(no subject)
It's not much. Not nearly as much as it should be. Either she's really forgetful, or some Diviner or Enchanter did a damn good job. I put her through a volley of tests and questions that make even me think I'm being cruel. Every question has an answer, every answer shows up clean. No answers make sense. I'm not Sharn's most worldy individual, but l'Yelur rings no bells. Not even a the faint tinkle of a servant's silver call. But, like I said, I'm not the Korrenberg Collection of Nobility.
The notes I write up weren't worth the trouble. I find her name again. She's been in Breland since the Treaty of Thronehold was signed, back and forth between Wroat and Sharn. She's being taken care of by a General ir'Leral, who claims to be her uncle. She truly believes she's from Cyre, and has the look to back it. She also truly believes she was at Making. And she understands the rumors behind it. Making, a city run by House Cannith, the Dragonmarked House of Making, is said to be the point from which the entire thing sprang. The grey mists that took Cyre bubbled from the lake, eating an entire country and leaving nothing but wastes. The Mournlands. With the given track record of Cannith, it's no huge surprise. Creating ways to enslave Elementals for Airships and Lightning Rails, developing new ways to kill more people, molding life through the 'Forged. Eventually, even mortal hands reach too far. And when that happens, Cyre pays. But, the trouble is worth two things. It's weight in platinum, for one, and the fact that she's honest. That there's actually something underneath it all.
"Well, M'lady l'Yelur, I charge twenty-five gold a day, plus expenses. If I find out that you're doing something illegal, don't expect me to cover it. If it is, just take your money and walk out the door. I haven't seen you in my life. We'll call it a favor."
She's offended, which is a good sign. She scoffs, but stays standing.
"Good. Now, is there anyone you suspect knows? Outside of your uncle, of course."
"Mr. Taliak, if I had assumed someone else was aware of my situation, I would have, at the very least, informed you of this during your interigation."
"So, allow me to recap."
"I couldn't stop you if I tried, it seems."
I let the comment roll off me like water from a tower. "You are not, indeed, Lady l'Yelur. You are, however, from Cyre. Making, in fact. You have lived with your uncle, who is The General ir'Leral, The Bear's Fang, in Wroat and Sharn since. Now, you're sick of the lies they they're spoon-feeding you and want to know the truth. Am I about right?" Only a small nod of acknowledgement. "Stay in town, check Sivis messaging stations often. If I stumble upon anything, you'll be the first to know. Most importantly, though, do not let anyone know. People don't like speaking to the watch, much less a guy with twice the questions and exactly none of the authority."
"...I understand, Brother...How long?"
"With what you've given me?" I take a moment to let it set in, let her reconsider, as I pull the final bit of usable smoke into my lungs. "Forever is a good bet. I'll call on you."
I watch her leaving, wishing I was twenty years younger and three years happier.