[PM to Join, Mature] Wearing the Veil

[moralhazard]

Evening, 33 Loshis, 2719
The Attic, Old Rose Harbor

Howard Fisher had gone by Howie ever since he was a lad. When he’d been a boch, the nickname’d made more sense; he’d been a bit of a thing through childhood. A runt, his ma’d called him, but always affectionately, and never where his da could hear. He’d been a fighter despite it, or maybe because of it. What he couldn’t do with his size he did with his fists, and because he couldn’t last long, he’d learned to make it quick and brutal.

Then, maybe within a year of his da getting work at that factory, he’d started to spring up. It’d hurt, he rembered, like his bones were making up for all that growth at once. By the time he’d stopped, he’d been a long, gangly thing, all arms and legs and no idea how to use them, at least at first. His da’d liked him better for his size, and he’d started at the factory, and he’d put on muscle right quick, and sorted out where to put his hands during a fight. By sixteen, he’d looked a proper man, for all his blonde hair and the wisps of a beard that seemed to be the best he could manage, and it wasn’t so easy to get men to bet against him in the quiet, underground fights on the back streets of the Rose.

Howie still didn’t have much in the way of a beard, but he worked for Silas Hawke now. Nobody doubted whether he was a man, these days, and he didn’t fight for scraps or quart’pennys, but proper birds. He had the respect due to him as a man, and a proper place and a proper rosh in Sharkswell. Moved up in the world, Howie had, though he still visited his ma in Voedale, like any man would.

All the same, there were bits and pieces of working for Hawke that Howie wasn’t so fond of. The golly sitting opposite him in the carriage was one of them. It was that field of hers, he thought; he’d never quite felt anything like it. It was sharp; it prickled over you. He’d seen what she could do, with that voo of hers; it wasn’t like the little bits of healing that wicks did. Couldn’t properly trust most wicks, of course, but you knew what they could do, even in a fight. Blind you, maybe, at worst, with them pinpricks of light, or hide in some dark corner when you were chasing them.

But a golly –

But this golly –

Howie’d’ve been glad not to be put on a job with her again. He still had nightmares about Niccolette Ibutatu, dipping her hands in that other golly’s wound and tracing shapes on the floor with it, the way she’d chanted and the whole room had gone strange around her. Even now, just sitting, she gave him the creeps. Maybe he’d thought she was a macha thing, at first, but he certainly wouldn’t’ve wanted to go against her, and he wasn’t entirely sure it was worth having her on his side. He’d heard that husband’ve hers had been a good sort – not quite a balach, maybe, but then few Brothers were, and fewer gollies, but the sort of man who’d have your back in a fight, and properly, not just with that voo of theirs.

He supposed she was grieving, although it was right hard to tell. Didn’t look proper, Howie thought. Not like his ma, when his da’d finally gone.

The carriage creaked to a stop, and Howie heard Glen pat the side of it. He eased back the curtain, and nodded at the sight of the Attic outside. “We’re here, madam,” Howie said.

Niccolette Ibutatu turned her head to look at him. Her eyes fixed steadily on him, and Howie swallowed a shiver. Then, just as calmly, she looked back away.

Howie held for a moment, frowning. “I’ll – I’ll go fetch the scrap, then,” he said, easing himself off the seat with a heavy creak.

“Passive,” Niccolette Ibutatu said, into the silence.

Howie felt the pressure in the air around him sharpen. He froze in the doorway, glancing back at him. “Passive,” he repeated, numbly. “Yes madam. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

Niccolette still wasn’t looking at him, and Howie hurried out of the carriage, feet creaking loudly on the steps, hoping she might forget about it. He ducked through the door into the Attic, glancing around. As far as he knew, somebody’d told the passive when to be ready, and he didn’t want to be the one to explain to Niccolette why they were running late.

“Evenin’, Mr. Resha,” Howie said, politely. “Uh, that – uh – Leo, he ready?”

[Leander]

33rd Day of Loshis

It had been a long day. Not in the sense of time, per se, for Leo had only deigned to join the land of the living some time after noon. But that fact was the main reason for the lengthy feel of the day. Resha had been on at him from the moment he rose until now. Something about the level of work he had piling up and not enough time to complete it in. Resha had, apparently, completed some of it for him, which only added to the holier-than-thou speech he had been delivering for the past few hours.

“Look, Resh,” the boy put the nib down into the inkwell and rubbed wearily at his brow. “I get it, I fucked up, I got drunk and for once the nights caught up with me. I’m sorry.” The passive dragged a hand through his dark hair and looked up at his master. “But if you want any hope of me finishing this within reasonable time, you need to leave me alone.”

“You have forgotten what day it is, haven’t you?” The owner of the Attic growled, furious at his ward for all the days and nights wasted because he couldn’t accept what his life had become. “You don’t have all night. That Ibutatu woman will be here at any moment to collect you. No doubt Silas Hawke’s machinations again. You know, since you joined them, you have become impossible to live with and completely unreliable to work with.”

Leander, who had just picked up the quill again and had gone back to typing letters in his neat scrawl, threw the nib down as it leaked the black ink onto the parchment in the wrong spot. “Great, now it’s ruined. Four hours of work down the drain because you refuse to piss off.” The boy pushed away from the table, violently enough that the chair toppled on its back too legs and fell with a clatter to the floor. Grabbing a wet rag, Leo washed his hands of ink and threw that down too. “You keep talking about this as if I willingly joined them. Like I went out one night and chose to join the underworld scum. You’ve been throwing money at Hawke for as long as I have been in this gods-forsaken town, so don’t pretend like your better than me because you are not styled with the illustrious title of ‘Brother’. Fecking hell.”

It had been a long time coming, this fight. But Leo suddenly found himself drained of energy. He didn’t want to do this, not today, not ever. He breathed in deeply, eyes swimming with tears of anger and hurt that he refused to shed. “I’m going to get ready.” Moving away from his small working station, Leander made a specific effort to not push through Resha as he walked past his mentor. He made his way upstairs just as Howie entered the shop through the front door. The passive growled, would he not get a moment’s peace?

Resha, realising just how close the boy was to toeing the line, went out to greet the large man. “He’ll be along in a moment.” That moment turned into many minutes. His relationship with Niccolette was shaken at best anyway, so keeping her waiting would do nothing more to sour her mood than turning up in good time would make her warm to him any. The passive nodded in greeting to Howie as he walked past him, saying nothing to Resha as he opened the front shop door and headed out to the waiting carriage. “Good evening, Ms Ibutatu.” Was all he said, tone neutral, expression schooled into one of polite disinterest for the present company.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 33 Loshis, 2719
A Carriage, Old Rose Harbor

In her better moments, Niccolette knew she was slipping.

The days seemed to blur together; there was nothing to set them apart. She had lost the count of them; she could not tell when one ended and the next began. She tried to hold the numbers in her head, but she woke unable to remember where the count had stopped, as dreams faded into day, as dawn and dusk blurred together. She never knew if it would be light, when she looked outside; until she felt the sun on her skin, she never knew.

Niccolette remembered her day; she had eaten – or was that the day before? She had drank; she must have drank, because she did not have a headache. She was clean; she had scrubbed herself so, in a tub of cold water, scrubbed until her skin was red and aching and then stopped, slowly, and set the washcloth aside. She had curled into herself, and wept the air a deep, heavy blue all around her, until her teeth were chattering with the cold and her skin long since pruned.

Niccolette had not looked at herself in the mirror. She knew; she knew what she was doing to herself. She could not seem to help it; she could not face it. She had sat, still and silent, and let one of the maids trace eyeliner and lipstick onto her face. She had pulled the corset as tight as it would go, and still Niccolette could scarcely seem to feel it. The black dress, with all its delicate lace, was just a little too loose.

“We can get it tailored, ma’am,” The maid had suggested, frowning. She had adjusted another fold of it, and the silence had hung in the air between them. Niccolette’s eyes had still been closed; her arms were crossed over her chest.

Silence, then, a little longer.

“Yes ma’am,” The maid said, softly. She’d gone, then.

In the carriage, it was a struggle to keep herself alert. The wheels rocked beneath them, rhythmic and regular, and all Niccolette could do was to keep herself upright, to keep her eyes open. She knew not to close them, not in front of Howie, not tonight. She knew to keep them open. How many chances did she have left? How many more failures would Hawke let her bear?

Niccolette scarcely knew when the human had left the carriage, but for the silent emptiness in it. She felt tears rising up, and she shuddered, her breath catching in her chest. No, she thought; no, not now, no, please. Bargaining never seemed to work; they trickled down her cheeks, dripping from her chin into the lap of her dress.

No, Niccolette thought, no – no, no, no – she found the rhythm of her breath instead, taking a deep breath. There were candles lit on the inside wall, covered by a thin shield of cloudy glass, their dim light reflected through the interior. It was enough. Niccolette fixed her gaze on them, and found the rhythm of her breath, slow and steady. She counted the inhales and the exhales, and let them fill her, slowly, reaching out to the mona around her. She spoke, softly; monite dripped from her lips like a chant, or a prayer, filling the small space of the carriage, tucked between the contours of her breath. The words reverberated through her field, connecting her to the mona and through them, to the world beyond; she breathed it in deep, and exhaled it back out on her words.

The air began to grow warmer; the moisture left on Niccolette’s cheeks warmed, slowly, and drifted away. The candle flame on the wall flickered, and bowed its head to Niccolette with each passing breath. Niccolette did not know how much time had passed; she knew nothing of the world beyond her until the door opened once more, and she felt the brush of the cool evening air against her skin.

Niccolette sighed, softly, and exhaled out the last of her meditations, murmuring a last, quiet phrase of monite. The candle shuddered one last time, bending away, and then flickered upright once more. It was warm in the carriage, considerably warmer than outside, and there was a heavy feeling of magic left in the air, thick against one’s skin. Niccolette turned, and her gaze flicked casually over Leo.

“Good evening, Mr. Aguilar,” Niccolette said, calmly. She was still sitting back against her seat, straight upright. Her gaze fixed on Howie as he entered the carriage; it creaked heavily beneath his weight. The human held a moment in the entryway, and swallowed, heavily.

“Ma’am, I’ll – ” his eyes darted around, “I’ll join Mr. Glen on the box,” Howie mumbled, his gaze lowering. “He needs the – the directions, ye chen,” he left, then, without waiting for permission.

Niccolette sighed, and ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back off her forehead. She twitched the curtains aside, and made a face, turning to Leander. She raised her eyebrows, looking at him. “Do you know the plan for tonight?” She asked. She settled her hands back on her lap, left on top of the right, her wedding ring gleaming softly in the dim light.

[Leander]

33rd Day of Loshis

Watching the other man start to enter the carriage, only then to decide better of it, the young passive frowned. A driver, needing directions? Surely all of that had been covered in the initial brief? Howie was obviously disconcerted, choosing to fight against the outside wind than sit below with Leander and Niccolette.

The woman looked… well certainly not herself. As the carriage started moving, Leander had the chance to really take in what sat before him. Dressed as he should expect, but something was sorely lacking. Her beauty remained, but there was something almost ashen in Niccolette’s complexion, a cold sweat glistening on her recessed cheeks and forehead. Dark hair seemed unwashed, or at least unbrushed, that served only to make her skin seem all the more grey. Her lips. previously soft and full of colour, now chapped. There was a lack of care in the appearance of his colleague that was in stark contrast to when they had first met. Even when he had turned up at her front door, unannounced, and found her in her dead husbands clothes, she had seemed better put together than this… mess.

Granted, she was no street urchin. She still retained the aristocratic qualities Leander expected in all galdori. Make-up was still on her face, and she was dressed in a woman’s clothing, at least. But that didn’t change the fact that he was witnessing a new side of this woman. It was almost as if she had lost her husband this morning, not several months previously.

Her body, too, was not held in the same way. She seemed withdrawn, completely uncaring of how she appeared to others. From all he had experienced of Nicolette so far, he would have anticipated her to be on top form, lest the shitty little scrap gain the upper hand. All that effort seemed lost to her now.

“I trust you are well?” He finally asked. Last time they had seen one another, Leo had bared his soul to the woman, becoming more open with her than he had with anyone else before, including himself. Niccolette, in turn, had pissed on him, disdaining of his attempts at apology and thanks. He had been in her house for no more than ten minutes before the woman had calmly dismissed him. And the time before that, she had saved him from what could potentially have become a gruesome end… and he had reacted rather childishly when all was said and done.

To be working with her again must say something about Hawke’s wicked sense of humour; he seemed to constantly pair Leander off with Niccolette or Corwynn… both of whom Leo disliked in fair measure. But he could not turn down the command of work from the decorated leader of the underworld. It seemed, however, that today Leo was not to be derided for being the weak little passive boy who needed to be saved on the night when they first met. Not because Leo was somehow more. But because Nicolette was somehow less.

“I have an inkling,” the counterfeiter replied. From what he knew, the Brothers wanted him to assess the legitimacy of of a document of some descriptions. There were a couple of ships’ logs all brought in at once, and the Brothers had questions over which was a forgery and which were not. If there was a forgery at all. “Though I have no idea why the document couldn’t just have been brought to the Attic, rather than pulling me away from my work to examine it.”

It seemed like a waste of time on his part - not the actual checking of the documents, of course. He was more than a little intrigued. But to pull Niccolette and Howie away from whatever they had been doing previously, and to waste their - and Leo’s - time by dragging them across town for the sake of a few pieces of paper… the whole thing was ridiculous, though it appeared that Niccolette couldn’t care less either which way. “I am sure we both have better things to do...” he said all the same. The silence of the carriage was suffocating.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 33 Loshis, 2719
A Carriage, Old Rose Harbor

Niccolette glanced at Leo when he asked if she was well. There was no particular reaction to the question on her face, and she ignored it as fully as if he had not asked it, and looked away again without answering, calmly, in her own time – not flinching from the question, but simply refusing to acknowledge it. Niccolette had never found such pleasantries in the least interesting, and coming from Leo, she found them almost laughable.

Niccolette’s hands stayed together in her lap. She watched Leo as he answered her question, at least, her lips in a faintly thin line. She raised her eyebrows slightly when he asked why the document couldn’t have been brought to the Attic.

Better things to do, Niccolette thought. Perhaps. She was not so sure. Other things to do; yes. She doubted he wished to be here anymore than she did. It was a struggle not to tremble; she could already feel the focus she had clawed back through her meditation seeping away, leaving her. She was losing track of the journey, of the bumps of the wheel against the road.

There had been something she wanted to say. Niccolette closed her eyes for a moment; her hands were tight together in her lap, and she could feel the skin straining over her knuckles. Her breathing evened out, and Niccolette opened her eyes again, looking at Leander again. There was no sheen of moisture in them, no telltale heat behind; she was calm, still, if a little remote.

“The documents were not brought to the Attic because Hawke does not have them,” Niccolette said, calmly. She looked at Leander again, across the empty carriage. “He has negotiated for a viewing,” Her hands were still too tight, pressed together; the strain of it threatened to make her arms shake, and Niccolette relaxed them, consciously, deliberately. She set them apart; her right hand crossed her body, wrapping against her side, and her left dug into the cushion of the carriage instead, fingers pressing into it. “In the end, we shall take one – the one you think least likely to be a forgery.” She studied Leander again; Niccolette made a little face, as if she doubted he was up to the task.

There was another moment of silence between them. Niccolette looked away, at the window; she could just see it behind the curtain, the dim light reflecting her face like a smudge. Like this, indistinct against cloudy glass, she could bear to look, though still not for too long.

“They think this is why Lemandier wanted you,” Niccolette said, almost casually. She did not look at Leander, at first, and then she turned and met his gaze directly. She had not been instructed not to tell Leo; she thought it absurd that it should be kept from him. She shrugged. “I doubt Hawke knows why he wants them,” Niccolette looked away again, and there was a bitterness to her voice. “Perhaps it is only that Lemandier did.”

[Leander]

33rd Day of Loshis

From what Leo knew, he had been summoned to look at some identification papers. There were questions over the validity of one, most, or all of them. The people in question to whom the identification papers belonged were not a concern of Leo’s (he’d learnt over the past few seasons that the less he knew the better). But all the same, someone was interested, and that meant Hawke was interested too. There were suspicions of a mole within the Brothers, placed their by the Drain. And, if Leo did his job right tonight, be would be able to identify the proverbial rat.

Regardless, the whole thing seemed like a massive farce: too many independent parties all stirring the same pot. These papers were not even being stored with Hawke’s men. They were being sent to people who were aligned with Hawke, but were not actually members of the Bad Brothers. Cynical as ever, Leo was careful not to ask too many questions. But the task was close enough to cloak-and-dagger operation that he was uncomfortable with how it was being carried out. The passive liked to know things, and he felt as blind going into this as he had on his last tasking with Niccolette.

the irony was that Lemandier seemed to be sitting right in the middle of this exercise too.

But Niccolette, from her borderline monotonous tone, seemed not to care. The counterfeiter continued to watch the widow. She seemed to doubt his readiness, but her very manner and tone cast enough doubt in Leo’s mind that she was equal to it either. “If that’s all Lemandier wanted me for, then the situation the other day was grossly over-escalated.” What a ridiculous notion that a potentially deadly fight broke up over such a simple thing as identifying forged papers? Especially when they were all supposedly on the same side.

The carriage drew to a halt and, with more courage than Leander had, the passive steeled himself and was first to exit the carriage. He moved out of the way for Howie to stand by the carriage door and help the galdor out too. Leo took a moment to straighten out his coat and trousers, as he had been jostled about on the cobblestone paths.

Straight in front was a large building, which was otherwise rather inconspicuous. There were no broken and boarded up windows, no damage to the exterior facade at all. But it was also not intricately decorated, made of the simple clay bricks and wood that build most premises in the Harbour. All things considered, the building was unremarkable compared to the last place Leo and Niccolette had ventured into.

Without asking whether Niccolette would be joining (he assumed she would be), Leo strode forward and pulled open the large wooden door, holding it in place for the galdor and her man to walk in. He followed behind and came to stand next to the woman, where they were greeted by four men, each of whom had presumably just stood up as Leo gauged from the sound of chairs scraping on the floor. “You must be the forger, am I right?” A gap-toothed man spoke first.

Leo nodded in agreement and stepped forward. “Where are the documents?” Leo asked without preamble as he glanced between the four men. Three of them had sat back down, two had returned to a game of dice and chance. The general atmosphere seemed calm, which helped the passive to relax slightly. The man who was still standing indicated to a table just off to the right, where an oil lamp illuminated a stack of ten or so pieced of parchment. “Thank you.”

He mad his way over, the gap-toothed man following him, “’bout four of them have been writ’ on a different type o’ paper to t’others,” the man started to explain, “we can tell as much with our own fingers ‘n eyes, but they look the same otherwise so we weren’t sure if all those ones were forg-”

“The parchment is irrelevant in this case,” Leander interrupted, not unkindly, but there was a bite of impatience in his tone, one that suggested he didn’t want to waste any time accommodating the novice experience of these me. He was feeling each of the pages first, and holding them up to the oil lamp to examine the grain as the light shone through from behind. “All of the paper is Anaxan, and the different parchments just depends on what scribe produced them. No, if there is an indication of a forgery, it will be found elsewhere.”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 33 Loshis, 2719
The Wharf, Old Rose Harbor

Niccolette was not entirely sure if Leander intended his comment to bait her. She had nothing to say in response, in any case; she had no desire to argue with him, and even less to find words of agreement. Certainly Lemandier had not needed to die. Niccolette felt no remorse for killing him – he had all but killed himself, challenging her. She had done what she could; she had done what she had to. He was returned to the cycle, and she was sorry only that they did not know more.

There was no more conversation, then. Niccolette fixed her gaze on the window, and fell into a rhythm of breathing. She held herself to her breath; she did not drift. She stayed, there, counting the spaces that fell between her breath, and watching the candle flame flicker behind cloudy glass.

When the carriage came to a stop, Niccolette turned, slowly. Leo climbed out, and she followed him. Howie was there, and he offered her an arm, tension all through the lines of his large body. Niccolette’s gaze flickered over him; her lips pursed, faintly, and she lifted her skirt in her hand, and stepped down of her own accord. The warmth she had generated with her meditation lingered behind her in the carriage, and wafted gently out into the evening air.

Niccolette was conscious of Glen sitting on the carriage box, reins in hand; his eyes lingered on the two of them as they went inside. Niccolette did not look back, not with the door open. She stepped through it, and Howie followed behind, and Leo last. Niccolette came to a stop just inside, chin raised, gaze coolly drifting between the men. One had shot to his feet as they entered; two others had been close behind, and the fourth a little slower, a little more hesitant, with a faint wobble to him that suggested, even without the benefit of smelling his breath, a reason why.

Niccolette trailed after Leo; she did not stand too close, not crowding him, but she kept close enough that the gap-toothed man who’d taken charge did not have much space. She watched the exchange between them, standing, still and upright, with no fidgeting or squirming. Her arms were loose at her side, her hands open; in the dim light, the heavy fall of her hair left her face half-shaded, and she did not push it back and over of the way, letting it hang loose around her face.

Howie stood at the door, broad arms crossed over his barrel chest. He’d exchanged nods with one of the men dicing; after a moment, and a quiet murmur of broad-accented conversation, he sat and joined them. The one who’d stood last was the only one not playing; he had a bit of wood in his hand, and despite the sway in his step, was working at it with a small, delicate knife, his gaze flicking from it to Niccolette, Leander, and the gap-toothed man.

Niccolette met his gaze, once, and raised her eyebrows. He looked back down, stubble-coated throat bobbing in a heavy swallow, and went back to his whittling. When Niccolette looked away, the gap-toothed man was watching her. He smiled, uneasily, and turned his attention back to the passive.

Niccolette breathed, slowly, steadily, and waited.

[Leander]

33rd Day of Loshis

Sometimes all it took was a momentary glance at a document to know whether it was forged or not. Other times, it could take the better part of a day to ascertain the integrity of what was written down on a parchment. The biggest problem lay in not being able to compare a possibly forged document agains one that Leo knew was definitely not. He had entered into this assuming that one or all could potentially be forged, and he had not brought along a true identification paper to compare them all too. It took a special type of person, with a good eye and memory for what was right, in order to identify what he was looking for.

“If they are forged, it is worth noting that someone has gone though a lot of trouble to make them look legitimate…” Leo murmured to the room at large. He saw no tell-tale signs of his or Resha’s own work… which was convenient, because if he could, there would be no small amount of explaining to do with Hawke, no doubt. Not that anyone else would recognise a forger due to his or Resha’s work necessarily, but Leo knew his master, and knew his masters work almost as well as he knew his own, down to the simple outward flick of an ‘f’.

He picked up two of the documents to compare them against one another. He squinted as he did so, then placed them flat on the table, using his fingers as a guide to feel the written information as he continued to stare at the documents. He swapped one out for another, then did the same with the next. This process continued until he had made his way through the pile. The boy straightened up, massaging his back in the process and released a long, frustrated breath. He opened his mouth as if to speak before closing it again. “Wait…” How had he missed it?

“Look here,” he raised up one of the identification papers and shifted the light so that it would illuminate the page better, showing Niccolette the parchment. He pointed to one of the black lines drawn underneath the filled in details about the person, “You see how the black line has lost its integrity? The blue ink of the writing has leaked across the line? That indicates that the black line was either added in after the fact, or that the scribe had not the time to let one of the inks set before starting on filling in the details. Two others have the same trademark signs.”

It was a rather glaring error. The passive was surprised at how long it took him to notice that. He glanced again at one of the documents, finger tracing the stamp mark in the corner. “And here,” he pulled up another of the three, pointing to the stamp-mark in the corner, where one of three circles was not entirely complete. “Officials creating these documents check the stamps every morning. The circles must be complete, and if the colour bleeds or does not completely make a circle, they will exchange their stamp for a newer one. This mark… I mean it is minuscule, you cannot see it unless you bring it right up to your eye, but there is a break in the circle, just there.” He passed the paper to Niccolette for her to have a look should she want to.

“It suggests wear and tear on the stamp itself, so has not been changed out, suggesting the forger either doesn’t have a replacement, or was careless in trying to complete the identity card as fast as possible.” The counterfeiter paused for a moment, biting his lower lip as he considered. He continued, “The latter would be consistent with the bleeding of the ink. I could probably find more errors if I looked hard enough, but I don’t think that’s really necessary at this stage. You have three of the ten documents are forged, and that would be these three in front of me.”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 33 Loshis, 2719
The Wharf, Old Rose Harbor

Niccolette watched Leander bent over the documents, her eyes lingering for a moment on the frown writ on his face. All his focus was absorbed in the papers in front of them; his eyes darted back and forth, and his fingers prodded at the papers, tracing letters. She watched him a moment more, then looked away.

It was strange to see him focus, Niccolette thought. She was not sure how she knew that he was; naturally, she had seen him work before. She had stood there, bored and frustrated, as he had dawdled over the forgery that Lemandier had never, in the end, taken. He had worked on that, but he had not focused. Niccolette was not sure she liked being able to tell the difference; she would rather not have known.

“Let’s make it interestin’,” the drunk said, abruptly, setting his bit of wood aside, his face twisted sullenly. Niccolette glanced over when he spoke, and noticed a thin blooming line of bright red on his thumb. He shoved it in his mouth, sucked, and then spat into the floor.

“Bird’s dice,” he continued, grinning, revealing black gaps between his teeth in the low light. His eyes fixed on Howie. He went and drained the last of a small cup, and brought the stack back over, wobbling slightly.

“Jus’ a friendly game, Mert,” said one of the other guards, low-voiced. The gap-toothed man shifted closer to then, with a last glance at Niccolette and Leander, frowning as well.

Howie shrugged. “Bird’s keja, for a man knows what he’s about,” he said, setting a cupped handful of dice on the floor. “I ent one t’ say no.”

“Benny,” Mert said. He sucked at his thumb, and spat again, and set the cups down.

Niccolette watched a moment more, nothing showing on her face, the candlelight flickering over her skin and hair. She exhaled, and pushed it back over her forehead, turning her attention back to Leo.

It was a few moments before Niccolette realized the passive was even talking to her. She frowned, faintly, looking down at the paper he indicated, then back at him. She said nothing, and when Leander handed the papers to her, there was a pause before she took them, slowly.

Niccolette pursed her lips, tapped the papers into a stack. “Fine,” she said, looking at Leander, low-voiced. Gap-tooth was still watching the game. Niccolette came a little closer, close enough to nearly brush Leo with the edge of her sleeve. She set the papers he had identified at the edge of the table, away from the others.

“And these seven?” Niccolette asked beneath the skins of the game, looking down at the rest of the papers, and back at Leander. “The deal is to take one.” Slim fingers settled on the papers, and Niccolette tapped her nails against them, thoughtful. “If you can’t tell which...” she trailed off, looking back up at Leander and leaving it a question with the edge of a challenge, one eyebrow lifting to drive the point home.

[Leander]

33rd Day of Loshis

Leo, when in his element, was a very passive listener. He had grown used to drowning out Resha’s voice, or the voices of impatient customers who tried to chivvy him on. Ignoring the voices of the men striking up a game of dice and chance was nothing. When he was focusing on his work... well there was probably a correlation between how much Leo had had to drink and his work ethic - a correlation that would probably not at all surprise anyone who knew the passive. but today he was relatively sober, and that probably spoke volumes when it came to how productive he could be.

Niccolette’s voice, however, was a different matter entirely. For the most part, she seemed vastly uninterested in the papers and tell-tale signs of forgery as he passed them to her. she took barely a momentary glance at the one on the top of the pile he handed her before she placed them back on the table, moving closer to talk to her in a voice just above a whisper.

He glanced over, eyebrow raised as he processed what she said. “Excuse me?” He asked incredulously, “What about the other seven? I was under the impression that I was to identify the forgery, or forgeries, in this case. The other seven are sound documents. I cannot detect any instance of forgery within them... which means they are not forgeries. It really is as simple as that, Niccolette.”

He was affronted that she would assume he could not identify what they were looking for. “There is, I say again, nothing within those seven documents that indicates any one of them is a forgery.” Yet, at the same time, he had to wonder at what orders Niccolette had been given that made her drop her voice with the intention of only him hearing her. Leander had simply been told to identify any counterfeited documents. He had not thought to ask why, he had not wanted to ask a question like that regardless.

He had done his bit, but now it became clear that Niccolette had diametrically opposed instructions. She was looking for a single forgery, one that she had an agreement to take away with her, for whatever purpose. He thought about asking her outright what she wanted him to say. He had no idea what she was looking for, what he could say that would lead her to taking away one of the identification papers. His own tone matched hers as he glanced over to the dice game which was no well underway. “What do you want from me,” he all but hissed in frustration.

“I can identify the ‘least likely to be forged’ document if you really want me to, but that is not really how this works. The document is either forged or it isn’t, and those seven are clean.” he was clutching at straws now, as he murmured in a now borderline hysterical tone (Circle how he despised this woman, nothing could ever be simple with her, could it?)

Returning to the seven in question, be picked two more up and squinted at them, though had barely any idea what he was looking for, such was his general annoyance at the woman next to him. “I can tell you who forged the documents if that helps, or I can tell you which legitimate scribe wrote the others. But the point still stands that there are three forgeries and seven legitimate documents. Short of scrunching them up, sticking them into a hat and pulling one of them away at random, I cannot help you pick one identification paper to take away with you today.”