recreatable | open post.

Jasnah listens as though she's assembling a lattice: slotting each of his skills into structure and counter-structure, eliminating what is irrelevant, sharpening what remains. When she finally speaks, it's with the calm clarity of someone drafting strategy, not offering praise.

"Navigation," she begins. "That has value. Urithiru is not fully understood. It has more than a hundred stories; its forgotten passages collapse and reopen; even our scholars disagree on the safest routes between sections. It isn't quite like wildnerness terrain, but you'd adapt."

A soft scribble, like an idle thought, before she continues.

"Survival experience suggests field competence. I could assign you to accompany research parties — those who travel into the Plains, or the Herdazian border, or any of the unclaimed lands. There, we lose people not to blades, but to ignorance."

Another possibility presents itself.

"And there is the Cobalt Guard. Someone whose whose first instinct is to assess a situation, not react blindly to it, would be useful in their number. Someone capable of anticipating danger and acting without political hesitation."

She lets that settle. Three clear shapes. Three potential futures.

Then, more softly, more deliberately: "But those are merely the applications I can imagine. I'm not interested in placing you where you'll resent the work." She leans in, even as he leans back, signaling her genuine inquiry. "What would you find fulfilling? Where would your abilities be more than simple labour?"

"I don't know. Guess I've never really thought about... fulfillment."

That doesn't seem a thing within his reach. It certainly hadn't back in Lumière or on the Continent. Even before the trouble began and the truth came out, he'd always felt a nagging sense of wrongness. He still feels that wrongness, bone-deep now, seeped into the marrow. There's no fulfillment to be found here, just existence.

"I used to want to be a—" He cringes a little, because this is embarrassing. "Famous composer." Not merely a 'composer'. Specifically a famous one. Universally beloved by fans.

"But," he adds, since she'd already dismissed the idea of putting him up on a stage, "it looks like the 'court musician' position is closed."

Edited 2025-11-16 19:00 (UTC)

...Her knuckles rap against the table. Biding time, buying the space to think. It's complicated. The Coalition, of which Alethkar is a central participant, is at war. Beyond that, war is coming for the whole planet. It's — difficult to justify putting anyone in positions that aren't martial. Practical. Additive.

She'd described to him, once, a role that was something like a court musician: a jester, a storyteller, a sword. An emotional shield, of sorts, for the monarch. Carefully, cautiously, she did not link that position to the man they'd discussed earlier.

"The seat of the Queen's Wit remains vacant. I don't see why you'd want it but — it's the closest we come to any kind of artistic patronage during these times."

Is she...wincing? Maybe like she feels as though to outright offer it could actually offend him.

Verso blinks. Not offended at the suggestion by any means, but perhaps a bit offended at something else—

"You really know how to flatter a man." Since she already sounds as if she's trying to talk him out of it. "Is my playing so bad?"

"Not in the slightest," Jasnah answers. She doesn't rush to reassure him or correct him, but she does firmly dispel the notion. "I quite enjoy your playing. But I can't imagine you'd want this particular position — no matter how much music it might entail."

Moments like these — earnest, sincere, and easily shared — make it clearer and clearer that she doesn't withhold praise on purpose. Rather, she's grading by a different rubric.

"You should understand. It's not a glamorous appointment. The Wit must be sharp enough to survive court politics. Expected to speak boldly where others stay silent, only to be despised for the very honesty that protects them. It is undignified. Unpopular. Spending most days at the sovereign's side — sitting through petitions, negotiations, the indescribable tedium of administrative reform. All on the off-chance their sensibilities — story, poetry, music — might one day be required. Either to delight envoys or to interrupt a moment of political tension."

Or to simply entertain her. He would be expected to watch her read, review endless reports, annotate policy drafts — waiting patiently for the moment she might want his craft. He would do it all in her shadow. Day after day. Whether he is bored. Or irritated. Or invisible. Given his current state — trailing after her like an axehound — Jasnah assumed his request for gainful employment meant he wanted out from under her thumb. The role she describes couldn't be further from the truth. By dissuading him, she believes she's saving him from a miserable fate.

"People will resent you for the influence they imagine you wield. They will sneer at you for the foolishness they think you must embody. And they will forget your name the moment you leave the room."

Finally, she inclines her head, expression unreadable but not unkind.

"If you seek fame or appreciation, look elsewhere. If you want meaningful work...then we can continue this conversation."

Mm. No, it doesn't really sound like fun. None of the adoring fans he'd always wanted, back when he still had dreams. But—

There is one thing he has found fulfillment in, for some given value of the word. He has, in fact, been undignified and unpopular, suffered and burdened himself for one singular thing. A greater cause. One he's lost now that the Canvas and its people are gone to him. He could dedicate himself to another cause, he thinks. If his existence is poison, then the least he can do is a little bloodletting to help create the antidote.

"And that's useful to you?" he asks, leaning forward once more in interest. "To have someone to do that for you?"

Girl, run, he's about to recontextualize his whole life around being unhappy to please you.

Jasnah had been so meticulous not to refer to herself within the job description. Obliquely, she'd mentioned the sovereign, the duties, the influence. It was easy enough to read between her lines, but she still hadn't expected his question to be so...incisive: would it be useful to have someone do that for you?

Showing a rare twinge of awkwardness, Jasnah clears her throat.

"I-I," uncharacteristically, she stammers. Statements like these are foreign on her tongue. Jasnah is very good at giving commands and expecting discipline from those around. She's much, much less accomplished at asking for things that are truly just for her. "I like for there to be music when drafting legislation. Or reviewing correspondence."

He can sense her clumsiness, and he adjusts unconsciously, almost imperceptibly, for her comfort: pulling back just slightly, both physically and in emotional intensity. Avoiding the dreaded crime of being too much. Verso tilts back so that he doesn't crowd her, expression milder now, more neutral. Tone light and casual.

"All right," he says with a shrug. "I could provide you with some background music."

I could be useful to you.

The side of his boot taps against hers, playful. Another one of those little searches for the friendly physical contact he's gone without for a long time. "Since you're so fond of my playing."

Jasnah doesn't recoil. She doesn't even shift. Just registers the brush of his boot with the faintest, almost imperceptible stillness, like someone cataloguing an unexpected variable but deciding it isn't a threat.

If anything, she allows it. For a moment.

"Background music," she repeats, dry as old paper, but not dismissive. The corner of her mouth softens, just enough to suggest she understands exactly what he's offering beneath the joke. Use.

A trial run, then. Temporary. Controlled.

"That will do," she says at last. Not warm; not cold; simply decisive. "We'll consider it an evaluation period once we return to Urithiru."

She clears her throat once again, not awkwardly this time, but instead with the crispness of someone returning herself to the task at hand.

"I have work to finish," she continues, turning to the map with that quiet, unshakeable composure of hers. "Stay and read, if you like. Let's see how you manage the tedium."

"Tedium?" he asks with a mock-skeptical expression, reaching out to take An Accountability of Virtue in hand again. Amused: "I'd hardly consider what Wema and Sterling are getting up to to be tedious."

And, besides, he's quite invested in the story. There's something deeply relatable about a protagonist caught between her own happiness and her familial duty. He'd rather like to pluck Wema out of the story and have a long conversation with her. As that's not possible, though, he'll make do with devouring the story at a startling speed.

Which is what he does, flipping through the story at a breakneck rate, reacting visibly to the various plot developments (and plot-what-plot developments). A wrinkled nose and rolled eyes at the Brightlord Vadam, a very quiet but very exasperated scoff at Wema's indecision, raised eyebrows at a very generous description of Sterling's physical attributes.

On occasion, he glances up at Jasnah, perhaps curious if there's any chance he'll catch her glancing up at him, too. But he is on his best behavior, so he does not at any point speak or interrupt her work, not until she's indicated that it's finished.

Edited (sometimes you just have to say 'enough is enough' with the commas) 2025-11-16 21:35 (UTC)

Jasnah settles into the rhythm of her work with the same precision she's brought to nearly everything else thus far. The map sprawled across the table is nearly as tall as she is, layered with translucent sheets of notation. Lines marking hypothesized boundaries, glyph combinations denoting pre-Recreance architecture, the faint shimmer of stormlight on a few key points where she's left spheres like tiny anchor-stones. Holding pages in place.

Verso's presence registers only at the edges of her awareness as he turns pages with enthusiasm, huffs with amusement or disbelief that punctuates the romantic fiction, or shifts occasionally in his seat. She doesn't look at him, but she hears him. And when she needs more space on the bench to reach a distant corner, she simply sets a hand on his shoulder and nudges him down without ceremony.

Standing now, she leans over the northeastern quadrant of the map's wide span, tracing with one fingertip the hypothetical location of a Dawncity that doesn't correlate with any known settlements. The scratch of her pen, the soft rustle of Verso's page-turning, the quiet hush of the alcove curtain. Together, they form an accidental harmony.

It is almost peaceful.

It ends when Ivory ripples into being just long enough for her to feel him — an anxious cold brush of ink against her jaw, a muted pulse of warning. He vanishes before Verso can catch more than a suggestion of movement, but the message is clear. Something is happening

A moment later, a tentative "ahem" fractures the quiet. Jasnah straightens at once.

The curtain draws back and an ardent peers inside, sheepish, eyes darting to Verso and then immediately away from him. Her robe is wrinkled from having been run in; her hands twist anxiously in the fabric at her waist.

"Brightness," she begins, stumbling over the honorific. "Forgive the intrusion, but —there's been...an incident. King Taravangian sends his regrets."

Her posture goes absolute still. "What incident?"

"The Oathgate," the ardent says in a rush, as if the words burn on the tongue. "It's...stopped working."

The air in the alcove seems to contract, the library holding its breath. Jasnah drops the square of charcoal she'd been using with controlled finality, and turns fully toward the doorway. "Storms," she swears.

And the room is no longer peaceful at all.

Verso, right in the middle of a particularly dramatic scene (in the rain, no less), glances up from the page in mild disappointment at being interrupted. Mild disappointment turns to concern at their visitor's visible anxiety, and he puts his book down and stands, body gone alert for potential danger. Shoulders a stiff, straight line, Chroma gathering at his fingertips to conjure weaponry—

"Oh." Whatever magical energy he might have managed to muster up dissipates in an instant, his entire body relaxing. That's not nearly as bad as he'd assumed.

At least, he doesn't think it is. Jasnah certainly looks troubled by it.

"It's all right," he says, half-reassurance and half-ignorance. Lumière has kept on just fine for over a century without any Oathgates. Surely any technical issues are just a minor inconvenience. "There must be another means of travel back to Urithiru, non?"

— Ivory hisses something in her ear, interrupting her, tutting about a strange glow in the Cognitive. Jasnah waves him off, trying to focus on the here and now.

She is still watching the ardent, suspicion roiling in her gut. Was this one part of the hardline faction within the ardentia? The ones commanded by the other priest Jasnah had asked Ivory to watch earlier that day.

"That depends on whether the fault is with this Oathgate or all Oathgates," she answers Verso. "This one? We sail to Theylenah and use theirs. But if their is..." She trails off, turning on a heel and gathering her books, her papers, her maps.

"If they're all down, it's a two weeks' sail to the Frostlands. Another week to make the plains. And even then, we'd need a Windrunner to fly us over the mountains."

Something shivers in her voice. Jasnah suppresses it. Someone wants her stuck in Kharbranth — the quicker they can not be where she's expected to be, the better.

Jasnah seems worried, and that fact alone is enough to worry him, too. His exposure to the world of politics has been minimal at best, but calling on the stories he used to read about kings and queens and their many enemies lets him form a somewhat coherent picture of what she might be afraid of. He follows suit, slipping what books he can fit into his pack before moving to help her pack away her things.

"Then we'll sail to Theylenah." His voice is calm, patient. The voice of someone who's very used to repressing their pesky emotions in order to not frighten someone else. Someone who's said you're okay a hundred times, and will say it a hundred more. "Or the Frostlands. Whichever you like."

And it'll be okay, because making things okay is sort of his whole thing.

Jasnah does not allow the moment to stretch. Worry is a luxury she does not indulge in public. Especially not in front of an ardent whose loyalties she has already begun to question. She turns to her with the full force of her composure restored, voice smooth and commanding.

"Ardent Na," she says, crisp as a blade sliding home. "Inform King Taravangian that we are returning to the palace suites for the evening. We will evaluate our travel options in the morning."

The ardent bows deeply, too deeply, as if trying to hide something behind the gesture —and retreats through the curtain at a near-trot.

The moment she's gone, Jasnah is already moving, sweeping the last of her documents into their leather cases. Her expression remains firm. An uttered request of Ivory suggests that she's sent the inkspren to verify if Shallan Davar is still in the city. But the second they step out into the quieter hall beyond the alcove — just far enough down the mezzanine that no ears could possibly catch them — she slows. Not stops, but slows.

Then, without looking directly at Verso, she murmurs under her breath, so soft it barely disturbs the air between them: "We are not returning to the palace."

A beat. Enough for the words to settle. Her eyes flick to the side — just once — to confirm he's listening.

"We will find a ship and leave the city within the hour. Quietly. If someone wanted the Oathgate disabled while I am visiting Kharbranth, then they will have eyes waiting for exactly the response I just gave."

She tightens the strap on her satchel, movements brisk.

"Do not act surprised. Do not look at me. And do not slow down. We are going west."

To Verso's credit, he listens to every word she says without much complaint. He doesn't act surprised, save for an initial widening of the eyes and raising of his brow that gets schooled back into impassivity after a moment. He doesn't look at her, doesn't slow down.

Although— "Not looking at you is more suspicious than the alternative," he points out even as he keeps his gaze on his feet, leaning in to speak in hushed tones. Verso doesn't normally pointedly avoid looking at people! It's unnatural and awkward.

With just a momentary, fleeting glance to the side: "What's to the west?"

Jasnah doesn't answer his last question. The westward corridors of the Palanaeum are narrow and poorly lit, half-forgotten arteries meant for orderlies and servants. Not queens. Her stride remains steady, unhurried, but her words thread into the dimness between them as they transition from the library to the conclave.

They descend tight stone stairwells, duck through supply halls that stink of antiseptic and old grain, and slip past laundry workers who never bother to lift their heads. From the lower kitchens, a side passage opens into a ventilation corridor that (ancient design or divine irony) empties onto a sheltered ledge above the fishing wharves.

By the time they reach the lower city, the sky has gone bruise-dark. Light from the first of the three moons, rising above, shimmers on the tide. A gull cries overhead, and Jasnah tucks the collar of her havah higher, trying — not very successfully — to blend.

Jasnah handles her disguise the way she approaches everything else: precise, functional, stripped of emotion. Her hair goes down first, pulling hair ornaments and pins free, untwisting braids, until it falls free over her shoulders. She tears a strip of cloth from an abandoned sailor's tarp — to fashion a makeshift headscarf — and draws it low over her forehead. Next she trades her cloak for a shapeless fisherwoman's vest from a drying line. Finally, summoning Ivory as a short blade, she cuts away the buttoned edge of her safehand sleeve so that she approximates the style of the working class: left hand still gloved, but available for labour.

— Unfortunately, there is no changing her posture. She does not slouch. She looks like someone who is very bad at pretending not to be important.

They duck briefly into a dockside tavern called The Third Net. They sit for only a few minutes, just long enough for her to listen: gossip about storms, a bar fight two piers over, a rumor that someone saw Windrunners patrolling over the mountains. Nothing about the Oathgate, and nothing about the queen. Good.

From a window, they watch freight ships and private vessels bob in their moorings. Jasnah's eyes skim hulls, lines, the distribution of cargo. She wonders which boats have captains who don't ask questions. Sitting back, her gloved hand palms the edge of a beer cup.

"A party of two travelers booking separate cabins will draw attention. A pair sharing one is an easier story to invent." A pause. "You are a minor merchant. Trading routes westward. Fond of long-winded stories, but harmless. I'm your scribe — you needed someone literate to manage your accounts. And you," she eyes the bag of books that came with him, "can't be seen reading."

Jasnah straightens her stolen vest, tugs the scarf a fraction lower. Movement. Escape. Distance. For now, that is enough. Except for the part where she hasn't yet explained that most men employ their wives as their scribes.

At the other end of the table, Verso mostly ignores his cup—it's still taking some getting used to, this strange new alcohol that tastes sort of, but not exactly, right—and stares out the window instead. Lumière has ships, of course, in order to ferry Expeditioners to the Continent, but he's never seen so many, and so large. The vessels are fascinating, and he feels a childish urge to go climb onto one and investigate.

He doesn't, of course. That would be ridiculous. Another ridiculous thing that he doesn't do is point out that Jasnah looks rather fetching in her commoner get-up. The little headscarf is charming. She probably wouldn't appreciate the compliment.

"You didn't seem to mind me being seen reading before," he says, although there's barely any argument behind it. "But all right. How would a merchant behave toward his scribe?"

Jasna's fingers still around the rim of the cup, the gesture deceptively idle. In truth, she's thinking — calculating exactly how much of their cover he understands, and how much he is about to bungle on the gangway if she doesn't prepare him properly. Ugh. Subterfuge is a Lightweaver's craft. What she accomplishes now she manages because her paranoia has caused her to overprepare. But she'll soon hit the breadth of her skill.

"You were reading under my supervision," she says, tone mild but pointed. "Me, a known heretic. But a minor merchant? Reading anything at all?" Her eyebrow lifts a fraction. "That is memorable. We need forgettable."

She shifts — gloved hand raking into her recently loosed hair, as if the casual style bothers her. Somehow, her voice lowers one step further. She leans across the table, holding his gaze.

"You'll treat me as a companion in your work. You'll hand me ledgers. You'll trust me to read what you cannot. You defer on matters of arithmetic."

Her nose scrunches just so.

"Most often it's a wife who keeps the accounts, organizes the correspondence, and acts as clerk. She isn't hired. Instead, she's a partner. Sometimes it's a sister. A distant cousin, if there's no one else to do the work."

Verso is certainly about the bungle this, and he knows it. This merchant-and-scribe dynamic is not one they have in Lumière, not one he's familiar with in the slightest. Sure, she's been able to give him a quick run-down of the basic expectations, but is that enough to avoid drawing the sort of unnecessary attention that Jasnah is trying to avoid? He's not sure. After all, all of the time he's spent in this world he's been engaging in what she calls heresy. Proper cultural norms are still very foreign to him.

Then she names a few dynamics that are thankfully not foreign to him. Wife, sister, distant cousin. These familial dynamics feel recognizable, comprehensible. They're undoubtedly still somewhat different from what he knows, but at least he has a frame of reference to work off of.

Hmm. A beat. "I don't think we look particularly related."

"And," again, "one cabin would be less suspicious than two."

She delivers her verdict with an aching, blistering ease. As if deciding to play-act his wife is as simple and recognizing the outcome she's after — inconspicuous travel — and shaking off any awkwardness, any discomfort, that might come with the means required for that end.

After all, play-acting is all it will be. She isn't a terribly good performer, granted, but she can at least say the right words and intercede the right ways. As far as she's concerned, for now, it's not as though they need to play-act a particularly loving married couple.

"All right," he says once again, leaving Jasnah no clues about what horrors she has just wrought upon herself. "Try not to sound too excited."

It's friendly, though, good-natured. After their discussion earlier—of duty and potential highprince suitors—he wouldn't be surprised if the mere mention of marriage gives her hives. Surely, she's been batting away political matches for ages. It's not a feeling he can wholly relate to, but it's not entirely unfamiliar, either. Even now, he can hear Renoir's voice in his mind suggesting that he stop gallivanting about town and start settling down.

Well, he stopped gallivanting, anyway.

Glancing out the window again: "We could ask for passage on one of those cargo ships. More people, but less chance of anyone stopping to notice you." He holds his hands up, moving them up and down as if weighing. "Or we could try our luck with a private ship, but the chance of someone minding their business is... dicey."

Edited 2025-11-17 02:20 (UTC)

His easy agreement soothes whatever lingering doubts she harboured. Yes, they can do this — in spite of his gentle teasing, she feels miraculously as though they are on the same page. Means to an end, she reminds herself. Means to an end.

Jasnah follows his line of sight.

"I'd prefer whichever ship is leaving soonest. Cargo or otherwise. The more distance we put between ourselves and the ardentia here in the city, the better. I had suspicions they were working with off-world interests — the timing of the Oathgate's malfunction makes me think I'm right. And they call me heretic..."

She trails off, recognizing a touch too late that her tangent won't actually progress the plan.

"A private ship might be less susceptible to dock inspections, scrutiny of their ledgers, and so forth. That might be worth the risk alone."

Jasnah's gaze slides back onto Verso — genuinely waiting for his opinion.

Inspections? Ledgers?? This is really a whole new world, since he's pretty sure none of that was ever necessary in Lumière. (Why would it be? There's nowhere else to go.) Still, Verso projects an air of confidence and know-how, like he understands all of this completely. Like he's been on a hundred ships, instead of, like, one seventy years ago.

"Okay," he says with a decisive nod. "Then—"

He's about to say that he'll go sniff around and find out which ships are leaving port the soonest so that he can use his considerable charm to barter their way aboard. But if someone really is after Jasnah—which, truthfully, he's not sure of; is it reality or simply paranoia bred by being such a public figure?—then it probably isn't wise to leave her on her own.

A jerk of his head toward the window. "Do you see that man out there? He looks eager to get going." The person he refers to is a broad-shouldered sailor who keeps tapping his foot impatiently and telling his crew to pick up the pace already, we were supposed to disembark five minutes ago. "Let's go speak to him."

Jasnah doesn't look immediately. She takes a breath instead. Quiet, steady. Then shifts her gaze toward the window. The sailor. His pacing. His impatience. The crew scrambling to keep up.

"Yes," she murmurs. "He'll do."

She rises, smoothing the vest over her havah, movements deliberate. She doesn't touch him, but her presence angles toward Verso just enough to signal familiarity. Intimacy, even.

"If you intend to negotiate, you should know a few things."

Her tone slips into that instructive cadence. Never entirely patronizing, always precise. Her words suggest that he should negotiate. Like it would be suspicious if he didn't at least attempt it.

"Fair pricing for passage to Thaylenah is between twelve and twenty-five clearmarks per person, depending on the captain and the weather. Tonight, the docks are thinly crewed, and the hour is late. You can assume the upper end."

A pause, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"But you will barter it down. Not aggressively. He is leaving in haste, but not in desperation. Offer fifteen for the both of us, let him feel clever for pushing it to twenty."

She draws her scarf a fraction lower across her brow. Then, with startling simplicity: "I trust you to handle this."

A beat. Not emphasis. Simply... resignation. Being queen, being a Kholin, being a renowned scholar had always afforded her respect and attention that she knows not every Alethi woman receives.

"You will be the one he listens to." Her chin lifts just slightly. Reluctantly, she adds: "I’ll follow your lead."

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