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Higher powers indeed.
Benedict gives a little sigh through his nose-- it's not the first time he's had to explain this recently, but it's never his favorite topic. "Do you know of Atticus Vedici?" he asks, rubbing his temple.
Another prominent Magister from Minrathous, this one far more prolific in research and magical study than in politics.
Benedict gives a little sigh through his nose-- it's not the first time he's had to explain this recently, but it's never his favorite topic. "Do you know of Atticus Vedici?" he asks, rubbing his temple.
Another prominent Magister from Minrathous, this one far more prolific in research and magical study than in politics.
Now here is a name Brother Vesperus clearly has some familiarity with. The flicker of recognition is self evident even despite the dour and very set lines of his face.
"Only by reputation." Laurentius's own academic interests mercifully have little overlap with the Magister in question's. But he'd colleagues more compelled by similar subjects and it's the nature of academics to complain about the various barbarous heels in their fields.
"And that he was captured some time ago."
(And that no peer from that aforementioned field of study had seemed either very upset or particularly compelled to negotiate the man's rescue or release.)
"Only by reputation." Laurentius's own academic interests mercifully have little overlap with the Magister in question's. But he'd colleagues more compelled by similar subjects and it's the nature of academics to complain about the various barbarous heels in their fields.
"And that he was captured some time ago."
(And that no peer from that aforementioned field of study had seemed either very upset or particularly compelled to negotiate the man's rescue or release.)
That recognition is enough to send a shiver of dread creeping down Benedict's spine, and he averts his eyes, abruptly wondering if saying all this was a big mistake.
But Laurentius' response quells his nerves to a degree, and he gives a slow nod to confirm.
"I was studying under him at the time. The rest of our party were Venatori, and they were killed. We were taken prisoner."
But Laurentius' response quells his nerves to a degree, and he gives a slow nod to confirm.
"I was studying under him at the time. The rest of our party were Venatori, and they were killed. We were taken prisoner."
Benedict shakes his head with a grimace.
"He stayed with the Inquisition. We became Riftwatch not long after, but he went to Skyhold. Where, hopefully, he will remain."
"He stayed with the Inquisition. We became Riftwatch not long after, but he went to Skyhold. Where, hopefully, he will remain."
"I see."
The small mercies of having been so uninformed when they'd traveled South—if nothing else, he's avoided having to account for a notoriously disliked Magister while trying to accomplish his work.
"I'll admit, I'm a little surprised he was willing to surrender his student to Ambassador Rutyer. Is your family aware?"
He could hazard a guess, but why do that when I can just ask the intrusive question?
The small mercies of having been so uninformed when they'd traveled South—if nothing else, he's avoided having to account for a notoriously disliked Magister while trying to accomplish his work.
"I'll admit, I'm a little surprised he was willing to surrender his student to Ambassador Rutyer. Is your family aware?"
He could hazard a guess, but why do that when I can just ask the intrusive question?
The assumption catches Benedict by surprise, and he actually succumbs to a burst of laughter before he realizes Laurentius isn't in on the joke. Schooling his expression back into something more professional, he clears his throat.
"I'm, ah, not in touch with my family at present," he hedges, feeling that's probably explanation enough.
"I'm, ah, not in touch with my family at present," he hedges, feeling that's probably explanation enough.
There is no faint glimmer of understanding that dawns in Laurentius' bleak countenance. But presumably something does click over in his head, methodical as the ticking of a dwarven clock, for a mere moment later he says:
"Oh. You're a traitor."
—without any consideration whatsoever for the possibility that this might not be the ideal terminology for a variety of reasons.
"Oh. You're a traitor."
—without any consideration whatsoever for the possibility that this might not be the ideal terminology for a variety of reasons.
Benedict opens his mouth and closes it again. Well,
yes,
yes,
"To you, maybe," Benedict mutters, a kneejerk reaction to an awkward exchange, "...it's not really news anymore, to most. At least I don't think it is."
If the Magisterium don't know where he stands by now, they probably never will.
If the Magisterium don't know where he stands by now, they probably never will.
"Oh, that's not why." It's a thoughtless check, equal parts unthinking and gentle. Once, a long time ago and before everything had gone so very sour, Brother Vesperus had probably been strangely popular in the clerical halls of Vyrantium. Isn't it always a little pleasant when someone who looks so cruel is so lackadaisical and patient with their correction?
"It's fascinating that Riftwatch has you cooped up here in an office instead of working abroad. I would have thought a Magister's son would have made a convenient tool in support of their argument. Not to imply you'd be manipulated for sport, of course."
Of course.
"It's fascinating that Riftwatch has you cooped up here in an office instead of working abroad. I would have thought a Magister's son would have made a convenient tool in support of their argument. Not to imply you'd be manipulated for sport, of course."
Of course.
The correction gives Benedict pause, and he blinks rapidly once, twice, before considering. That... is an interesting thought, actually.
"I've done a bit of work abroad," he admits-- and granted, his freedom depended on it, but he did it all the same-- "but I'm not... well, I don't... you could say I don't have my mother's knack for public speaking." His quill twitches in his hand. "I find it best to stay close to the Ambassador." The Ambassador whose influence is neither small nor lacking in its protections, at least within Riftwatch.
"I've done a bit of work abroad," he admits-- and granted, his freedom depended on it, but he did it all the same-- "but I'm not... well, I don't... you could say I don't have my mother's knack for public speaking." His quill twitches in his hand. "I find it best to stay close to the Ambassador." The Ambassador whose influence is neither small nor lacking in its protections, at least within Riftwatch.
"Fair enough. It probably would be dangerous work. Antiva's assassins hardly have a monopoly on the trade. Still, I would imagine there would be some benefit to—"
He stops. It's abrupt, with the comedy-adjacent cadence of someone who's run themselves into a logical wall. Laurentius's hand has wandered absently back to the pocket into which he'd stuffed that letter writing assignment, though surely the contents of the page can't be so relevant as all that. The gesture must be automatic, thoughtless.
"Is there anything else I should know? About the work, specifically."
He stops. It's abrupt, with the comedy-adjacent cadence of someone who's run themselves into a logical wall. Laurentius's hand has wandered absently back to the pocket into which he'd stuffed that letter writing assignment, though surely the contents of the page can't be so relevant as all that. The gesture must be automatic, thoughtless.
"Is there anything else I should know? About the work, specifically."
"To...?"
Benedict leans forward slightly, prompting him on and ignoring the second question, for the moment.
Benedict leans forward slightly, prompting him on and ignoring the second question, for the moment.
"To?"
This, equally prompting—as if he'd said nothing a moment ago to produce this, as if Benedict's question is some stand alone participle divorced of this conversation they're having.
(All the jagged angles of Brother Vesperus's face make for a very effective blank look.)
"It's important to me that I act responsibly here," he says at last. It may or may not be an answer. "If there's anything the division requires, I will of course make some time to help. Would you tell Byerly I was here, or should I leave a message?"
This, equally prompting—as if he'd said nothing a moment ago to produce this, as if Benedict's question is some stand alone participle divorced of this conversation they're having.
(All the jagged angles of Brother Vesperus's face make for a very effective blank look.)
"It's important to me that I act responsibly here," he says at last. It may or may not be an answer. "If there's anything the division requires, I will of course make some time to help. Would you tell Byerly I was here, or should I leave a message?"
"Some benefit to, you said," Bene prompts, knitting his brow. Did the man not hear himself?
"Oh, that. I changed my mind."
Simple.
Or he has at least changed his mind when it comes to speaking the thought in question aloud, which is very like the same thing. This notion that there may be some benefit for a member of one of the notable Tevinter mage families to be seen in support of the south's war against the Venatori, regardless of whether Benedict is a particularly able diplomat or not, implies one or two things about his own intent to keep his head well down from being at all recognized. He can hardly say the one thing without being a little bit of a hypocrite at present, so better to leave it off until he's had the opportunity to tidy up the edges of the idea a bit.
"Do you not have friends anywhere in Tevinter who you might write to?"
Simple.
Or he has at least changed his mind when it comes to speaking the thought in question aloud, which is very like the same thing. This notion that there may be some benefit for a member of one of the notable Tevinter mage families to be seen in support of the south's war against the Venatori, regardless of whether Benedict is a particularly able diplomat or not, implies one or two things about his own intent to keep his head well down from being at all recognized. He can hardly say the one thing without being a little bit of a hypocrite at present, so better to leave it off until he's had the opportunity to tidy up the edges of the idea a bit.
"Do you not have friends anywhere in Tevinter who you might write to?"
A little scoff, and Benedict shakes his head, diverting his gaze to his desk.
"Friends-- if by that you mean other Alti sympathetic to the cause, I have no way of knowing without trying to dredge them out in front of their Venatori colleagues. ...and what is a friend, anyway."
A sycophant, a hanger-on who knows where the good parties are, a supplier of superior smoking herbs. He knows so many names, and so few true natures.
"There's House Asgard, at least, who've publicly aligned themselves with us." For all the good that's done anyone.
"Friends-- if by that you mean other Alti sympathetic to the cause, I have no way of knowing without trying to dredge them out in front of their Venatori colleagues. ...and what is a friend, anyway."
A sycophant, a hanger-on who knows where the good parties are, a supplier of superior smoking herbs. He knows so many names, and so few true natures.
"There's House Asgard, at least, who've publicly aligned themselves with us." For all the good that's done anyone.
That's hardly a ringing endorsement, is his first thought—though that too warrants sticking with some mental pin. Funnily, it's somewhat more difficult to scoff at Asgard's support of the south while physically standing in that particular bit of geography.
"Then you have no intention to return home once this is all finished, I take it?"
"Then you have no intention to return home once this is all finished, I take it?"
“That depends on who’s in charge when this is all finished.” He taps the feathered end of his quill against the desk, a restless motion.
“I’ll go back if to do so doesn’t mean being a prisoner or dead.”
“I’ll go back if to do so doesn’t mean being a prisoner or dead.”
Benedict follows his gaze, and curls his fingers to withdraw his hand into the safety of the space below the desk.
"I don't know."
It's a stupid thought-- he's in with them now, isn't he-- but the mere notion of being held against his will again turns his stomach and blurs the edges of his vision.
"Per...perhaps in some diplomatic capacity." It sounds more like a question than an answer.
"I don't know."
It's a stupid thought-- he's in with them now, isn't he-- but the mere notion of being held against his will again turns his stomach and blurs the edges of his vision.
"Per...perhaps in some diplomatic capacity." It sounds more like a question than an answer.
The sound Laurentius makes—'Hm'—isn't dismissive, just thoughtful. Is there some measure of skepticism contained within it? Absolutely. But surely it would be almost disrespectful not to treat that suggestion with a heavy dose of the stuff. Nobody likes a sycophant.
"Maybe so," is generous. "A little optimism certainly never hurt anyone."
"Maybe so," is generous. "A little optimism certainly never hurt anyone."
Perhaps one can blame it on the charged, nervous energy this conversation has imbued in Benedict, but he abruptly and irrationally finds himself loathing this man, with his noncommittal hums and his silent but obvious judgment pulsing under the surface.
He feels a compulsion to lash out at Laurentius, but stills it with a tight, joyless smile and a nod in the affirmative. A little optimism, yes. That's just the thing that's needed here.
He feels a compulsion to lash out at Laurentius, but stills it with a tight, joyless smile and a nod in the affirmative. A little optimism, yes. That's just the thing that's needed here.
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