"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."
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?"
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.
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?"
“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.”
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.
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."
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.
That miserable little smile prompts an answering out out of Laurentius, though his version seems markedly less taut about the edges (save perhaps what is natural given the naturally rather strict arrangement of his face). Then, with a soft pat of an exceptionally long hand to the pocket with the crinkling paper—
"When the Ambassador returns, you'll tell him that I'm at his disposal?"
Laurentius goes so far as to incline his head. It's a small thing, that little nod, and by no means equivalent to the sort of respect a Laetan ought to give the son of a Magister. But then, Laurentius Vesperus is an Imperial Chantry brother first and that would afford him some leeway even in Vyrantium, to say nothing of these far flung southern states where there are no rules and where they are both playing the role of societal cast off.
"Best of luck with the rest of your work," he says. And then, as promptly as he'd first appeared, Laurentius swings for the door and makes his exit.
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no subject
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."
no subject
Benedict leans forward slightly, prompting him on and ignoring the second question, for the moment.
no subject
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?"
no subject
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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.
no subject
"Then you have no intention to return home once this is all finished, I take it?"
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“I’ll go back if to do so doesn’t mean being a prisoner or dead.”
no subject
The line of Laurentius's eye drops to the gleam of the anchor in Benedict's palm. It isn't subtle; he isn't trying to be.
no subject
"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.
no subject
"Maybe so," is generous. "A little optimism certainly never hurt anyone."
I thought I replied to this like fifty years ago
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.
relatable tho
"When the Ambassador returns, you'll tell him that I'm at his disposal?"
Re: relatable tho
And he will, even if he'd rather not work with Laurentius closely-- ultimately, that's Byerly's decision to make.
no subject
Laurentius goes so far as to incline his head. It's a small thing, that little nod, and by no means equivalent to the sort of respect a Laetan ought to give the son of a Magister. But then, Laurentius Vesperus is an Imperial Chantry brother first and that would afford him some leeway even in Vyrantium, to say nothing of these far flung southern states where there are no rules and where they are both playing the role of societal cast off.
"Best of luck with the rest of your work," he says. And then, as promptly as he'd first appeared, Laurentius swings for the door and makes his exit.