[ Yseult follows him with her eyes after that comment, carefully watching what she can see of his expression. ]
Dungeons never look good. [ Her little shrug is not entirely dismissive, but it is deflecting. ] Did you tell anyone other than Stark and Rutyer about it?
[ He answers without looking back at her, but when he’s turned back in her direction with a chair in hand, he smiles a little. He would have told Byerly even if he weren’t a division head; he would have told Yseult, if it had been someone else and she weren’t a division head. How convenient that the people he’s most likely to confide in are also the people most entitled to know things. ]
Maybe I should have told Darras. But I thought the details would not do him any favors, while you were still missing.
[ She steps aside to make a space for him to deposit the chair, before sinking into it, crossing ankles and smoothing her skirt (a deep medium blue like the sky after a summer sunset) over her knees. ]
The right choice, [ she calls it, with an approving nod. ] The more he knows, the more he'll worry. He's always struggled with that aspect of my work.
[ He looks steadily back at her, with a thoughtful little frown. Clearly he's no one to be giving advice—about relationships, about honesty, about the power of sharing yourself, but— ]
[ Her gaze slides away, down to her hands folded on her thigh. Another little shrug, both shoulders this time, accompanies her looking back up. ]
He's never liked what I do. Things like this only make it harder. The idea that I would sacrifice-- it's still a difficult concept, for a pirate. [ She smiles, quick and wry. ]
[ Bastien winces one eye shut, a little playful in an otherwise serious face—hopefully he didn’t just get Darras into trouble, that face says. But the lack of surprise would indicate he hasn’t. ]
Maybe. There are other ways.
[ He thinks for a few seconds, then tilts his head further to indicate a new track. ]
You didn’t tell them anything. [ Not a question. ] Do you think Flint did?
[ Yseult looks for a second like she might want to argue about the choices Darras could or likely would make in the event of her heroic demise, but stop herself at a twist of her mouth, and instead stands to collect glasses and corkscrew. Bastien didn't think this was just a gift for him to enjoy later, did he?
As he changes the subject, just for a second her shoulders still even as hands keep moving, uncorking the wine. She shakes her head as she tugs it free and pours. ] No. Flint may not have had formal training, but he's well-equipped for such things.
[ While she's up and moving, Bastien goes back to the other side of his desk. But only to fetch his chair and bring it around to the front. It's a lesser absurdity than sitting behind it and talking across it, which is something he can barely stand even with people who aren't his superiors. ]
Good.
[ His follow-up questions—what does that mean? are you sure? have you discussed it?—are held back by one gripping fist made of trust in her professionalism and another made of sensitivity. ]
Is there anything else we should be aware of? About how they caught you or what they wanted.
[ They could have sat in the armchairs in her office, arranged before the hearth with the little table alongside in a carefully-constructed scene of informality. But she'd needed to move, the walk down to his floor, the distance from everything waiting in her suite. She regrets it a little now, sliding his wine glass along the edge of the desk and taking a sip of her own before arranging skirts with one neat gesture and sinking back into the chair. She hadn't counted on the immediacy of that faith in her, not unearned but still undeserved.
She shakes her head. ] No. [ There's a dry little laugh in her tone. ] It was nothing but dumb luck. They were passing through Drake's Landing on their way to take Hasmal. They recognized Flint and thought his presence meant we'd learned of their plans. We did our best to keep up that impression as long as possible.
[ Yseult's head tips, brows shifting. Let's hope, they say. A little horrifying to think that this might be them with dumb luck. She lets out a breath, straightens, and then eases back into a more casual posture, an elbow hooked over the chairback. ]
How were things, in our absence? Nothing seems to have burned. My files appear--mostly in order. No one sprang the trap in the desk. [ She smiles, like it might be a joke. (Of course it's not.) ]
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[ He knows very well how unlikely that is, but he says it anyway, and gives her shoulder a light squeeze before he goes to fetch that chair. ]
I got into the place they were holding you, after you were gone. It looked bad.
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Dungeons never look good. [ Her little shrug is not entirely dismissive, but it is deflecting. ] Did you tell anyone other than Stark and Rutyer about it?
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[ He answers without looking back at her, but when he’s turned back in her direction with a chair in hand, he smiles a little. He would have told Byerly even if he weren’t a division head; he would have told Yseult, if it had been someone else and she weren’t a division head. How convenient that the people he’s most likely to confide in are also the people most entitled to know things. ]
Maybe I should have told Darras. But I thought the details would not do him any favors, while you were still missing.
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The right choice, [ she calls it, with an approving nod. ] The more he knows, the more he'll worry. He's always struggled with that aspect of my work.
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You will tell him now, though, right?
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Details do him no more good now than they did before.
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What about you?
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He's never liked what I do. Things like this only make it harder. The idea that I would sacrifice-- it's still a difficult concept, for a pirate. [ She smiles, quick and wry. ]
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He said if it was our fault, he would be done. Not that I would blame him. I think most people would be.
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Honoring my memory by abandoning the cause I gave my life for.
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Maybe. There are other ways.
[ He thinks for a few seconds, then tilts his head further to indicate a new track. ]
You didn’t tell them anything. [ Not a question. ] Do you think Flint did?
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As he changes the subject, just for a second her shoulders still even as hands keep moving, uncorking the wine. She shakes her head as she tugs it free and pours. ] No. Flint may not have had formal training, but he's well-equipped for such things.
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Good.
[ His follow-up questions—what does that mean? are you sure? have you discussed it?—are held back by one gripping fist made of trust in her professionalism and another made of sensitivity. ]
Is there anything else we should be aware of? About how they caught you or what they wanted.
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She shakes her head. ] No. [ There's a dry little laugh in her tone. ] It was nothing but dumb luck. They were passing through Drake's Landing on their way to take Hasmal. They recognized Flint and thought his presence meant we'd learned of their plans. We did our best to keep up that impression as long as possible.
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Why don't we ever get the dumb luck?
[ They probably do. Sometimes. ]
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How were things, in our absence? Nothing seems to have burned. My files appear--mostly in order. No one sprang the trap in the desk. [ She smiles, like it might be a joke. (Of course it's not.) ]