you know, to keep magicians where they don't wish to be. The whole world knows that.
The cell across from Kitty Jones is represented by a heavy door. It's closed with a simple but heavy bolt, and while there's no visible padlock the seal of enchantment on the door is evident even in the dim light of this gloomy corridor. The iron inlay grounding the spell work catches the light, glinting like the wet eye of a particularly cold blooded animal.
The particulars of what waits behind that door are more mystery than not. Save that a long time ago, someone put a boy who thought he was very clever in a box for safe keeping.
I'd tell you to slap my hands if I get things wrong about your canon but I know you'll roll with it
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rathercommon
2022-02-25 01:26 am (UTC)(link)
It doesn't take long for Kitty to explore the full borders of her cell. There is, as she discovers, not much there: a cot, a door, a chamber-pot, nothing else. She spends a few minutes searching for anonymous inscriptions - she does hope, briefly, that she might find a scratched message from the last resident of this place who had perhaps escaped through a loose stone in the floor or secreted a file in some hidden place, but no such luck.
So, having discovered everything there is to discover within the cell, she turns her attention to what's outside of it. And immediately discovers that that cell is far, far more intriguing than her own.
"Hey." She calls across to the prisoner there, whoever they might be. Her voice has the rasp of someone who knows they ought to be whispering, but she's not very quiet. "Hey. Can you hear me?"
So, having discovered everything there is to discover within the cell, she turns her attention to what's outside of it. And immediately discovers that that cell is far, far more intriguing than her own.
"Hey." She calls across to the prisoner there, whoever they might be. Her voice has the rasp of someone who knows they ought to be whispering, but she's not very quiet. "Hey. Can you hear me?"
For the man with the borrowed cane, traveling is a miserable affair. There is no such thing as conducting that business in peace or comfort—either the saddle is uncomfortable, or the riding makes his joints hurt, or whatever wagon or cart or carriage he's stuffed into fails to be properly sprung and so every bump and hole in the road is transmitted directly into his hindquarters and the small of his back. It's almost an exquisite relief to be on his own two feet after so long spent rattling around like a dry pea in a tin cup. Almost, because he can still feel the ache of it in his back. Almost, because the only thing worse than traveling all day is sleeping in a camp cot at night. He can already feel pinch of muscles in his future.
So while it's rare that Ralston stays long on his feet, tonight is an exception: he's stood up, back uncharacteristically very straight in an effort to work the cricks out of his spine, and he's close to the fire as well because it's good for the sore parts of him and because the season is only now just turning from winter into mud and as dark has fallen so too has a chill in the air descended. In his head, he is doing a mental calculation: attempting to discern who out of the contingent would be best to harass for some form of medicinal or herbal aid. Who will capitulate to his demands despite a history of irritation—
(Michael Ralston has not precisely kept his head up, but he's a difficult man to get along with even at his most subtle. The court and it's attachments bear him very little love.)
"Then shift over," he remarks offhand, hardly having heard the—what? Complaint? Request? His attention is focused elsewhere.
So while it's rare that Ralston stays long on his feet, tonight is an exception: he's stood up, back uncharacteristically very straight in an effort to work the cricks out of his spine, and he's close to the fire as well because it's good for the sore parts of him and because the season is only now just turning from winter into mud and as dark has fallen so too has a chill in the air descended. In his head, he is doing a mental calculation: attempting to discern who out of the contingent would be best to harass for some form of medicinal or herbal aid. Who will capitulate to his demands despite a history of irritation—
(Michael Ralston has not precisely kept his head up, but he's a difficult man to get along with even at his most subtle. The court and it's attachments bear him very little love.)
"Then shift over," he remarks offhand, hardly having heard the—what? Complaint? Request? His attention is focused elsewhere.
Does that not-whisper penetrate past the heavy door and the binding enchantment into the cell beyond it? Hard to say. It's possible that the door is too thick, or that the spell work is too complex. Or maybe the person behind the door isn't listening. Or they're ignoring her. The lack of reply stretches out long enough so as to be definitive—
And then there is a single rap on the door.
Coincidence?
And then there is a single rap on the door.
Coincidence?
It comes at the right moment, right when she's started to despair of hearing anything at all in response. She's nearly turned away, and then there's that rap - and she doesn't think for a moment that it's a coincidence.
"Hi," she says, a bit breathlessly, fingers hooking around the bars. "Can you talk? Rap two times if you can't. For whatever reason."
"Hi," she says, a bit breathlessly, fingers hooking around the bars. "Can you talk? Rap two times if you can't. For whatever reason."
Among the short stack of incidentals in the travel bag to Vienna had been a carton of Senior Service cigarettes. Perhaps they'd been meant as a thoughtful gesture. With their man in Vienna being both something of a chain smoker and unlikely to return set foot on English soil any time soon given the allegedly ignominious nature of his departure, why not send along a little taste of home? Or perhaps they'd been meant as a warning: we recall which brand of cigarettes you like best. What else might we remember?
Or maybe both. Who can say.
"For me? How kind," had been Michael Ralston's droll reply when they'd at last been delivered to him and very shortly before he'd winged the whole carton directly into the Danube. "It's a shame I've quit."
It's easily the poorest lie he tells. Ten minutes later, he had found a cigarette in a pocket and commenced with smoking it. The rest of his untruths, if there were any, had been impossible to discern. Maybe he really does know the owner of the empty theater box into which they're later secreted so they can get their first look at the cadre of men in attendance in one of the boxes opposite. But that follows. One doesn't play the role of courier into the Easten Bloc without learning how to lie.
"Christ, have you ever witnessed such a miserable arrangement?" Is not in reference to the box across the way, but rather must pertain to the music currently occurring in the orchestra pit. "Anyway, the one all the way to the left is your man."
Or maybe both. Who can say.
"For me? How kind," had been Michael Ralston's droll reply when they'd at last been delivered to him and very shortly before he'd winged the whole carton directly into the Danube. "It's a shame I've quit."
It's easily the poorest lie he tells. Ten minutes later, he had found a cigarette in a pocket and commenced with smoking it. The rest of his untruths, if there were any, had been impossible to discern. Maybe he really does know the owner of the empty theater box into which they're later secreted so they can get their first look at the cadre of men in attendance in one of the boxes opposite. But that follows. One doesn't play the role of courier into the Easten Bloc without learning how to lie.
"Christ, have you ever witnessed such a miserable arrangement?" Is not in reference to the box across the way, but rather must pertain to the music currently occurring in the orchestra pit. "Anyway, the one all the way to the left is your man."
everything's made up and the compass points don't matter
emptychamber
2022-06-17 01:52 pm (UTC)(link)
If Emily is irritated by or suspicious of him, she's given no hint so far, the consummate professional for all she's on the young side for this sort of assignment. (Irritated: She certainly is; she'd have taken the cigarettes before he tossed them in the river if she'd been quicker with her hands. Suspicious: Jury's still out.) Her demeanor is such that MI6 might as well have minted her fresh for this assignment, butter wouldn't melt, etc.
For now, she angles her opera glasses to get a closer look with keeping her body turned toward the stage. "He looks like he's fun at parties," she comments, quiet and bone dry. "Either that, or he's as critical of the programme as you are." Regardless, his expression gave the impression of a man sucking on a lemon.
For now, she angles her opera glasses to get a closer look with keeping her body turned toward the stage. "He looks like he's fun at parties," she comments, quiet and bone dry. "Either that, or he's as critical of the programme as you are." Regardless, his expression gave the impression of a man sucking on a lemon.
"Good taste might be rare, but it does in fact grow everywhere."
Says the man who hasn't bothered to change into a fresh shirt for the evening. His collar is rumpled. Not that it's very visible given the low light and how deep the shadow is there where he's sat practically tucked behind the box's curtain. Still, Ralston has a particular way of slouching in his seat which has miraculously transformed it from slightly uncomfortable little thing with too little padding to a lounging club chair. He has one foot idly kicked up over a knee and his cane with it's snarling dog handle hooked across his ankle. Were it shaded by a more pleasing disposition and the whole effect might be charmingly rougish.
It is not.
"Merovic plans to meet his French connection at some point during this little cultural tour. My guess is they mean to pass along their great packet of allied secrets under the pretense of this dressing room congratulations, or that little after party, or so on."
They could simply wait of course, he'd remarked earlier, either an unwitting or oddly apt echo of MI6's own debrief. They might waylay Merovic as he is leaving the city when he was sure to have the NATO intelligence on him. Indeed here, moving about the quartered city, is when he would be most vulnerable and so most on guard. But it's not a long trip to the Czechoslovakian border and it's stunningly easy for a Soviet to disappear behind the curtain. Besides, it would leave Merovic's French friend unmasked.
'Just think of how fun it will be to kill two birds with one stone.'
Says the man who hasn't bothered to change into a fresh shirt for the evening. His collar is rumpled. Not that it's very visible given the low light and how deep the shadow is there where he's sat practically tucked behind the box's curtain. Still, Ralston has a particular way of slouching in his seat which has miraculously transformed it from slightly uncomfortable little thing with too little padding to a lounging club chair. He has one foot idly kicked up over a knee and his cane with it's snarling dog handle hooked across his ankle. Were it shaded by a more pleasing disposition and the whole effect might be charmingly rougish.
It is not.
"Merovic plans to meet his French connection at some point during this little cultural tour. My guess is they mean to pass along their great packet of allied secrets under the pretense of this dressing room congratulations, or that little after party, or so on."
They could simply wait of course, he'd remarked earlier, either an unwitting or oddly apt echo of MI6's own debrief. They might waylay Merovic as he is leaving the city when he was sure to have the NATO intelligence on him. Indeed here, moving about the quartered city, is when he would be most vulnerable and so most on guard. But it's not a long trip to the Czechoslovakian border and it's stunningly easy for a Soviet to disappear behind the curtain. Besides, it would leave Merovic's French friend unmasked.
'Just think of how fun it will be to kill two birds with one stone.'
It does, in fact, sounds fun. But in fairness, Emily's sense of fun has been described as "perverse" before.
In contrast to Ralston she looks impeccable; not flashy enough to draw attention, but fashionable enough to blend in a deep green, high-necked gown. (Her dress also, crucially, sports fashionably large pockets at the waist, saving her the bother of hiding her weapon in her clutch.) Her hair is gathered in an elegant twist that keeps it out of her face, and the jewelry is almost certainly borrowed, though not so nice it makes her a target thieves. She hadn't commented on his fashion choices when they left the hotel, and doesn't seem likely to.
Instead, she lowers her glasses, turning toward the stage but watching the target out of the corner of her eye. "Do we know if the French connection is someone he knows by face?"
In contrast to Ralston she looks impeccable; not flashy enough to draw attention, but fashionable enough to blend in a deep green, high-necked gown. (Her dress also, crucially, sports fashionably large pockets at the waist, saving her the bother of hiding her weapon in her clutch.) Her hair is gathered in an elegant twist that keeps it out of her face, and the jewelry is almost certainly borrowed, though not so nice it makes her a target thieves. She hadn't commented on his fashion choices when they left the hotel, and doesn't seem likely to.
Instead, she lowers her glasses, turning toward the stage but watching the target out of the corner of her eye. "Do we know if the French connection is someone he knows by face?"
"I doubt it, the art of photography notwithstanding. Can't rule out the possibility they've met elsewhere of course, but allegedly this is Merovic's first visit to our charming little city."
The dismissive flick of his fingers seems to indicate anything further is above his pay grade, whether it be in service to SIS or Moscow. It also signals what little measure of his attention had ever been turned outside of their box coming home to roost. Ralston's gaze—steel gray eyes that had been bright and cold along the Danube now turned exceptionally dark by the shaded box—settles firmly on her rather than bothering to entertain the pretense of either Merovic or the orchestra.
"Do you expect my medal will be delivered by hand or by post?"
Ha ha.
The dismissive flick of his fingers seems to indicate anything further is above his pay grade, whether it be in service to SIS or Moscow. It also signals what little measure of his attention had ever been turned outside of their box coming home to roost. Ralston's gaze—steel gray eyes that had been bright and cold along the Danube now turned exceptionally dark by the shaded box—settles firmly on her rather than bothering to entertain the pretense of either Merovic or the orchestra.
"Do you expect my medal will be delivered by hand or by post?"
Ha ha.
"I expect you'll have to wait until the next time Her Majesty is in Vienna, she'll want to put it directly into your hand," she murmurs, still looking at Merovic while pretending to look at the musicians. "It's a shame, he seems old school enough to be suspicious because I'm a woman, regardless of how good my French is. All those diction lessons and he won't listen to a thing I have to say regardless."
She's mainly thinking (quietly) out loud; she isn't expecting any especially useful suggestions from Ralston, under the circumstances. She lightly drums her fingers against her knee, invisible outside the box.
She's mainly thinking (quietly) out loud; she isn't expecting any especially useful suggestions from Ralston, under the circumstances. She lightly drums her fingers against her knee, invisible outside the box.
His hm is a suitably perfunctory reply, untroubled by having his smart little remark undercut. And either her assumption must be a safe one or he doesn't know enough to correct it. Ralston hardly seems the type to leave the opportunity to make a correction untouched.
Instead what follows is a long moment of silence. Drummed fingers. His seemingly idle study of her, and of the lingering sense of the arcane draped about her which is equal parts invisible and buzzing softly against the very edge of his awareness—
"What is it that you do?"
No useful suggestions indeed.
Instead what follows is a long moment of silence. Drummed fingers. His seemingly idle study of her, and of the lingering sense of the arcane draped about her which is equal parts invisible and buzzing softly against the very edge of his awareness—
"What is it that you do?"
No useful suggestions indeed.
She finally glances back at him, her expression mainly unchanged. "I solve problems, Mr. Ralston. I have a variety of tools at my disposal, depending on the problems' nature." The barest pause before, perfectly deadpan: "What is it that you do?"
"I doubt that extremely," is mainly arch, though can see the outline of how she'd make it suggestive if he were a different sort of assignment. A few adjustments only. "If nothing else, if that were true I suspect they wouldn't have made me carry that carton of cigarettes here for you to toss into the river."
"Well, not very successfully, it seems." She glances back at the stage. "It wouldn't have been my approach, but no one asked me. You're not the problem I'm solving."
Mr. Ralston evidently has a great range of smiles, though as of yet none of them have been particularly pleasant. Well, this one's curve says. At least someone somewhere considers him an imposition.
"My, my." How cool. "I imagine they're rather proud of how well you turned out of the mold."
"My, my." How cool. "I imagine they're rather proud of how well you turned out of the mold."
"Tell me, Mr. Ralston, am I meant to be insulted by the implication that I'm good at my job, or is it just hard for you to imagine that someone might take satisfaction from an approach other than rumpled disapproval?" on the other hand, is perfectly pleasant, still quiet enough not to draw attention.
"I was aiming for both," is as light and quick as a switchblade, entirely genuine and utterly disreputable.
(He's still looking at her; he can't see much of the box opposite theirs from behind the edge of the curtain, and the contents of the stage hold significantly less interest than even that.)
(He's still looking at her; he can't see much of the box opposite theirs from behind the edge of the curtain, and the contents of the stage hold significantly less interest than even that.)
If the scrutiny bothers her, there's no sign; she doesn't turn back, her tone unrelenting in its bland pleasantness. "Well then, you'll have to forgive me for not crumpling under your attempt at a cutting remark," she says, lightly. "I've been condescended to for years, by men with far more power over my future. I assume you must be at least reasonably good at what you do, or home office would have cut you loose years ago. So I am giving you the benefit of the doubt. But it is going to be an extremely tiresome mission if you spend it doing the rhetorical equivalent of kicking the seat in front of you on the train the entire time."
Tiresome for her, maybe.
When his missive regarding the imminent arrival of Merovic's contingent in Vienna had been answered by a cable from his sister announcing her intention to visit, he'd decided instantly that the hot spark in the center of his chest was resentment rather than fear or nerves or anything else. He can be a convincing liar when he cares to be. By the time they'd collected one another, Ralston bad fully convinced himself of the exact nature and trajectory of the animosity.
"Well," he stage whisper hisses, dark eyes at last sliding from her. "I'd hate for you feel as if those men had entrusted you with little more than minding a surly child. I've no doubt that you're perfectly capable."
When his missive regarding the imminent arrival of Merovic's contingent in Vienna had been answered by a cable from his sister announcing her intention to visit, he'd decided instantly that the hot spark in the center of his chest was resentment rather than fear or nerves or anything else. He can be a convincing liar when he cares to be. By the time they'd collected one another, Ralston bad fully convinced himself of the exact nature and trajectory of the animosity.
"Well," he stage whisper hisses, dark eyes at last sliding from her. "I'd hate for you feel as if those men had entrusted you with little more than minding a surly child. I've no doubt that you're perfectly capable."
"I hadn't the least notion of you as a child until I encountered your seemingly ironclad commitment to childish behavior," she observes, still just as quiet. "Kicking off with a tantrum rather set the tone."
She can do this all day.
She can do this all day.
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