Chapter 6 (Continued)

[AftermathGM]

"That's me," Georg says cheerfully, "'Disgusting asshole.' But yeah, this is old business we're talking about. Any merchant family who's been in Meriava for a few generations has gotten into bed with someone they shouldn't have." Georg waggles his eyebrows. "Metaphorically speaking, of course"

"And probably literally," says Finch archly. "Traded favors aren't always just monetary."

Georg furrows his brow; he hadn't really thought this through. "Good point. Maybe talk to Asra about the best way to get it. I doubt her secretary would just let you waltz in and take it." If he was on their side, it stands to reason that he would have tried to get word to them about Adaye's arrest. The fact that he hasn't implies that he's either keeping his head down or outright compromised. "I mean, if you think you can sneak in, but I don't know what kind of magical security might be in place."

Finch shakes her head. "I'd rather not if I don't have to. But I can also do a little bit of recon if nothing else. Who knows, maybe I can just walk in and look around." She taps her lips in thought. "I'll ask Eldarin if they can poke around at the kinship too, see if maybe Adaye left it there for some reason." Finch holds up her hands. "I know it's a long shot, but maybe Adaye liked to work from home too. She seems like the sort that would wake up in the middle of the night with a crazy idea and not want to traipse all the way into her office just to try it out."

She clasps her hands together, rubbing at the palm of one with the thumb of the other. It's a nervous habit of hers, pent-up energy and nowhere specific to direct it. "The Mayor's ball is in just a couple of days, Per. Are we going to be ready for... for..." She sighs and her shoulders sag. "For whatever's going to happen? I was serious when I said that I was not going to let anything happen to Sophie, but..."

"O's and A, Per... you think I'd be used to all this magical bullshit, that I'd be ready to accept whatever these big brains do. It's been our whole lives, one weird, inexplicable, bizarre thing after another going on around us while we poke things with sticks, but now you've got a magic sword out of some elven myth and I'm here banging rocks together... and I'm scared, Georg," she says, her voice dropping and tensing with emotion. "And I fucking hate being scared, especially when I can't go poke it with a fucking stick. Really damned hard." And there, her voice breaks and tears pool at the corners of her eyes.

[78rpmlife]

Asra has to consciously keep from flapping her hands in distress at being unable to make a decision and determines that the best course of action would be to follow, but without drawing too much attention to herself. Making her way down the stairs at a quick (but not too quick) pace, she stops at the Archivist's cart to scoop up and hand over a stack of papers that had scattered across the walkway. A truly Whitestone-headed decision, as she couldn't fathom a single person who would disrespect a report or manuscript in such a way as to step on it when there was an alternative.

"What's their problem?" she asks the Archivist idly, trying not to flinch as she yanks the papers away from what could be prying eyes. "Do you know them?"

The Archivist, a short human woman with frizzy curls gathered in a shaggy ponytail, frowns suspiciously at Asra, perhaps unused to someone actually offering to help, maybe it's just a natural reaction of the Obsidian in their natural habitat. "Their problem is that they have no regard for anyone else's job, no thought for the hard work that goes into supporting them, not a care that the thrice-damned analysts leave documents all over the thrice-damned library, floors away from where they need to be shelved, and then when we finally get them all gathered up for reshelving, the great lumbering oafs run right over my cart and now it'll be another hour sorting these papers again and... and..."

Strings cut, the Archivist flops into a sitting position on the stairs and wails, "And I just want to go home and eat dinner! I've been saving this lovely little piece of fish and the peas are ready to pick and it was going to be such a nice quiet evening with no books at all!" She sobs into her hands for a few moments, then snuffles loudly and mumbles through their fingers, "Ishan Veriti. The big fellow with the beautiful dark eyes that's never looked my way even once! He's probably in luh-luh-love with HER!"

And that sets off another round of wailing.

[78rpmlife]

Iana keeps running.

Past bookshelves, past stacks of wooden boxes filled with documents, past the handful of bewildered - or alarmed - staff.

With every step, her breath gets sharper and her stride gets shorter as the darts of pain sharpen in her right hip. Adrenaline can keep her going for a little while more - but how much more? She can already feel herself starting to flag, and she can hear Ishan's heavy tread behind her: still fast, still steady, still getting closer.

Brief hope comes as Iana spots another stairwell off to her left. Can she get ahead of him once more? Or even vanish onto another level and escape?

The thought gives her a spur of energy that propels her forward, dashing down the stairs two at a time, the way she always does -

- and pain bursts through her right hip as her foot lands hard, and oh, no, this was a very bad idea.

Still, she keeps going - for what other choice does she have? And perhaps she can at least make it to the next landing before Ishan catches up…

She can, in fact, make it to the next landing before Ishan catches up, but it's not enough. Not nearly enough. She takes another step and her knee buckles, sending her stumbling forward to land in an awkward heap on hands and knees, pain lancing in her hip and radiating outward from there.

Iana hears Ishan before she sees him and tries to scramble away, but it's no use. She's not nearly fast enough even when she's uninjured. Ishan comes up beside her, puts his hands under her shoulders and lifts her to her feet like she was nothing more than a tipped-over chair. "I'm sorry, Iana. You're never going to believe me, and I'll come to terms with that, but I truly am sorry," he says. He keeps a tight hold on her with one hand while he brings a cloth up to cover her nose and mouth. The clinical analyst part of Iana's mind categorizes the substance on the cloth by scent and volatility and has just about decided which knockout drug it is when her brain shuts off completely.

* * *

Consciousness is slow in returning, hard to pin down and hold on to. Iana hears murmured voices, but as she drifts in and out again, she can't be sure they were real. Her eyes flutter open and her addled mind sees all sorts of people, people who couldn't possibly be here (people she doesn't want to be here). Tisara and Ayla are standing in the corner talking animatedly. Her cousin Esalia, who only visited Meriava once ten years ago, declared that she hated it and went back to the Vaelt, is sitting next to her. Knitting a scarf with the words 'poor Iana' somehow scrolling through its length over and over and over.

The next time she opens her eyes, her vision swims for just a few moments before it clears. She expects to see some other sort of bizarre vision, but perhaps thankfully perhaps not, this time she stays awake. She realizes that she is tied to a chair, her hands bound behind her and her ankles tied to the chair legs. It's terribly stereotypical and under different circumstances, Iana might laugh disdainfully at the lack of imagination her captors display. She looks around the room, which appears to be a storage room of some sort. Shelves of boxes, a push broom in the corner, a single door in front of her and a flickering light globe hovering above her head that can't seem to decide if it wants to cast the usual yellowish light or a pleasant shade of sky blue.

It's impossible to tell for sure how long she's been out. The room feels like some of the evidence rooms in the basement of Obsidian headquarters. She's skeptical that Ishan could have carted her too far away without arousing suspicion among some of the most naturally suspicious people in the city, if not the world, so she tentatively decides that she's still in Obsidian and hasn't been knocked out very long. More evidence will be necessary.

The door opens and a slim human man with dark hair and a well-trimmed and oiled beard steps in, closing the door behind him. "Good, you're awake. I've been looking forward to talking to you," he says. His voice is cultured, but carefully so. It's not smooth, like he has to think for a moment about how he's supposed to pronounce the word in the most proper way. His accent is unmistakably Kasiali. "I'm sorry we had to bring you here under these circumstances. It's not how I prefer to meet people if it can be avoided, but..." He spreads his hands with a regretful sigh.

"You, of course, are Ianaeveli Tigenet, Obsidian Scholar and nagging splinter underneath my fingernail. I go by the name Chavon, but I understand that you've been doing some research on that fact," he says, pulling up a chair and sitting a couple of arms' length away, legs crossed and hands folded in his lap.

[Ianaeveli Tigenet]

Iana blinks awake, struggling to focus her blurry eyes on the world around her. It _is_ the world around her this time, not any of the strange visions that have swirled through her sedated mind.

If she were still dreaming, her hip and knee wouldn't ache so much, and she wouldn't feel the scrape of rope so roughly against her wrists and ankles. Also, she probably wouldn't dream herself into a location so utterly boring as this one.

If she is in the basement of Obsidian, then she knows exactly how thick the walls are - and therefore, how little chance there is that anyone will ever hear her if she shouts for help.

She is just beginning to try to gather more evidence that might tell her where she is - can she read the labels on any of the boxes? - or spot any potential gaps in the wall that might provide an outlet for sound or to pass a message, when the door opens, and her breath stops.

The door opens and a slim human man with dark hair and a well-trimmed and oiled beard steps in, closing the door behind him. "Good, you're awake. I've been looking forward to talking to you," he says. His voice is cultured, but carefully so. It's not smooth, like he has to think for a moment about how he's supposed to pronounce the word in the most proper way. His accent is unmistakably Kasiali. "I'm sorry we had to bring you here under these circumstances. It's not how I prefer to meet people if it can be avoided, but..." He spreads his hands with a regretful sigh.

"You, of course, are Ianaeveli Tigenet, Obsidian Scholar and nagging splinter underneath my fingernail."

Iana stays frozen while the speaks, but the racing of her heart begins to slow. He is not here to hurt her. (Yet?) And despite everything, Iana can't help but feel a flare of pride at that description. To get that kind of reaction means she has been doing her job well. And she can't help but let some of her satisfied little smile show through. Which will probably irritate him even more. Which is even better.

"I go by the name Chavon, but I understand that you've been doing some research on that fact," he says, pulling up a chair and sitting a couple of arms' length away, legs crossed and hands folded in his lap.

Her eyes widen - but only briefly - at the name. "Yes, I have." Iana does her best to keep her voice crisp, sharp, without any of the fear that rises every time she feels the bite of the rope that binds her. "As your friend Ishan has seen by now, I'm sure." Despite the defiant scorn in her voice, there is a stab of pain behind it, sharper even than the ones radiating through her hip and knee. Ishan is Chavon's friend. Which means he can never be Iana's again.

Iana stops herself before she can get any harsher than that. As much as she wants to taunt and insult Chavon, she can't. She needs to keep him talking. As long as he's talking, then there's a chance that he will let some information slip. And as long as he's talking, he isn't hurting Iana or anyone else.

And so, when she speaks again, her voice is lighter, and the crisp edges still remain: "Why that particular name? I was wondering."

[Georg Elsebethson]

Finch shakes her head. "I'd rather not if I don't have to. But I can also do a little bit of recon if nothing else. Who knows, maybe I can just walk in and look around." She taps her lips in thought. "I'll ask Eldarin if they can poke around at the kinship too, see if maybe Adaye left it there for some reason." Finch holds up her hands. "I know it's a long shot, but maybe Adaye liked to work from home too. She seems like the sort that would wake up in the middle of the night with a crazy idea and not want to traipse all the way into her office just to try it out."

"Good idea." Georg allows himself to hope the Finch may be right. If Adaye was paranoid enough, she might have thought the kinship would be safer, especially if she had an inkling that her secretary wasn't reliable. On the other hand, she might not have liked the risk the Key might pose to the kinship, or to the potentially oblivious fingers of her little cousin. "We could use a lucky break like that right about now."

She clasps her hands together, rubbing at the palm of one with the thumb of the other. It's a nervous habit of hers, pent-up energy and nowhere specific to direct it. "The Mayor's ball is in just a couple of days, Per. Are we going to be ready for... for..." She sighs and her shoulders sag. "For whatever's going to happen? I was serious when I said that I was not going to let anything happen to Sophie, but..."

"O's and A, Per... you think I'd be used to all this magical bullshit, that I'd be ready to accept whatever these big brains do. It's been our whole lives, one weird, inexplicable, bizarre thing after another going on around us while we poke things with sticks, but now you've got a magic sword out of some elven myth and I'm here banging rocks together... and I'm scared, Georg," she says, her voice dropping and tensing with emotion. "And I fucking hate being scared, especially when I can't go poke it with a fucking stick. Really damned hard." And there, her voice breaks and tears pool at the corners of her eyes.

Seeing Finch, of all people, on the edge of tears makes Georg want to start crying as well, so he pulls her into a hug. Comforting and conveniently makes it impossible for either of them to see the others' face. "I know. You hope that when death is coming for you you'll be able to see it and fight back. Or at least flip off the mage about to zap you from across a battlefield." He heaves a sigh. "Instead it's the fucking sky reaching down and smashing you, or the earth opening up under your feet."

[Asralynn Beauchaud]

The Archivist, a short human woman with frizzy curls gathered in a shaggy ponytail, frowns suspiciously at Asra, perhaps unused to someone actually offering to help, maybe it's just a natural reaction of the Obsidian in their natural habitat. "Their problem is that they have no regard for anyone else's job, no thought for the hard work that goes into supporting them, not a care that the thrice-damned analysts leave documents all over the thrice-damned library, floors away from where they need to be shelved, and then when we finally get them all gathered up for reshelving, the great lumbering oafs run right over my cart and now it'll be another hour sorting these papers again and... and..."

Strings cut, the Archivist flops into a sitting position on the stairs and wails, "And I just want to go home and eat dinner! I've been saving this lovely little piece of fish and the peas are ready to pick and it was going to be such a nice quiet evening with no books at all!" She sobs into her hands for a few moments, then snuffles loudly and mumbles through their fingers, "Ishan Veriti. The big fellow with the beautiful dark eyes that's never looked my way even once! He's probably in luh-luh-love with HER!"

And that sets off another round of wailing.

Asra does her best to hide the uncomfortable grimace on her face, caused by having this unknown woman simply unload her worries onto her. Especially now when she was already worried out of her wits about Iana. 'Where is she?' she wonders. She had hoped that Iana would want to stay visible if the pursuit was a thing to worry about. Then there would be witnesses.

Then again, they were in Obsidian, and any witness would be unreliable at best...

Shit... she made a bad call. But Iana was fast, and if they came streaming back through here, she might be able to help her out.

In the meantime...

Scratching the back of her head, she looks down at the poor archivist having an absolute fit over her toppled cart and broken heart. Sitting down gently beside the woman, she puts a hand on her back. The scene was already bringing to mind her time in Adaye's cell not long ago, and she thought, not for the first time, why in the hell she was everyone's caregiver all of a sudden. It wasn't a bad feeling, to calm others and bring them back from the brink of despair, but she couldn't help but feel that it was such an abrupt change within her to help others like this.

"Hey..." she cooed gently. "It's going to be okay. I don't think you have anything to worry about. That didn't exactly look like a lover's quarrel. A woman who runs like that doesn't want to be caught, and I doubt he's going to be able to change her mind anytime soon." Rubbing her back, she shrugs. "Besides, he didn't look that handsome. Unless he's got some sort of heart of gold, I think you could do better. I mean look at you, you're adorable! I'm shocked you even have eyes for that big oaf, when you probably get asked out all the time."

She has no idea why she's saying any of this. This woman's mental state meant next to nothing to her, but damn it all if she was just going to stand there awkwardly while she cried her eyes out about this.

"Look, let's get you set back up with the cart, and clean this up a bit. I'm sure most of this can wait until tomorrow. It sounds to me like you need that quiet night more than you realize."