In Which Many Things Are Discussed, None Of Them Deeply

[cyrus_rta]

Sometimes the best way to keep a secret is to tell people about it.



Fiamme considers that for a moment, before drinking quickly. "Grief. Yes. Probably more a concern in Chantris than Feldane."

"What's that?" Cyrus asks before the servant can announce him.

Fiamme looks over at Cyrus, and smiles. "Talking about Tally, and generally taking credit for her turning out alright. Dare blood, you know."

Errol and Fiamme are seated in corner chairs, drinking....water, or so it would appear. He rises as people enter. "It's raining Chantris," he quips. "And I, without so much as a paper to cover my head." Although he does have a towel over his shoulder.

Cyrus smirks, "You know what they say about us: For every one you see, there are ten more hiding behind the drapery."

Fiamme leans back, and drawls, "Now now, coz. Family secrets."

"We have water here," Errol offers, weakly, "or we could retire to the parlor for a nip of someting warmer." Then he grins. "There are drapes, there."

Cyrus shrugs, "Suit yourself but you know I'm dreadful company when under the influence of water."

Fiamme lifts her glass. "Addison can come and find me, after all, if he drags his indolent buttocks over here." She adds, "I could use a drink."

Errol strides over to Cyrus with a chuckle and an extended hand. "When did you weigh anchor, anyway?"

Fiamme unfolds herself from her seat to her full, if unimpressive height, and puts down her empty water glass.

Cyrus clasps Errol's hand and says, "A few weeks ago. Ran into a spot of trouble, I'm afraid. Then there was this Black Road business. Frankly, I'm relishing the opportunity to stop moving."

Fiamme murmurs, "Lizards." Clearly considering that a useful addition to Cyrus' comments.

Errol pumps his hand, once, as if priming a well, and releases it. "Then the wanderlust will strike again, eh? I've heard how you sailors are. Fiamme was just telling me..." He sets his own glass aside and starts toward the door.

Cyrus gives a tired smile and turns to follow Errol.

Fiamme rolls her eyes, preparing to follow. "He's the one who started talking about secret cousins dotted about the place. I never said they were your brats."

--[ Parlor ]-----------------------------------------[ Feldane Townhouse ]----

Errol waits by the archway for the others to pass.

Fiamme walks immediately over to the drapes, and swishes them dramatically. "Come out! I know you're here!"

Cyrus chuckles and says, "I hide my offspring better than that. Old sailor's trick."

Errol nods sagely. "You know you're good when they don't even look like you." Moving toward the sideboard, he asks, "What's everyone's pleasure?"

Cyrus casts about until his gaze lands on an attractive bottle, "A splash of that rum, if you please."

Fiamme lets the heavy midnight fabric fall to the ground behind her. She tilts her head. "Wine. But not red." She makes a face. "Something gold, to remind me of peaceful harvests."

"Rum for the sailor and wine for the lady, then." Errol spares Fiamme a glance as he passes. "That was almost, nearly romantic, Dame cousin. Be careful, now, or you will be noticed and summarily betrothed."

Fiamme snorts, at that. "Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I eloped with Tobias, all those years ago. He talked a good game, after all."

Cyrus says, "And where's the lad now, eh?" as if he knows full well what the answer is.

Errol works at stoppers and glasses, tending to the lady's choice first. But his eyes do rove in Fiamme's direction with a curious lift of brows.

Fiamme makes a face. "Still in Begma, with that horse-faced heiress. Her name escapes me." She smiles. "I've thought of looking him up, but sense prevails."

Cyrus nods, "Wise course of action." He clears his throat, "Besides, I've...heard things."

Fiamme's brows arch briefly.

Errol fills a highball a quarter full of whiskey, at the last, but leaves it on the sideboard to carry the other two, first to Fiamme. "About Begma, Cyrus?" he asks.

Fiamme takes the drink with a murmur of thanks.

Cyrus makes a dismissive gesture, "About Tobias specifically. None of it substantiated, of course. You know the type I associate with." He accepts the glass from Errol and continues, "Your brother knows Begma far better than I. Perhaps he could provide the details of the infidelity--" He covers his mouth with his free hand and feigns surprise, "Oh! I've said too much."

Fiamme chuckles then, and shrugs her shoulders. "Water under the bridge. But he was handsome. And he made me laugh."

Errol's grin seems uncertain whether it should form or not, but willful enough to do so. "I can't wait until we get some rum in you, then, and the secrets really start flying."

"Only the good ones," Cyrus replies.

Fiamme's eyes crinkle at the corners, as she takes a long sip of her wine. "You can fill a Chantris to the brim, and what overflows will not be secrets!" she says stoutly. "Well, alright. None of the important ones."

"Do tell, for I am soon to marry in," Errol replies on his way back to the sideboard. "Is there a text, by any chance?"

Fiamme glances at Cyrus then.

Errol retrieves his glass. "The Care And Feeding Of Chantrises? Like that?"

Cyrus smirks, takes a sip of rum, nods appreciatively, and then says, "There is, but even we can't figure out what language it's written in. It's why we study so much."

Fiamme takes another drink. "I imagine Cyrus has distributed extensive notes on the matter in his travels. But it may only apply to the maritime Chantris subspecies."

Errol says, between clenched teeth, "Damn specialists."

Cyrus chuckles, "You're one to talk. Though your sister seems to be branching out."

Errol lifts his glass. "Touche. And she is. I was just extolling her virtues to poor

Fiamme. She has returned all grown up." The ironic undertone of his voice fades at that last.

Fiamme lifts her own glass in a reply to Errol's toasting gesture. "A matter we can agree on wholeheartedly. In fact, I think Tally has a gift for being loved."

"I would consider Addison a close second," Errol half-corrects.

Cyrus purses his lips, "Yes, his time in Begma seems to have..." He trails off then continues, "Well, I didn't know him before he left. What was he like?"

Fiamme's expression becomes amused, almost as if in spite of herself. "From his own accounts of Begman life, he was a wastrel and a playboy. But without an ounce of meanness that I can detect."

"...Small?" Errol confirms, blinking a bit. "Weak? It was quite some time ago."
Errol admits, "I recall bullying him," then sips.

Cyrus shrugs, "I understand. Every time I return it's like a new city. And they say it's unchanging."

Fiamme says, softly, "It seems as if a lot of places are changing now. And not for the better."

Errol nods a bit. "Indeed. And, partially, the reason I was looking after you, Cyrus."

Cyrus raises a brow and then his glass. He sips from the latter and then says, "Yes? Do tell."

Fiamme looks moodily into her glass, swirling the liquid within it.

Errol glances first to Fiamme, then explains, "We're having a bit of a refugee problem in the city, as you might have noticed. Feldane is going to turn over some rental properties near the docks to assist, but there are...concerns."

Fiamme's expression clears at that, to become one of alert interest.

Cyrus says, "I should think so. You're seeking assistance?"

Errol's smile is small and unbalanced. "If a Feldane is filling your glass with the expensive stuff, you've been marked, yes."

Cyrus chuckles, "Touche. What sort of 'Oblige' are the 'Noblesse' being asked to observe?"

Fiamme snorts, at that.

"There are concerns about the refugees, sadly," Errol explains, turning his glass about in his gloved hand. "Although the majority are clearly needy, it would also be a fantastic opportunity for the enemy to smuggle in spies or saboteurs."

Fiamme adds, "Not to mention Lady de Sorgo's concerns about quite disgusting infestations of bugs within some of the bodies."

Cyrus's expression sobers. "Spies. That's possible," he admits. "And the disease is something I'd thought of already. I've seen enough of that myself. What can be done?"

"Mandrake would have to assist with disease. We were hoping, well." Errol's smile is more of a prop. "Chantris might assist with security. Divining the intentions of others, and all..."

Fiamme shakes her head. "Mandrake, or at least Lord Chiarissimo, has made it clear his resources are already spoken for with the wounded. They will not concern themselves with the refugee problem."

Errol squints a bit - toward, rather than at, Fiamme. "What??"

Cyrus rolls his eyes, "Not surprising. And Cosimo is unlikely to be more helpful."

Errol half-mutters, "He might suggest a wine to sip whilst watching the suffering."

Fiamme drains her glass, and sets it down. Her eyes are bright with something that does not look friendly. "Many favours are being called in, I think. And the Princes are making requests that the Houses, greater and lesser, leap to fulfil."

Cyrus sighs, "Perhaps the Mandrakes will respond to someone higher up the food chain."

Fiamme spreads her fingers. "They cannot offer what they do not have."

"I suppose," Errol says, thoughtfully, "That their resources might truly be drained. In which case, I am uncertain who to turn to."

Cyrus's brow furrows, "Perhaps I'm too close to the subject to be fair to them. As to what to do about the medical situation, I'm at a loss, as well."

Fiamme ticks off on her fingers. "De Sorgo, they are actively involved. You might try Karm, for at least they have not yet turned me down. Marlowe are, like Mandrake, a stone it is little profit to squeeze."

Errol says, simply, "Karm." Then, after a sip of whiskey, "Perhaps Ilyana could be distracted from concocting Heir To Feldane Itching Powder to make something useful."

Cyrus laughs lightly, "She and my sister are dear friends. Perhaps Dulcy could be persuaded to, er, persuade."

Fiamme glances from one face to the other, then nods. "And in fact, she may not be available to ask for long."

Errol asks Cyrus, "Might you present the idea to your sister? It might seem self-serving coming from me." Then, turning to Fiamme, "Is Ilyana to be deported so soon?"

Fiamme shakes her head. "Oh no. Surely Dulcy's mentioned it? She may be stationed with the Mandrake healers shortly. At the front."

Cyrus nods to Errol and raises his glass by way of assent. He then says, "She's said nothing to me."

Errol's jaw works a moment, then he sip. Then he blinks. "The front, you say? She probably, simply...neglected to mention it." He forms a smile out of whatever's about. "
Errol says, "We all must serve."

Fiamme leans back a little in her chair. "I know you helped persuade Dulcy to come back. But she has a special talent. Of all the Chantris', she's the most sensitive when it comes to non humans."

Cyrus looks downward briefly. When he raises his gaze, his expression is pained, "She did say something about wanting to talk to the creatures. With everything that's happened since, I'd forgotten. Or perhaps I'd convinced myself that she'd forget."

Fiamme gives Cyrus a very level look. "She is not a child. And she has a very good chance of discovering far more than ..." She pauses, then adds with a slightly malicious smile, "...four different words for disembowel."

Cyrus shakes his head slowly, "She can take care of herself." He chuckles dryly, "She used to take care of me. That doesn't keep me from worrying about her."

Errol says, as if to himself as much as the others, "It will all be well. No one has come close to the true city before, and none shall in these days we await."

Fiamme looks back at Errol. "You wondered about the care of Chantrises? You do not hood them, or jess them, but allow them to fly free. And accept that for all their pretty feathers, they can bring down prey."

Errol does not quite meet her gaze. "Still, the mere fact that we must serve as we do - dire times, indeed." Yet he nods. "I have no tether, no reins. No fool, I."

Fiamme's nod in return is approving. "And speaking of fools, I should learn not to lecture my elders." She grins then.

Cyrus says, "Oh, no. Don't stop that. How else will they learn anything?" He smiles, "And my concern was not merely for my sister but for anyone who gets close to those things. They took one of my ships down like it was a toy."

Fiamme blinks then. "That doesn't sound like these lizard warriors I've heard about. Nor corpse-eating bugs."

"Indeed. You lost a vessel?" Errol wonders aloud as he drains his glass.

Cyrus slowly nods his head as his smile fades, "The Fugue was our second fastest. She stopped dead in the water while black ooze crept up her sides. There was nothing we could do." He pauses long enough to drain his glass. Then, "Each man who fell into the water around her came back up...changed." He visibly shudders, "We had to torch the whole thing."

Fiamme's face pales, leaving freckles standing out in sharp relief. "You had to burn your men alive?"

Cyrus shakes his head, "They were no longer my men. Nor were they alive."

Errol uncorks the wine bottle first and moves Fiamme's way. "Abomination," is all he says.

Fiamme holds out her glass for a refill. Her face has not regained its colour. "Did they ... speak?"

"We were too far away to hear them if they did," Cyrus says. "And for that I'm glad."

Fiamme drinks hastily.

Errol retrieves the rum, next, after an exchange of bottles. "Being heir is killing me, slowly. I can't stay within these confines to keep some ridiculous notion of inheritance alive," he says, hurried, then quiets. "Sorry."

Fiamme's gaze returns to Errol. "You want to be out there in the front lines?"

"I can't answer that correctly," Errol replies, moving to refresh Cyrus' glass. "There is what I want, and what I must, and the two get all muddled."

Cyrus nods thanks for the refill and says, "I couldn't agree more. But, then, I'm lucky. Our heir still lives." He drinks, "I spend my time among sailors. Coming back here is like trying to navigate a maze blindfolded for all the rules and policies and strictures. I was to deliver some information about a Black Road captive to Cosimo the other day and he made me go through a little social dance before I could make my report."

Fiamme sips more slowly from her glass now, and her eyes are calm as they rest first on Errol, then on Cyrus. "We grasp at control where we may."

"I know what Cyrus means, though," Errol explains, guiding the rum back to the sideboard to finally refresh his own. "I often wonder why I end up seeking a drink in the lower rent portions of the city. Most like, it's simple escape from the codes and the rules and the lofted eyebrows."

Errol says, "And, Dame Cousin, you have the truth of it."

"Or a natural Feldane inclination to seek a bargain," Fiamme suggests, deadpan. Her eyes gleam. "It will be little consolation to you, but I would liefer have you the heir to Feldane than the alternatives."

"What, Addy?" Errol asks, peering over at Fiamme. "He would be fine, given time - bright and sharp as the most honed blade. Mettle would come," he decides.

Cyrus says, "House Lord isn't the sort of job one can train for as one goes."

Fiamme shakes her head. "I agree with Errol. He has the potential. But it would kill something in him. Just as you say it is killing it in you. And destroying that in him would not return any to anyone else." She tilts her head. "Look at Lord Culver."

Cyrus shudders again. Nearly as much as when he recalled the Black Road. "Good point, Fiamme. I believe my father has maintained his sanity by not having much to begin with."

"I wonder, though, if the mantle kills or the years?" Errol considers the several fingers of caramel colored liquor in his glass. "The power? Or the slow parade of time..."

Fiamme leans a little way toward Errol, her expression earnest in a way that makes her look younger than usual. "I would rather have you the heir because you are applying your brain to the refugee situation now. And if it serves to distract you from the mantle that will come only in centuries, if it comes at all, then we both win."

Cyrus adds, "She has a shockingly good point."

Errol hoists a little toast. "To both of us winning, then. We need more of that." With a glance to Cyrus. "Or the three of us, right?"

Cyrus mimicks Errol's gesture, "Always willing to be included in the winning side."

Fiamme lifts her glass. "Confusion to our enemies."

Errol says, just before sipping, "I did get your pledge of assistance with security, right, Cyrus?"

Cyrus replies, "Very nearly." He then chuckles and says, "Quite definitely, in fact. You've done well to hire a reprobate for the job. I can't have these amateurs mucking about."

Fiamme drinks deep, then says, "Excellent. I can rest easy that if anyone murders us in our beds it shall not be infiltrators within the refugees, but honest cutthroats in the pay of dear Cyrus."

"I haven't had enough yet to toast to honest cutthroats, but remind me in an hour or two, would you?" Errol requests.

Fiamme chuckles.

Cyrus says, "Only too happy to."

Fiamme regards her wine again, and says, "Now. There was talk of secrets. And I think we should all exchange one, in the spirit of cousinly love, as a kind of pledge to dispense with some of chameleon tricks this city requires of us."

Cyrus raises a brow, drinks and looks warily uncomfortable.

"I'll go first," Errol offers. "I was foolish in my regard of Dulcinea. For, perhaps, years. Foolish schoolyard nonsense that was simply carried too far by the power of stubborn grudgedom."

Fiamme raises her glass, in a toast. "A secret, not deep but true!"

Fiamme says, "I shall go second, unless you object, Cyrus?"

Cyrus nods and indicates with his glass that it's fine with him.

Fiamme says, "I was glad when Prince Benedict said the knights should cower at home in Amber. I was glad I would not see my arms or legs hacked off, or a sword through my heart in the service of my country." She gives a bitter smile. "I am a coward, glad not to have to see a second battle, unless it comes to my home."

Fiamme lifts her glass again, a second toast with more mockery to it.

Errol says, "P'shaw," and waves a hand. "I don't believe you." Yet he drinks.

Fiamme's gaze is very steady and direct as she drinks. "The Unicorn should have exchanged our fates, the one to wish for what the other is granted."

Cyrus says, "Wanting to avoid battle does not make one a coward. The overweaning desire to rush into combat makes one a fool. Often a dead one. I prefer life to the alternative." He drinks.

"But battle forms us, it shapes us," Errol insists. "Seek it not for itself, but to study it and know it, for it is the core of life."

Fiamme looks sidelong at Errol. "If that is true, then a butcher shop must be a veritable education."

Cyrus nods to Fiamme and then shrugs, "I can't say that the battles I've fought haven't changed me but I'd not go so far as to dub it the core of life. There are better ways to test one's mettle."

Errol seems to shrug. "I see a battle in words exchanged, in a refusal to succumb to the whims of others, in an insistence to help those less fortunate. It is all a battle, all a duel. Against oneself, against hypocrisy - name your enemy. It is all a duel."

Cyrus smiles, "With that definition as a given, I concede your point. Let's call it 'conflict', shall we?"

Errol inclines his head. "In Feldane, we prefer the other word."
Errol grins. "But conflict suits, as well." He glances sidelong to Fiamme.

Cyrus raises his glass, "Potato, po-tah-to."

Fiamme's expression is briefly bleak, but she takes a quick drink and seems to shake it off. "I think you're just delaying coughing up your own secret. Something small enough to satisfy you, big enough to fob us off."

Errol's attention shifts back to Cyrus. Merciless. "Do tell, old man."

Cyrus visibly ponders, "You realize that asking me to reveal a secret is like requesting that I begin breathing water." He draws it out a bit longer by finishing his rum. "I know the way to Pathi," he says.

Fiamme's jaw drops.

"Right. You have a pirate map with an X, right?" Errol doubts. "How about we're a bit more social, and Cyrus can tell us all about it on the way to the Goose?"

Fiamme nods her head. "An excellent plan. That way good sense protects us from any more confidences. And if we see a Mandrake, we can punch it and explain we'd been drinking."

Cyrus makes an expansive gesture, "Believe it or not. Further proof of my claim will cost you to see." He laughs at Fiamme's suggestion, "I'll need another bottle, then."

"By 'punch', you mean 'stab', correct?" Errol clarifies.

Fiamme rises, finishing her glass. "Each. After all, it's a long walk." She lifts her eyebrows at Errol. "Keeping the peace, remember? I'd have to escort myself to a magistrate."

Cyrus says, "I'd say it Depends upon the Mandrake in question. They're deucedly hard to kill, I'm told."

Errol downs his whiskey. "Punch it is, then. Another target for another day." He seems pleased with the prospect.

Cyrus stands, "To the Goose!"