Chapter 6 (Continued)

[78rpmlife]

From Garnyn, she doesn't mind as much as she does from some. "He'll be happy to hear that you remember his advice," Iana replies, with an honest smile - even if it slips a little as she gives her own little 'but the Wards' gesture in return, and sighs, "Right. I hope you do get to go there someday."

The frustration of always being seen in the context of a more famous relative is an unfamiliar concept to Garnyn. He's studied enough, read enough, talked to enough Unjoined that he knows it's a thing, but really understanding it is like grabbing a fish with your bare hands. Even when you can put a finger on it, it just slips away.

"Yes, it is, actually. It's good to know they're there if I need them." Which is something she definitely would not have, said, as the teenager who climbed through Tisara's window every other week. "Our family isn't very large - just the three of us, no other connections in the city. But that meant that my friends were almost like siblings when I was growing up. Georg's sister Ayla, and - and some others." Even though she is just as close to Tisara, if not closer, she doesn't say her name - she hates that she even has to think it, but if someone is listening, the name 'Firefly' might jump out of an otherwise blur of whispered words.

"I just hope we can figure out how to de-escalate the situation in the city. I know people are frustrated, and with good reason, but it wouldn't take much for a protest to turn into a riot. The wrong people always end up getting hurt in a riot. Not that I want anyone to get hurt, of course. But..."

Garnyn cuts off as someone else approaches the baited table. He can't' quite get a clean look at their face, because they're very conveniently turned away from him and Iana. Garnyn realizes now that maybe they should have taken up separate positions for just this reason and wrinkles his nose in irritation.

Iana, however, knows just who it is, even without seeing her face. She's seen those braids a hundred times. The birthmark on the right side of the woman's neck. That slouching, round-shouldered posture. Sayesti Venna is Dara Fleetwood's secretary. Dara Fleetwood, Iana's immediate supervisor. But... if Sayesti -- or worse, Dara -- is the one taking the documents, why would she be taking Dara's report? Shouldn't she already have a copy?

Sayesti bends to take a look at the books on the table, running knobby fingers over them before taking a slow look around for eavesdroppers. Sayesti is also an Obsidian, of course. The security clearance required to be the secretary for a high-placed analyst is significant and impossible to acquire without Obsidian training.

Garnyn looks to Iana, eyes wide as he tips his head in Sayesti's direction. He mouths, 'What do we do?'

[Asralynn Beauchaud]

Rothenend studies Asra for a long moment, perhaps gauging her sincerity. Whatever he finds there, he is apparently satisfied with it. "Very well," he says. He pushes himself up to standing. "You may wait here while we put together a pass for you to speak with Adaye."

Asra nods dutifully, going so far as to lower her head in defeat as the headmaster leaves the room.

He looks as if he might say more, but in the end only the corner of his mouth lifts up in a half-smile. The Headmaster walks out of the room, letting the door swing closed behind him.

Asra finds herself alone in the Headmaster's office. Who knows how long she might have before he returns? Who knows how much he'll know if she snoops? The opportunity, however, is certainly available.

As soon as the door latches shut, Asra's eyes alight with defiant fire. The Headmaster held all of the cards, had all of the information, but perhaps she could siphon some of that for her own purposes.

Like the wall. What was that? Were they windows into distant locales? Visions of other realms? She'd like a chance to study them. Not the images themselves, but magic behind them. How was he doing it? That was the most important thing to her. The HOW.

[5, 5] = 10
2d6 Investigation:  [

] = 10

[Ianaeveli Tigenet]

Sayesti bends to take a look at the books on the table, running knobby fingers over them before taking a slow look around for eavesdroppers. Sayesti is also an Obsidian, of course. The security clearance required to be the secretary for a high-placed analyst is significant and impossible to acquire without Obsidian training.

Garnyn looks to Iana, eyes wide as he tips his head in Sayesti's direction. He mouths, 'What do we do?'

Iana is just on the point of answering Garnyn when he cuts off, and Iana goes very still. Her eyes widen in the dim light, as tiny alarm bells ring in the back corners of her mind. Sayesti? Is that who has been stealing the documents? Or…Dara?

Has Iana been unwittingly giving information to her adversaries the whole time?

She swallows back the queasy wince that that thought brings up, and gives Garnyn what she hopes is a self-assured nod. And after all of the…fieldwork? that she managed to get through this morning, it is much more so than it would have been a few days before.

I'll take this, she is signaling.

Iana straightens up, giving her hair a pat to smooth it down and to tuck a few errant strands behind her pointed ears while she circles around behind the pillars, in the hopes that she will look like she is coming from a different direction than the spot where Garnyn still hides. For good measure, she grabs a random book off the shelves, carrying it casually along with her as she strolls out towards Sayesti.

"Oh! Sayesti!" Iana's emerald eyes widen in innocent surprise. "Good day. How are you - " She stops short, blinking down at the documents on the table, as if seeing them for the first time. "I'm sorry - did you need another copy of that report? I thought that M Fleetwood had all of that already. I hope it hasn't gotten lost," she adds, smooth forehead furrowing worriedly. "Is there something that I can help you find for her?"

It is her best impression of a helpful junior analyst attempting to do her duty to her superior: something that Sayesti has seen in truth from her on more than one occasion.

The best bluffs are the ones that are a bit true, she tells herself, for what must be the dozenth time today. It was one of the most elementary lessons that they had learned in Obsidian training, and Iana has been relying on it as best she can. Perhaps she can pull it off one more time...

[Georg Elsebethson]

"You know, sometimes I hate that you're as big as a fucking mountain and too damned quick for me to knock you in the fucking dirt, Georg Elsebethson," Finch says. "Lucky for both of us that I like you enough to forgive you for being such a smart ass." She sidles up next to him and gives him a shove with her shoulder. "Asshole," she says, laughing.

Georg nods sagely. "I often count myself lucky in your presence, Terise Finch."

Karok nods. "Also the rule of today and everyday. That man never wastes a word," he mutters and plants his hands on his hips. "Well. Better not keep you waiting any more."

Finch squeezes Georg's arm, as much of it as she can get her hand around anyway. "Look us up when you get out, yeah? Between worrying about you and Asra and just about everybody else, I'm as jumpy as a landed fish. I'll be in the practice yards beating on some dummies."

"Right. Once more into the breach. Don't run out of dummies before I get back." With that, Georg makes his way into the offices.

The offices are a discombobulated ant farm today, and it takes all of Georg's grace to not be the obstacle someone bruises themself against. He sidesteps. He shimmies along the wall. At one point he has to lift a tower of boxes out of a functionary's arms so they can see what they almost ran into, then return them once they are on the other side. Georg is worried he's going to have to start lifting up and moving people when, with the secretary's help, he finally finds Master Antior's office.

When he knocks and pokes his head in, he sees Antior standing behind a massive desk, cross-referencing something in a large open book against a stack of papers next to it. Everything on the desk -- everything in the office, in fact -- is exquisitely organized. Every painting is straight. The carpet in front of the desk is in exact line with the furniture, placed in the exact center of the room. The desk doesn't have a stray paper anywhere. Even the five pencils lined up in a row atop the desk have their points lined up evenly next to one another.

The door emits a faint creak. Antior lifts only his eyes in response, head still bent over his work.

"Scholar," he says, acknowledging Georg's presence. "Come in. Shut the door behind you." Antior ruffles the stack of papers, tapping the short edge against the desktop to get them into order, then sets them aside, closing the book and setting it atop the stack.

The Master of Granite's desk is one of the few pieces of furniture in Meriava that doesn't look tiny in the same space as Georg. It's solidly built, as well' Georg isn't even sure he could shift it without good leverage or some extra sets of hands. On occasion, Georg has daydreamed about sitting behind it, imagining what it would feel like. People who didn't know better would assume it was made for him, and not the affectation of some previous Master of Granite.

On days like today, Georg is grateful to be standing in front instead.

Georg shuts the door as instructed and stands at attention. "Scholar Elsebethson, reporting as ordered."

[78rpmlife]

As soon as the door latches shut, Asra's eyes alight with defiant fire. The Headmaster held all of the cards, had all of the information, but perhaps she could siphon some of that for her own purposes.

Like the wall. What was that? Were they windows into distant locales? Visions of other realms? She'd like a chance to study them. Not the images themselves, but magic behind them. How was he doing it? That was the most important thing to her. The HOW.

It's some of the most fascinating magic that Asra has seen at the School. She can recognize the fundamental principles at play as something akin to a memory glass. She's had to study them before in some of her early Scholar-level courses on light and sound, so she knows that they work by storing the light of an image within the glass. A properly functioning memory glass retains that light without loss of signal for months, even years for the best quality devices. But that's not entirely what seems to be happening here. These panels of light, these image banks, are just the light. Not stored. Light collected elsewhere -- in her home of Hara, in what looks like Rhamia, all across the continent -- is effectively teleported to these panels without any loss of signal.

And from what Asra understands of light, that shouldn't be physically possible. Teleportation magic requires the object have mass. Light has no mass. It's only energy.

She frantically pokes her senses about, trying to glean any further information about how they might work before the Headmaster returns. She can hear muffled voices outside in the reception area. There can't be very much time left.

That's when she notices it. She's known some Mechanists back home, and most of them like to sign their work in some way. A sigil engraved into a machine, a particular methodology known only to that Mechanist, a calling card of some sort. There's an impressive little feat of three-dimensional light bending embedded into one of the panels, an image she knows. Adaye of Nigen, Master of Whitestone College, currently imprisoned for treason, made these panels.

Asra cuts off her arcane exploration just in time as the Headmaster comes back into the room. He bears a letter sealed with the symbol of the Headmaster's Office which he hands over to Asra. "Give this to the guard on duty at Adaye's rooms. He'll see that you're given proper access to speak with her," he says.

"Do you have any further questions for me? If not, you should be on your way. You've a great deal to accomplish, Scholar Beauchaud. I look forward to hearing of your progress."

[78rpmlife]

"Oh! Sayesti!" Iana's emerald eyes widen in innocent surprise. "Good day. How are you - " She stops short, blinking down at the documents on the table, as if seeing them for the first time. "I'm sorry - did you need another copy of that report? I thought that M Fleetwood had all of that already. I hope it hasn't gotten lost," she adds, smooth forehead furrowing worriedly. "Is there something that I can help you find for her?"

It is her best impression of a helpful junior analyst attempting to do her duty to her superior: something that Sayesti has seen in truth from her on more than one occasion.

The best bluffs are the ones that are a bit true, she tells herself, for what must be the dozenth time today. It was one of the most elementary lessons that they had learned in Obsidian training, and Iana has been relying on it as best she can. Perhaps she can pull it off one more time...

Iana's looking for it, so she definitely sees it, but she might even sense it with her eyes closed: Sayesti nearly jumps out of her skin at hearing another voice. That's unusual for an Obsidian, at least one as experienced as Sayesti Venna, and it likely means one thing. Sayesti is nervous.

"Hello, Iana," she says, tugging on the hem of her tailored jacket. Sayesti is always tailored, always exquisitely put together without ostentation. Her dark hair is quite short, but curls jauntily around her ears, dark eyes complemented by carefully applied makeup that emphasizes the warmth in her golden brown skin. Some of the Scholars tease her behind her back, portraying her as some sort of ice queen, but Iana knows that's only a superficial look at a much more complex person. For one, she has an absolutely vicious sense of humor that she wields at the most unexpected but absolutely effective moments. For another, Iana has witnessed her willingness to speak truth to power, once even causing Dara to snap at her for a pointed comment made in front of Iana.

So to see her caught off guard? That's a concern.

"You must be working on a new project?" she continues on, regaining her more typical placid tone. She glances down at the book then tries to get a clearer look at the title, then back up to Iana. "Lost? Goodness no. You know that nothing ever gets lost in Obsidian, merely 'subject to undocumented rerouting'." Her tone grows dry and pedantic, a good approximation of one of the most senior librarians, a well-known prig of the highest order. "I don't suppose you happen to be in possession of the relevant... rerouting slips?"

It's a simple enough question, but the direct, searching look Sayesti gives her is clear in its meaning: did you take the report?

[78rpmlife]

The Master of Granite's desk is one of the few pieces of furniture in Meriava that doesn't look tiny in the same space as Georg. It's solidly built, as well' Georg isn't even sure he could shift it without good leverage or some extra sets of hands. On occasion, Georg has daydreamed about sitting behind it, imagining what it would feel like. People who didn't know better would assume it was made for him, and not the affectation of some previous Master of Granite.

On days like today, Georg is grateful to be standing in front instead.

Georg shuts the door as instructed and stands at attention. "Scholar Elsebethson, reporting as ordered."

Antior moves out from behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back, posture straight. "At ease, Scholar," he replies as he looks up at Georg. "It wasn't so much an order as a suggestion, though you have my appreciation for taking it seriously."

He's silent for a moment, studying Georg's features impassively before speaking again. "The Swordmaster speaks highly of you, Scholar. Not only your martial prowess, though she speaks highly of that as well, but your sense of duty and your tenacity in completing a task. I have need of someone who fits these characteristics, but I also have need of someone who is capable of practicing discretion and loyalty."

He holds up his right hand to keep Georg from replying, even though he likely knows that no Granite Scholar would dream of speaking to the Master of the College until and unless directed to. "I am not speaking of blind loyalty, the soldier to their commander in the midst of a battle. I am speaking of loyalty to doing the right thing. I fear there is a growing rot at the core of this School, Scholar Elsebethson, and I have need of someone who can seek out the truth and tell me if I am right or wrong. Do you understand what I am saying? You have my permission to speak plainly."

[Georg Elsebethson]

Antior moves out from behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back, posture straight. "At ease, Scholar," he replies as he looks up at Georg. "It wasn't so much an order as a suggestion, though you have my appreciation for taking it seriously."

He's silent for a moment, studying Georg's features impassively before speaking again. "The Swordmaster speaks highly of you, Scholar. Not only your martial prowess, though she speaks highly of that as well, but your sense of duty and your tenacity in completing a task. I have need of someone who fits these characteristics, but I also have need of someone who is capable of practicing discretion and loyalty."

Georg relaxes his posture and gives Master Antior his full attention. Inwardly, he's still bracing for what, exactly, the Master of Granite is about to ask of him. Oh sure, what's another confidence, another conspiracy? The next time someone cuts me I'm going to bleed secrets if I'm not careful.

He holds up his right hand to keep Georg from replying, even though he likely knows that no Granite Scholar would dream of speaking to the Master of the College until and unless directed to. "I am not speaking of blind loyalty, the soldier to their commander in the midst of a battle. I am speaking of loyalty to doing the right thing. I fear there is a growing rot at the core of this School, Scholar Elsebethson, and I have need of someone who can seek out the truth and tell me if I am right or wrong. Do you understand what I am saying? You have my permission to speak plainly."

If Georg did not already suspect Master Antior of being involved in some conspiracy, in being part of the "growing rot," this would be a heartening speech to hear, but he holds himself back. He can't fully trust this man, even as badly as he needs more allies with the ability to act. Still, he has been invited to speak plainly.

"Something stinks, and you want to be sure that your nose is working." Georg's lips tighten a moment. "Loyalty to doing the right thing." "Are you checking other people's shit, or your own?"

[Ianaeveli Tigenet]

So to see her caught off guard? That's a concern.

"You must be working on a new project?" she continues on, regaining her more typical placid tone. She glances down at the book then tries to get a clearer look at the title, then back up to Iana. "Lost? Goodness no. You know that nothing ever gets lost in Obsidian, merely 'subject to undocumented rerouting'." Her tone grows dry and pedantic, a good approximation of one of the most senior librarians, a well-known prig of the highest order. "I don't suppose you happen to be in possession of the relevant... rerouting slips?"

It's a simple enough question, but the direct, searching look Sayesti gives her is clear in its meaning: did you take the report?

Iana keeps her searching emerald gaze on Sayesti, measuring and weighing the other woman's reactions. Those nerves are genuine - they must be. It is not fear at being caught out for something that she herself is doing wrong, but for fear that the person who is the culprit will catch her here.

In other words, a mirror of Iana's own feelings. Sayesti is trying to do the same thing that she is herself.

While those wheels haven't entirely stopped spinning in Iana's mind, she permits herself at least a little respite to be grateful that Sayesti does not seem to be the fish that they were aiming to catch with this bit of bait. She has always liked Sayesti. Admired her, even, for that flawless fashion and skillful makeup - for her flashes of humor even more, and for her courage most of all. Which is why Iana has always defended her, when the gossip about her among other Scholars has strayed too close to the line of unkindness.

So she is relieved that her faith in Sayesti has not been misplaced. She did not think that Sayesti would be the kind of person to be involved in a conspiracy covering up corruption and abuse of power; not after taking risks to speak out against those very things.

And even more, Iana is relieved that she is a little less alone. She isn't sure how many others would have come to the same conclusions, given the available evidence, but she is glad that Sayesti is there with her.

"Actually," Iana replies, meeting Sayesti's eyes directly, "I have been trying to find those 'rerouting slips' myself." She can't help the twitch of her mouth at the precision of Sayesti's imitation, but seriousness returns almost at once as she continues, "I haven't found any yet, but I have been looking for some time."

No, she is saying. I don't know either, and I am worried, too.

[78rpmlife]

Antior's lips twitch. It's not much of an expression, but the fact that his eyes brighten suggest that it's as much of a smile as Georg is likely to get.

"Yes," he answers simply.

He begins pacing slowly back and forth, exactly five strides one way, five the other. "I am finding my own observations to be... more questionable than I would prefer them to be," he says. This is quite an admission: Antior is well-known for being a clear and focused thinker. He's not a big man, not particularly physically gifted, but somehow he rose to the office of Master of Granite. He turns to look at Georg, but doesn't pause his pacing. "The Swordmaster suggested that you have some experience with questionable observations. I need someone impartial to verify my suspicions. I have asked the Swordmaster, but she declined and offered your name in response. Are you the person I am looking for?"