Persuasions - Part 7
Persuasions Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6
INFO:
Setting: Hyel's Age of Sail 'Verse.
Characters: Polly, Mal, OCs. Mention of the Mended Drum and CMOT Dibbler.
Rating: B (Still quite tame, I'm afraid).
Wordcount: 1,663 words .
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.
In-which Polly wears trousers in public and intercepts a message and in-which Mal wears a dress.
~*~
The dockyard is swarming with people. Sailors, arrived on the tide and anxious for some shore leave, friendly women inclined to help the sailors where they can, delivery boys and message-carriers, work men in serious trouser and heavy belts like her father wears. Polly winds between them all, trying to move quickly, trying to avoid the industrious man hawking sausages inna bun and dubious meat pies from a tray around his neck, trying to bring back the overcompensating gate of a young boy, a not-quite man. Walking through the stink of the quays, the fug of dead fish and sewage, smoke and grease and barnacle-crusted ships; of people who haven’t seen a bar of soap in months or who spend their days sweating and straining to bring the ships to moor, to load and unload the cargo, it’s like walking through soup.
It’s like walking through camp, is what Polly thinks, before she can stop it. She half expects to hear cannon fire, to look up and see the hell of an orange sky rather than the slightly overcast blue of a London summer. Strangely, the thought helps her to focus. She weaves through the crowds, looking for the dock, the ship, she’s been described. The ironically-named Honourbound is moored, as expected, at pier 59 and - thanking her years as a barmaid - Polly spots her man in short order.
She doesn’t whistle, as she strolls casually up to him. He’s smoking a pipe, as though he has all the time in the world, and she doesn’t want to look like she’s trying too hard.
“Hey, gov,” she offers, a little too casual, a little too familiar. She is not, she must admit, entirely sure how to do this next bit, but she pulls on the experiences of a port town barmaid, and does what she can. “Just got back, have you?”
The old man gives her a not entirely friendly look.
Blow this for a game of soldiers, Polly decides.
“Seen any Narwhals, out there?” she asks, dripping boyish interest.
“Lookin’ for whale tales, are ye?” he replies, his own voice practically dripping gold doubloons and rum.
Nobody talks like that, Polly thinks, and the man is eyeing her with renewed interest.
“Or honest work,” she replies then, just to be sure, “A man just into port must surely have messages to relay. A lady friend or two you’d wish to call on…?”
The man chuckles, as if at a private joke.
“No, lad, I’ve got my own boy for such errands-”
Polly feels the bottom drop out of her stomach, and thinks of the boy in the picture. The boy Mal is - hopefully - keeping distracted for just long enough to buy her, Polly, the time to do her end of the job. Her mind races, as the man goes on.
“-and no ladies to call on, more’s the pity.”
“I’m sure I could find you a few,” she offers, her mouth working on automatic, while her mind fights off images of Prudence and Charity and tries to work out what to do. She swallows, taking a desperate tack, and leans in conspiratorially. “There’s a lovely gal down the road at the Drum,” she suggests, not entirely quietly, using the name of a pub she passed not five minutes earlier. “Might be worth a thought.” She clears her throat carefully, then whispers, quick, through lips that hardly move. “Your man is being watched, sir. Too close for comfort, if you take my meaning. He’d not have sent me if he didn’t trust me. I’m just a boy dreaming of narwhals and foreign parts, sir. Send me on an errand. I’ll see it done.”
For a moment, just a moment, she fears she’s gone too far, pleaded her trustworthiness too hard, but-
“Yes…” he says. “TheDrum's a well-reputed place.” He fishes in his pack, and retrieves a slim, sealed envelope.
No insignia, Polly notes. Just a blob of dark, bloody wax to keep it closed.
"I could use an extra hour of leave," he admits, placing it in Polly’s hands. “I trust you know where to take this?” he adds, on a whisper of breath.
“Just leave it to me, sir.” Polly confirms, and is off like a shot, tucking the message into her canvas jacket before he has time to think about it.
~*~
Polly paces Mal’s drawing room, unable to quiet her nerves with tea alone and more than a little worried about what it would mean if she started reaching for the sherry as often as she wants it. The envelope, with its unmarked seal, sits quietly on the side table. She should have waited for payment. But then she hadn't been in the sailor's employ, had she? Still… Too easy for it to look suspicious.
Too late now, Polly tells herself, refilling her tea cup from the pot that one of the servants - Lucy, if she remembers properly - left in the drawing room for her. The Fitzhenries are on their way by now, surely, and Polly wishes that Mal would hurry up and get home. Her imagination is far too ready to offer reasons for her delay.
Finally, after Polly is sure she has started wearing a groove in the floors, she hears the door open below and catches footsteps on the stairs, lighter for their lack of hessians, but a familiar tread none the less. She hurries out of the drawing room, only to see Mal, filthy, climbing the steps with a fearsome expression on her face.
“I’m fine, old chap,” Mal promises, catching sight of her and softening a little. “My soul must certainly be doing better for having spent the last two hours in a church, I’m damn sure.” She tugs irritably at the ties of her straw bonnet. “We may have a problem,” she goes on. “But only ‘may’ and it can at least wait ‘til I’m out of this miserable gown.”
Polly shuts her mouth, aware that it’s not the grime that she’s staring at.
In her simple dress of blue cotton, her black hair a tangle of tumbled-down curls, Mal looks like the girls who sometimes came to help at the Inn; working girls, like Polly, but far lovelier than Polly ever looked.
This is Mal?
Polly, in her cloth cap and trousers, feels her ears burn.
She lets Mal pass her on the landing. She continues up the stairs, presumably heading for her chamber on the top floor, to clean herself up. Polly watches her go, staring at the upper landing long after Mal has disappeared around the bend.
~*~
That evening, after a casual supper and, ostensibly, over cards, Mrs Fitzhenry cracks open the unmarked seal and, leafing through the pages, grins mirthlessly.
“Well done, Miss Perks,” she announces. “If nothing else, this verifies the latest information from our man in Paris.”
At that news, Polly breathes a sigh of relief. She hadn’t been sure, all afternoon, whether or not the document she’d been given was truly what she’d been sent to retrieve. It might have been blank pages, for all she knew, and Mal’s story hadn’t made her any more certain.
Mrs Fitzhenry passes the message to her husband, and turns her attention to Mal, who looks considerably more comfortable in her usual pantaloons and jacket, although Polly is willing to concede that the mud, rather than the gown, may have been the real problem.
“Now,” Mrs F goes on. “What’s this I hear about a problem?”
The problem, Mal explains, is that the boy in the pub had likely not been any mere errand-runner.
“Malcolm, old boy, do forgive the presumption,” says the colonel, “But one must make sure… While I’ve never had any reason to doubt the efficacy of your methods,” at this, his wife offering a genteel snort on the subject of Mal’s methods or, perhaps, the colonel’s opinions there-of, “A spot of trouble convincing a target doesn’t mean can simply conclude that the target is more dangerous, or more involved, than we thought.”
Mal gives her knife-blade smile.
“I assure you, sir, there was no difficulty on that score,” she says, mildly enough. “Oh, he was very intent on meeting his contact,” she admits. “And no fault to him for it. But I daresay catching him following me, after the fact, gives me reason to wonder if he’s not in this a little farther above the neck than I originally gave him credit for.”
Mal sips her coffee, regards the colonel over the rim of her delicate cup.
“Two hours in a church,” Polly comments.
“In a church cellar,” Mal replies. “They’re not bad, really,” she adds, “As cellars go.” She shakes her head. “Bless my straw bonnet and modest neckline, that nobody thought me strange for wanting to going down.”
“Are you sure you weren’t followed home?” Mrs Fitzhenry asks.
“Quite sure,” Mal answers, with such an air of finality that even Mrs F lets it go.
“Um,” says Polly, and immediately hates her hesitation. “I think I may have something to support Mal’s theory…”
She tells them about the man, how the password in question didn’t have exactly the desired effect.
“I think he knew who was supposed to meet him. The password was... just confirmation. Or,” she admits, “a red herring. But if I go down that road, I’ll never get back so let’s call it confirmation for now.” She sips her tea. “I took a risk,” she offers, silently praying a sergeant's prayer that she won't get in too much trouble for doing so. “I told him that his man was being watched and had sent me in his place. It worked,” she goes on, before anyone can object. “But he wasn’t surprised that his informant was being watched. If he knew who that was, and the young man that Mal attended to was the contact… I don’t know,” she concludes. “How many errand boys are you watching in this city?”
~*~
There you have it.
This brings us to just about 1/2 way through the (27,000 and counting) fic, and the actually-slashy stuff is probably only a "chapter" or two away. Thank the gods. I don't know why I moved things so slowly, but there you have it. I have no idea how long this thing is going to get. O.O
INFO:
Setting: Hyel's Age of Sail 'Verse.
Characters: Polly, Mal, OCs. Mention of the Mended Drum and CMOT Dibbler.
Rating: B (Still quite tame, I'm afraid).
Wordcount: 1,663 words .
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.
In-which Polly wears trousers in public and intercepts a message and in-which Mal wears a dress.
~*~
The dockyard is swarming with people. Sailors, arrived on the tide and anxious for some shore leave, friendly women inclined to help the sailors where they can, delivery boys and message-carriers, work men in serious trouser and heavy belts like her father wears. Polly winds between them all, trying to move quickly, trying to avoid the industrious man hawking sausages inna bun and dubious meat pies from a tray around his neck, trying to bring back the overcompensating gate of a young boy, a not-quite man. Walking through the stink of the quays, the fug of dead fish and sewage, smoke and grease and barnacle-crusted ships; of people who haven’t seen a bar of soap in months or who spend their days sweating and straining to bring the ships to moor, to load and unload the cargo, it’s like walking through soup.
It’s like walking through camp, is what Polly thinks, before she can stop it. She half expects to hear cannon fire, to look up and see the hell of an orange sky rather than the slightly overcast blue of a London summer. Strangely, the thought helps her to focus. She weaves through the crowds, looking for the dock, the ship, she’s been described. The ironically-named Honourbound is moored, as expected, at pier 59 and - thanking her years as a barmaid - Polly spots her man in short order.
She doesn’t whistle, as she strolls casually up to him. He’s smoking a pipe, as though he has all the time in the world, and she doesn’t want to look like she’s trying too hard.
“Hey, gov,” she offers, a little too casual, a little too familiar. She is not, she must admit, entirely sure how to do this next bit, but she pulls on the experiences of a port town barmaid, and does what she can. “Just got back, have you?”
The old man gives her a not entirely friendly look.
Blow this for a game of soldiers, Polly decides.
“Seen any Narwhals, out there?” she asks, dripping boyish interest.
“Lookin’ for whale tales, are ye?” he replies, his own voice practically dripping gold doubloons and rum.
Nobody talks like that, Polly thinks, and the man is eyeing her with renewed interest.
“Or honest work,” she replies then, just to be sure, “A man just into port must surely have messages to relay. A lady friend or two you’d wish to call on…?”
The man chuckles, as if at a private joke.
“No, lad, I’ve got my own boy for such errands-”
Polly feels the bottom drop out of her stomach, and thinks of the boy in the picture. The boy Mal is - hopefully - keeping distracted for just long enough to buy her, Polly, the time to do her end of the job. Her mind races, as the man goes on.
“-and no ladies to call on, more’s the pity.”
“I’m sure I could find you a few,” she offers, her mouth working on automatic, while her mind fights off images of Prudence and Charity and tries to work out what to do. She swallows, taking a desperate tack, and leans in conspiratorially. “There’s a lovely gal down the road at the Drum,” she suggests, not entirely quietly, using the name of a pub she passed not five minutes earlier. “Might be worth a thought.” She clears her throat carefully, then whispers, quick, through lips that hardly move. “Your man is being watched, sir. Too close for comfort, if you take my meaning. He’d not have sent me if he didn’t trust me. I’m just a boy dreaming of narwhals and foreign parts, sir. Send me on an errand. I’ll see it done.”
For a moment, just a moment, she fears she’s gone too far, pleaded her trustworthiness too hard, but-
“Yes…” he says. “TheDrum's a well-reputed place.” He fishes in his pack, and retrieves a slim, sealed envelope.
No insignia, Polly notes. Just a blob of dark, bloody wax to keep it closed.
"I could use an extra hour of leave," he admits, placing it in Polly’s hands. “I trust you know where to take this?” he adds, on a whisper of breath.
“Just leave it to me, sir.” Polly confirms, and is off like a shot, tucking the message into her canvas jacket before he has time to think about it.
~*~
Polly paces Mal’s drawing room, unable to quiet her nerves with tea alone and more than a little worried about what it would mean if she started reaching for the sherry as often as she wants it. The envelope, with its unmarked seal, sits quietly on the side table. She should have waited for payment. But then she hadn't been in the sailor's employ, had she? Still… Too easy for it to look suspicious.
Too late now, Polly tells herself, refilling her tea cup from the pot that one of the servants - Lucy, if she remembers properly - left in the drawing room for her. The Fitzhenries are on their way by now, surely, and Polly wishes that Mal would hurry up and get home. Her imagination is far too ready to offer reasons for her delay.
Finally, after Polly is sure she has started wearing a groove in the floors, she hears the door open below and catches footsteps on the stairs, lighter for their lack of hessians, but a familiar tread none the less. She hurries out of the drawing room, only to see Mal, filthy, climbing the steps with a fearsome expression on her face.
“I’m fine, old chap,” Mal promises, catching sight of her and softening a little. “My soul must certainly be doing better for having spent the last two hours in a church, I’m damn sure.” She tugs irritably at the ties of her straw bonnet. “We may have a problem,” she goes on. “But only ‘may’ and it can at least wait ‘til I’m out of this miserable gown.”
Polly shuts her mouth, aware that it’s not the grime that she’s staring at.
In her simple dress of blue cotton, her black hair a tangle of tumbled-down curls, Mal looks like the girls who sometimes came to help at the Inn; working girls, like Polly, but far lovelier than Polly ever looked.
This is Mal?
Polly, in her cloth cap and trousers, feels her ears burn.
She lets Mal pass her on the landing. She continues up the stairs, presumably heading for her chamber on the top floor, to clean herself up. Polly watches her go, staring at the upper landing long after Mal has disappeared around the bend.
~*~
That evening, after a casual supper and, ostensibly, over cards, Mrs Fitzhenry cracks open the unmarked seal and, leafing through the pages, grins mirthlessly.
“Well done, Miss Perks,” she announces. “If nothing else, this verifies the latest information from our man in Paris.”
At that news, Polly breathes a sigh of relief. She hadn’t been sure, all afternoon, whether or not the document she’d been given was truly what she’d been sent to retrieve. It might have been blank pages, for all she knew, and Mal’s story hadn’t made her any more certain.
Mrs Fitzhenry passes the message to her husband, and turns her attention to Mal, who looks considerably more comfortable in her usual pantaloons and jacket, although Polly is willing to concede that the mud, rather than the gown, may have been the real problem.
“Now,” Mrs F goes on. “What’s this I hear about a problem?”
The problem, Mal explains, is that the boy in the pub had likely not been any mere errand-runner.
“Malcolm, old boy, do forgive the presumption,” says the colonel, “But one must make sure… While I’ve never had any reason to doubt the efficacy of your methods,” at this, his wife offering a genteel snort on the subject of Mal’s methods or, perhaps, the colonel’s opinions there-of, “A spot of trouble convincing a target doesn’t mean can simply conclude that the target is more dangerous, or more involved, than we thought.”
Mal gives her knife-blade smile.
“I assure you, sir, there was no difficulty on that score,” she says, mildly enough. “Oh, he was very intent on meeting his contact,” she admits. “And no fault to him for it. But I daresay catching him following me, after the fact, gives me reason to wonder if he’s not in this a little farther above the neck than I originally gave him credit for.”
Mal sips her coffee, regards the colonel over the rim of her delicate cup.
“Two hours in a church,” Polly comments.
“In a church cellar,” Mal replies. “They’re not bad, really,” she adds, “As cellars go.” She shakes her head. “Bless my straw bonnet and modest neckline, that nobody thought me strange for wanting to going down.”
“Are you sure you weren’t followed home?” Mrs Fitzhenry asks.
“Quite sure,” Mal answers, with such an air of finality that even Mrs F lets it go.
“Um,” says Polly, and immediately hates her hesitation. “I think I may have something to support Mal’s theory…”
She tells them about the man, how the password in question didn’t have exactly the desired effect.
“I think he knew who was supposed to meet him. The password was... just confirmation. Or,” she admits, “a red herring. But if I go down that road, I’ll never get back so let’s call it confirmation for now.” She sips her tea. “I took a risk,” she offers, silently praying a sergeant's prayer that she won't get in too much trouble for doing so. “I told him that his man was being watched and had sent me in his place. It worked,” she goes on, before anyone can object. “But he wasn’t surprised that his informant was being watched. If he knew who that was, and the young man that Mal attended to was the contact… I don’t know,” she concludes. “How many errand boys are you watching in this city?”
~*~
There you have it.
This brings us to just about 1/2 way through the (27,000 and counting) fic, and the actually-slashy stuff is probably only a "chapter" or two away. Thank the gods. I don't know why I moved things so slowly, but there you have it. I have no idea how long this thing is going to get. O.O