Cyrus wasn't unused to the weight of eyes. Not even the disapproving ones. No matter the stage of his life, there'd always been someone who disapproved—that was probably just inherent with occupying any position of moderate importance. And he had been important, once, in the Imperium. Now he supposed any he had was mostly derivative, extrapolated from his modest title and the fact that he had the same last name as the Lady Inquisitor.
But he was also accustomed to turning opinions in his favor, when he had the opportunity to actually engage with those that disapproved. Wit and charisma made light of many sins, and a fetching-enough smile could pick up the slack on the rest. It was something he was sure Lady Marceline knew well, also, though no doubt she didn't have quite so many detractors. She, after all, wasn't a nasty Tevinter.
The group had split, and he'd found himself keeping company with the Ambassador and her husband, who also seemed to enjoy a fairly good reputation here. He supposed his own ability to mostly make up for the offensiveness of his nationality meant that this group would be expected to do any diplomatic heavy lifting, at least of the kind that didn't require an actual Inquisitor. Shame. He'd much rather have spent the evening with the likes of Zahra or Vesryn or Khari—much more offensive to the local sensibilities, and much less concerned with them. But needs must.
He adjusted his mask, internally displeased with the fact that it hampered his peripheral vision so much. The knife in his boot was little reassurance when he wanted his swords. How easy it would have been, if he'd still—
“So, Lady Marceline... where do you suggest we begin?" Cyrus didn't let himself finish his previous thought. Now was not the time. He presumed Marceline had some contact or other she wanted to lean on for information, and that he would be tagging along for the duration.
"With our friends," Marceline answered deftly. She had been scanning the many masks of the ball since they had arrived, and presumably, she had made out a few of these so-called friends during that time. She had paused her scanning in order to look back to him, "Do you remember the good Lord Abernache from Therinfall Redoubt?" She frowned at the thought, the memory of their first encounter with the red templars not a fond one. "It would do us well to visit with him, as he does owe his life to us after all," she added with a smile.
“'Good' seems like a bit of an overstatement." Cyrus certainly remembered him, bloviating lackwit that he was. He didn't try to hide the flash of distaste on his face. “I suppose that if we have to talk to him, it's best to get it over with." He eyed a passing servant, or more accurately, the flutes of champagne she carried on her tray, but then sighed through his nose. Unlike some people, he considered keeping his wits important. Particularly on a night like this, when all the usual mayhem and murder was going to begin at a surprise moment and probably with considerable attempt at concealment.
He arched his eyebrows beneath his mask. “Lead on then, milady. I can't spot him in a crowd; and you're the ambassador here. I promise to smile and look as pretty as possible. I'll even keep the sarcasm to a minimum." He didn't specify how much the minimum was.
"You say that as if you believe he would catch even that," Michaël noted, suppressing a chuckle. It appeared as if Marceline's husband shared Cyrus's judgment on the Lord. However, unlike Cyrus, he did snatch a flute from the serving girl's tray and took a quick sip, tossing a wink at him afterward.
Marceline sighed, but shrugged as well. "Please, let us try to be kind to our allies, in spite of their... quirks," Marceline admitted, though she did soon add, "His gossip has always been somewhat reliable, and he has spoken well of the Inquisition." With that, she turned and proceeded across the floor, leaving her husband to walk behind her with Cyrus. It wasn't long before she lead them straight to the man in question. At their appearance, he broke off whatever conversation he was having with a pair of ladies and turned toward them excitedly. Apparently, also saving the women he had been speaking to, as they swiftly made their exit now that his attention was no longer on them.
"Lady Marceline! It is a pleasure to see you well. Ser, you as well," he added for Michaël, who replied with a good-natured smile, a tilt of his head, and a tilt of his champagne flute in the other direction. "I had hoped the Inquisition would put in their appearance in this quaint soirée. Things are intensely more interesting when you are about."
Marceline smiled easily and curtsied politely, "Lord Abernache," she greeted smoothly.
Cyrus did his best to suppress his desire to roll his eyes. More interesting—as though this was all by way of entertainment. Then again, for the court, it probably was. They wouldn't have to get out there and fight Corypheus. That was what the Inquisition was for. “Lord Abernache." He drawled the name dryly, his bow a bit lackadaisical. “It's good to know we're so welcome. How are you finding the festivities?" The question was innocuous, but it would let him talk about whatever thing he thought would keep their interest. Maybe if his gossip was as good as Marcy said, there would be something of use in the reply.
The Lord didn't seem to notice Cyrus's choice and diction of words, or if he had, he was too excited to share his experiences to care. "I have not been disappointed, I am happy to say," the Lord admitted, his grin easily seen even beneath the large mask he wore. "There are many fascinating individuals in attendance, your Inquisition included. For example," Abernache said, his grin twisting as if he held some sort of enticing secret. He glanced to his sides, checking the distance between them and the next part and leaned in toward Marceline, who to her credit did not move, neither away nor toward.
"I've heard that there has been a sighting of a Harlequin amidst our festivities."
The news caused Marceline to tilt her head in answer. "Has there now? That is most interesting," Marceline agreed. Abernache reeled himself back in and nodded, apparently pleased at himself for being able to surprise her. She then turned toward Cyrus and thought for a moment. "A Harlequin is an assassin associated with the House of Repose, an Orlesian order dating back hundreds of years ago," she explained for his benefit.
Cyrus blinked. Assassins proper, rather than Bards? That was interesting. He wondered how the two groups stacked up against one another, if they did at all. Maybe they were simply intended for different circumstances. “Well, I think that confirms what was already obvious: someone had plans to kill someone else tonight." Who the planner and the target were was more elusive information, and the part they really needed, but still. It wasn't nothing.
Admittedly, Cyrus tuned out large pieces of the conversation after that, mostly due to the fact that Lord Abernache was dominating it. Lady Marceline was more than competent enough to pick out anything relevant, and Cyrus was more interested in observing the other guests as they went about their cutthroat business. All veiled in pretty words, of course, but... well, frankly it was almost nostalgic in its pomposity and opulence. Tevinter was much the same, however unique both groups liked to think they were.
"Cyrus!" The voice wasn't entirely familiar, though the use of his first name so casually narrowed down the possible speakers by quite a margin. It didn't take too long for them to appear in his field of vision: she, as it turned out. The black-and-white mask was familiar enough, as well as her small stature and the relative deepness of her complexion. She looked a bit awkward in her light blue dress, a simple construction, but one with rather too much tulle for her size. "I was hoping I'd find you."
Gemma seemed genuinely enthused to see him, and approached without much apparent regard for the fact that Abernache was still speaking. Her eyes did flicker to him once, but then they settled back on Cyrus, and she drew within slightly more polite speaking distance, coming to a stop about three feet away from him. "Fancy meeting you here." The comment was clearly quite tongue-in-cheek; his last letter to her had indicated that he'd be here, and her reply had informed him of the same.
“Gemma." Cyrus felt a smile working its way onto his face. He expected a serious scientist like herself had little patience for such gatherings; certainly her manners in approach were imperfect according to the specific rules of the court. If she knew, he could hardly imagine she cared. As it was a chance to escape the frightful boredom of Abernache's company, he didn't either. “A most pleasant surprise. How have you been?"
She waved a hand almost absently, looking as much like she was swatting something away as anything more graceful. "Oh, well enough. I'm testing the degradation of those toxins in sunlight, like you suggested. The results have been interesting so far. I think I might have invented a new type of hallucinogen by accident, but I'm keeping a lid on it for now until I can figure out the side effects. Don't want to give it to anyone for the obvious reasons." Gemma crossed her arms. "One disadvantage to living on the clean side of town is that you can't just go catch yourself a rat, you know? Have to hike half an hour down to the slum just for a shot at one. Then you feel bad for stealing somebody's dinner, like as not." She shook her head.
His smile only grew wider as she spoke. Cyrus found her eccentricity rather endearing. No doubt it had the opposite effect on some others. “Rather sad state of things, when that's the exchange. Perhaps you could offset? Bring someone dinner, take the rat as payment. Very small-scale philanthropy, but better than nothing, no?" He was only half-joking. Breezily as she'd put it, Val Royeaux's slums were not a nice place to live, and it wouldn't at all surprise him if the city's poorest did occasionally find themselves forced to dine on rodents.
Gemma apparently took the suggestion seriously; her brows furrowed heavily, the small crease they created visible over the upper edge of her mask. "Not a bad solution. We can't feed everyone, of course, but I'd feel better about it, at least." Pursing her lips, she nodded. "Anyway. That's not actually what I came here to talk to you about." Settling her fists on her hips, she angled her chin up. Admittedly, she was quite a lot shorter than he was. "There are lots of things happening at this party. I've been here since it started, and I thought you'd want to know about some of them. Since you're with the Inquisition and all."
Cyrus blinked. Well, he could certainly count on Gemma's observations to have merit, and if she was offering them to him, he saw no reason not to accept. “Very well. What should I know?"
Her posture eased for a moment, a small smile turning her lips before it fled. "Well, for starters, there are an awful lot of people missing already. Servants, mostly, but here's the thing: there's also a Herald." She paused, then amended. "Not one of yours, obviously. One of the Council of Heralds. They decide who has the most noble blood and all that nonsense. And I've heard that the Grand Duke is particularly displeased with the lot of them, so you might want to start your inquiries with him." She shook her head, dark curls bouncing around her bare shoulders.
"And then of course there's the fact that only The Nest has any Bards here, which is just suspicious. Usually all of the organizations are allowed. Now the restriction could just be the Empress defending herself, or it could be something more insidious. I don't know—people are confusing and stupid. I'm better with corpses, which is why I'm telling you all this instead of looking into it myself."
Missing persons and a suspiciously-restricted guest list, was it? Well, the parts were all there, but he doubted the connection was so straightforward as the Bards disappearing the people in question. Especially if Gaspard was the one with a claim against the Heralds and Celene the one who'd selected the entertainers. Multiple interesting threads, then, and the beginning of each placed in the Inquisition's hands.
He couldn't help but wonder what skeins they'd be unraveling tonight.
“Thank you, Gemma." Her observations had been genuinely edifying, even if she was better with the dead than the living. “I'm sure we'll be wanting to look into all of this. You and Eugène will be around for the evening, won't you?" He didn't especially want to encounter any situations where her expertise and the friend she used to disguise it would be necessary, but... it was a clear possibility.
"Can't really leave before it's over," she pointed out. "Even the barely-qualified to attend have their reputations to uphold, after all."
“I see." He exhaled a bit heavily through his nose. “Well... please be careful. I'm sure you know that, but... I'd hate for you to get caught in any crossfire." He offered a minute smile; it was true, even if he knew there was little way he could enforce his preferences. She was still so young, even if he knew she was an intelligent adult by any standard.
"So would I," she replied smartly, flashing him a bright smile. "Don't you worry: I intend to stay as far away from the danger as possible. Trouble is, it's around every corner in these parts." A slight purse of her lips, and then: "Let me know though. If you need us to look at a body or something. We want to help, both Eugène and I. We owe you, for last time." Ducking her head, Gemma turned and disappeared back into the crowd, her small stature easily letting her fade into the menagerie.
Cyrus, on the other hand, could avail himself of no such anonymity, discreetly signaling to Marceline and Michaël that he needed to talk to them. Once they'd managed to extricate themselves from Abernache's company, he summarized his findings in as few words as possible. “We're not the best suited to ask servants about their missing colleagues, but we might pass the information to the others, if possible. I see no reason not to make inquiry about this vanished Herald, however. Can you get us an introduction to Gaspard?"
"Of course," Marceline said confidently with a nod of her head. "He may even wish to speak with us, if we make our presence known. As Lord Abernache noted, we are most interesting," she said with a short chuckle. Before they could start to make their way, however, Michaël raised his hand.
"As much as I'd like to meet the Grand Duke," he began with a self-deprecating grin, "I believe I would be much better suited to running Cyrus's information to the others, yes?"
Marceline frowned, but nodded her agreement, "Do not have too much fun without me," she stated, her smile returning. Her comment caused him to laugh and he nodded, dipping into a large, exaggerated bow before taking his leave. With her husband having taken his leave, Marceline spared Cyrus one last glance before she began to make her way, surely toward the Grand Duke. As to be expected, after making their way through groups of people, taking a moment here and there to rub hands with a few, Gaspard was soon in sight. He was alone, save for a large glass of wine in his hand. Before they were able to get too close, they were intercepted by what had to be his entourage.
"Hold there," the bodyguard stopped them for a moment, juggling his glance between Marceline and Cyrus, "Do you have personal business with the Grand Duke?" he asked mildly.
There was a rather heavy sigh from behind the guard. "Henri, let them pass. That is the Inquisition. If I can be sure anyone isn't trying to kill me, I suppose it is them."
With a small grimace only they could see, Henri inclined his head, stepping aside to allow the two of them to draw within striking distance of his employer. Once all the bows had been exchanged, Gaspard eyed them over the rim of his glass. Upon closer inspection, it looked to contain something significantly stronger than wine, though the Grand Duke himself did not seem at all incapacitated. Perhaps it was only his first.
"Well... not even important enough to merit a visit from the Inquisitors themselves, I see. That's just my luck, really." He wore a clear frown, etching lines quite deeply into his darkly-stubbled face, or what of it was visible beneath his bronzed mask. "Who are you lot, then?"
The frown that snapped to Marceline's lips was almost audible. It was obvious that she wasn't very happy with the fact that Gaspard didn't know who she was, and her pride must have been hurt a little in the process. Regardless of the state of her pride however, she nevertheless dipped into a low bow and introduced herself. "Your Highness, I am Lady Marceline Benoît, née Lécuyer, of the Inquisition, and my associate here," she gestured to Cyrus, "is Lord Cyrus Avenarius." She added, managing another mild smile.
"Well, there's a name I know, at least. Avenarius was the Lady Inquisitor, yes?" The question seemed to be entirely rhetorical. He took a large gulp from his glass and eyed the both of them. "Gaspard de Chalons, which you knew, or you wouldn't have bothered me. What exactly is it you want to ask?"
Cyrus waited a heartbeat, rather expecting that Lady Marceline would respond, but when none was immediately forthcoming, he spoke first. “I can think of a few things." He lifted his shoulders, deliberately letting his eyes fall to the glass. “Most obvious is why a potential claimant to the Orlesian throne is out here drinking instead of in there, playing your strange little Game with the others. Ceding quite a lot of advantage to Celene right from the start, aren't you?"
The easy answer was that he had some other move planned that he believed would render all such maneuvering irrelevant. Cyrus didn't have much more than a first impression and some rumors to go on, but Gaspard didn't come across as a subtle man. Likely his plan would not be that subtle either. One fell swoop, then, and probably a forceful one. But that was only a preliminary hypothesis. Confirmation was necessary.
Gaspard scoffed so hard he might as well have spat, for the distaste it conveyed. "Why bother? My dear cousin has the Council of Heralds wrapped around her little finger. She always has." He tossed the rest of his drink back in one motion, and set it down on the wooden table next to him with a heavy thud. His lip curled slightly.
"Did you know I was supposed to be Emperor? Emperor Judicael I had four living grandchildren at the time, and I was the oldest of them. After Florian's death, we all had an equal claim otherwise: I and my sister Florianne were Judicael's daughter Melisande's children, and she was the eldest. Celene and her sister Veronique, Maker rest her soul, were the daughters of the younger Reynaud. So it should have been me." His face twisted; he shook his head. "But Celene charmed the Council, and so they decided that the Valmont name was of greater value than my mother's blood, and handed the crown to a snake." He grunted.
"And look at all she's done with it, no? Such a wonderful state our country is in."
Marceline agreed with a sigh and a tired nod of her head. "Wonderful indeed. I still have family on the field,", undoubtedly speaking of her father, "I am happy enough that this occasion managed to halt the fighting, at least for a time. Still, we have not come to trouble you with my family matters," she said, waving off the thought.
She then glanced at Cyrus and then back to Gaspard, an inquisitive tilt to her head now. "I fear that there are forces about that desire to keep our nation in the civil war, or worse," She said with a bit more firmness, "We have heard rumors of a missing Herald, and were curious to know if you have any information on the matter?" She said without accusation in her tone
"One of those pompous bastards is missing?" Gaspard blinked, pouring himself another drink. "Good for him. He doesn't have to deal with all this farce. I would say I hope he's enjoying himself, but I really don't, considering." He took another liberal swallow.
“Surely your first attempt at the throne was a while ago." Given his age, and Celene's, and how long she'd ruled, it couldn't have been recent. “A bit strange to be upset at the Council when it might well have different members now, no?" He doubted Gemma would have mentioned the conflict if she meant a very old one. Which meant there was something a bit more recent. “If we ask around, are we going to hear of any altercations this evening, perhaps?" Gaspard seemed to be direct, for a nobleman. He'd probably respond best to the same.
Gaspard bobbed his head, apparently untroubled by the admission. "I'd thought new council members would be a chance," he said, frustration leaking into his voice. "But they're all the same. Had a shouting match with one of the junior members. Not... my proudest moment, but it was disappointing to learn that every last one of them is still my cousin's lapdog." Cyrus could almost see the pieces click together for him. "It's not Philippe, is it? The missing one? He is the one I argued with."
Cyrus thought the question was a genuine one, which suggested that Gaspard was not responsible for the disappearance. Not that he knew which Herald it was, either. No doubt the Grand Duke had some nefarious plan or another, but Cyrus didn't think he was indirect or dissembling enough to pull of such a good appearance of ignorance without actually lacking the right information. So of this, at least, it was probably safe to clear him. Which meant they had to turn their attention elsewhere.
“Not sure, honestly." He made the admission with a slight shrug. “In any case, enjoy your evening, Grand Duke. It's bound to be eventful. Lady Marceline?" He offered her his arm, more as a formality and polite gesture than anything. He could at least escort her as far as Michaël.
“Seems like a good time to check in with everyone else, doesn't it?" That, he said in a much lower voice as they departed. There were bound to be a great deal of accumulated tidbits by now, surely.
But he was also accustomed to turning opinions in his favor, when he had the opportunity to actually engage with those that disapproved. Wit and charisma made light of many sins, and a fetching-enough smile could pick up the slack on the rest. It was something he was sure Lady Marceline knew well, also, though no doubt she didn't have quite so many detractors. She, after all, wasn't a nasty Tevinter.
The group had split, and he'd found himself keeping company with the Ambassador and her husband, who also seemed to enjoy a fairly good reputation here. He supposed his own ability to mostly make up for the offensiveness of his nationality meant that this group would be expected to do any diplomatic heavy lifting, at least of the kind that didn't require an actual Inquisitor. Shame. He'd much rather have spent the evening with the likes of Zahra or Vesryn or Khari—much more offensive to the local sensibilities, and much less concerned with them. But needs must.
He adjusted his mask, internally displeased with the fact that it hampered his peripheral vision so much. The knife in his boot was little reassurance when he wanted his swords. How easy it would have been, if he'd still—
“So, Lady Marceline... where do you suggest we begin?" Cyrus didn't let himself finish his previous thought. Now was not the time. He presumed Marceline had some contact or other she wanted to lean on for information, and that he would be tagging along for the duration.
"With our friends," Marceline answered deftly. She had been scanning the many masks of the ball since they had arrived, and presumably, she had made out a few of these so-called friends during that time. She had paused her scanning in order to look back to him, "Do you remember the good Lord Abernache from Therinfall Redoubt?" She frowned at the thought, the memory of their first encounter with the red templars not a fond one. "It would do us well to visit with him, as he does owe his life to us after all," she added with a smile.
“'Good' seems like a bit of an overstatement." Cyrus certainly remembered him, bloviating lackwit that he was. He didn't try to hide the flash of distaste on his face. “I suppose that if we have to talk to him, it's best to get it over with." He eyed a passing servant, or more accurately, the flutes of champagne she carried on her tray, but then sighed through his nose. Unlike some people, he considered keeping his wits important. Particularly on a night like this, when all the usual mayhem and murder was going to begin at a surprise moment and probably with considerable attempt at concealment.
He arched his eyebrows beneath his mask. “Lead on then, milady. I can't spot him in a crowd; and you're the ambassador here. I promise to smile and look as pretty as possible. I'll even keep the sarcasm to a minimum." He didn't specify how much the minimum was.
"You say that as if you believe he would catch even that," Michaël noted, suppressing a chuckle. It appeared as if Marceline's husband shared Cyrus's judgment on the Lord. However, unlike Cyrus, he did snatch a flute from the serving girl's tray and took a quick sip, tossing a wink at him afterward.
Marceline sighed, but shrugged as well. "Please, let us try to be kind to our allies, in spite of their... quirks," Marceline admitted, though she did soon add, "His gossip has always been somewhat reliable, and he has spoken well of the Inquisition." With that, she turned and proceeded across the floor, leaving her husband to walk behind her with Cyrus. It wasn't long before she lead them straight to the man in question. At their appearance, he broke off whatever conversation he was having with a pair of ladies and turned toward them excitedly. Apparently, also saving the women he had been speaking to, as they swiftly made their exit now that his attention was no longer on them.
"Lady Marceline! It is a pleasure to see you well. Ser, you as well," he added for Michaël, who replied with a good-natured smile, a tilt of his head, and a tilt of his champagne flute in the other direction. "I had hoped the Inquisition would put in their appearance in this quaint soirée. Things are intensely more interesting when you are about."
Marceline smiled easily and curtsied politely, "Lord Abernache," she greeted smoothly.
Cyrus did his best to suppress his desire to roll his eyes. More interesting—as though this was all by way of entertainment. Then again, for the court, it probably was. They wouldn't have to get out there and fight Corypheus. That was what the Inquisition was for. “Lord Abernache." He drawled the name dryly, his bow a bit lackadaisical. “It's good to know we're so welcome. How are you finding the festivities?" The question was innocuous, but it would let him talk about whatever thing he thought would keep their interest. Maybe if his gossip was as good as Marcy said, there would be something of use in the reply.
The Lord didn't seem to notice Cyrus's choice and diction of words, or if he had, he was too excited to share his experiences to care. "I have not been disappointed, I am happy to say," the Lord admitted, his grin easily seen even beneath the large mask he wore. "There are many fascinating individuals in attendance, your Inquisition included. For example," Abernache said, his grin twisting as if he held some sort of enticing secret. He glanced to his sides, checking the distance between them and the next part and leaned in toward Marceline, who to her credit did not move, neither away nor toward.
"I've heard that there has been a sighting of a Harlequin amidst our festivities."
The news caused Marceline to tilt her head in answer. "Has there now? That is most interesting," Marceline agreed. Abernache reeled himself back in and nodded, apparently pleased at himself for being able to surprise her. She then turned toward Cyrus and thought for a moment. "A Harlequin is an assassin associated with the House of Repose, an Orlesian order dating back hundreds of years ago," she explained for his benefit.
Cyrus blinked. Assassins proper, rather than Bards? That was interesting. He wondered how the two groups stacked up against one another, if they did at all. Maybe they were simply intended for different circumstances. “Well, I think that confirms what was already obvious: someone had plans to kill someone else tonight." Who the planner and the target were was more elusive information, and the part they really needed, but still. It wasn't nothing.
Admittedly, Cyrus tuned out large pieces of the conversation after that, mostly due to the fact that Lord Abernache was dominating it. Lady Marceline was more than competent enough to pick out anything relevant, and Cyrus was more interested in observing the other guests as they went about their cutthroat business. All veiled in pretty words, of course, but... well, frankly it was almost nostalgic in its pomposity and opulence. Tevinter was much the same, however unique both groups liked to think they were.
"Cyrus!" The voice wasn't entirely familiar, though the use of his first name so casually narrowed down the possible speakers by quite a margin. It didn't take too long for them to appear in his field of vision: she, as it turned out. The black-and-white mask was familiar enough, as well as her small stature and the relative deepness of her complexion. She looked a bit awkward in her light blue dress, a simple construction, but one with rather too much tulle for her size. "I was hoping I'd find you."
Gemma seemed genuinely enthused to see him, and approached without much apparent regard for the fact that Abernache was still speaking. Her eyes did flicker to him once, but then they settled back on Cyrus, and she drew within slightly more polite speaking distance, coming to a stop about three feet away from him. "Fancy meeting you here." The comment was clearly quite tongue-in-cheek; his last letter to her had indicated that he'd be here, and her reply had informed him of the same.
“Gemma." Cyrus felt a smile working its way onto his face. He expected a serious scientist like herself had little patience for such gatherings; certainly her manners in approach were imperfect according to the specific rules of the court. If she knew, he could hardly imagine she cared. As it was a chance to escape the frightful boredom of Abernache's company, he didn't either. “A most pleasant surprise. How have you been?"
She waved a hand almost absently, looking as much like she was swatting something away as anything more graceful. "Oh, well enough. I'm testing the degradation of those toxins in sunlight, like you suggested. The results have been interesting so far. I think I might have invented a new type of hallucinogen by accident, but I'm keeping a lid on it for now until I can figure out the side effects. Don't want to give it to anyone for the obvious reasons." Gemma crossed her arms. "One disadvantage to living on the clean side of town is that you can't just go catch yourself a rat, you know? Have to hike half an hour down to the slum just for a shot at one. Then you feel bad for stealing somebody's dinner, like as not." She shook her head.
His smile only grew wider as she spoke. Cyrus found her eccentricity rather endearing. No doubt it had the opposite effect on some others. “Rather sad state of things, when that's the exchange. Perhaps you could offset? Bring someone dinner, take the rat as payment. Very small-scale philanthropy, but better than nothing, no?" He was only half-joking. Breezily as she'd put it, Val Royeaux's slums were not a nice place to live, and it wouldn't at all surprise him if the city's poorest did occasionally find themselves forced to dine on rodents.
Gemma apparently took the suggestion seriously; her brows furrowed heavily, the small crease they created visible over the upper edge of her mask. "Not a bad solution. We can't feed everyone, of course, but I'd feel better about it, at least." Pursing her lips, she nodded. "Anyway. That's not actually what I came here to talk to you about." Settling her fists on her hips, she angled her chin up. Admittedly, she was quite a lot shorter than he was. "There are lots of things happening at this party. I've been here since it started, and I thought you'd want to know about some of them. Since you're with the Inquisition and all."
Cyrus blinked. Well, he could certainly count on Gemma's observations to have merit, and if she was offering them to him, he saw no reason not to accept. “Very well. What should I know?"
Her posture eased for a moment, a small smile turning her lips before it fled. "Well, for starters, there are an awful lot of people missing already. Servants, mostly, but here's the thing: there's also a Herald." She paused, then amended. "Not one of yours, obviously. One of the Council of Heralds. They decide who has the most noble blood and all that nonsense. And I've heard that the Grand Duke is particularly displeased with the lot of them, so you might want to start your inquiries with him." She shook her head, dark curls bouncing around her bare shoulders.
"And then of course there's the fact that only The Nest has any Bards here, which is just suspicious. Usually all of the organizations are allowed. Now the restriction could just be the Empress defending herself, or it could be something more insidious. I don't know—people are confusing and stupid. I'm better with corpses, which is why I'm telling you all this instead of looking into it myself."
Missing persons and a suspiciously-restricted guest list, was it? Well, the parts were all there, but he doubted the connection was so straightforward as the Bards disappearing the people in question. Especially if Gaspard was the one with a claim against the Heralds and Celene the one who'd selected the entertainers. Multiple interesting threads, then, and the beginning of each placed in the Inquisition's hands.
He couldn't help but wonder what skeins they'd be unraveling tonight.
“Thank you, Gemma." Her observations had been genuinely edifying, even if she was better with the dead than the living. “I'm sure we'll be wanting to look into all of this. You and Eugène will be around for the evening, won't you?" He didn't especially want to encounter any situations where her expertise and the friend she used to disguise it would be necessary, but... it was a clear possibility.
"Can't really leave before it's over," she pointed out. "Even the barely-qualified to attend have their reputations to uphold, after all."
“I see." He exhaled a bit heavily through his nose. “Well... please be careful. I'm sure you know that, but... I'd hate for you to get caught in any crossfire." He offered a minute smile; it was true, even if he knew there was little way he could enforce his preferences. She was still so young, even if he knew she was an intelligent adult by any standard.
"So would I," she replied smartly, flashing him a bright smile. "Don't you worry: I intend to stay as far away from the danger as possible. Trouble is, it's around every corner in these parts." A slight purse of her lips, and then: "Let me know though. If you need us to look at a body or something. We want to help, both Eugène and I. We owe you, for last time." Ducking her head, Gemma turned and disappeared back into the crowd, her small stature easily letting her fade into the menagerie.
Cyrus, on the other hand, could avail himself of no such anonymity, discreetly signaling to Marceline and Michaël that he needed to talk to them. Once they'd managed to extricate themselves from Abernache's company, he summarized his findings in as few words as possible. “We're not the best suited to ask servants about their missing colleagues, but we might pass the information to the others, if possible. I see no reason not to make inquiry about this vanished Herald, however. Can you get us an introduction to Gaspard?"
"Of course," Marceline said confidently with a nod of her head. "He may even wish to speak with us, if we make our presence known. As Lord Abernache noted, we are most interesting," she said with a short chuckle. Before they could start to make their way, however, Michaël raised his hand.
"As much as I'd like to meet the Grand Duke," he began with a self-deprecating grin, "I believe I would be much better suited to running Cyrus's information to the others, yes?"
Marceline frowned, but nodded her agreement, "Do not have too much fun without me," she stated, her smile returning. Her comment caused him to laugh and he nodded, dipping into a large, exaggerated bow before taking his leave. With her husband having taken his leave, Marceline spared Cyrus one last glance before she began to make her way, surely toward the Grand Duke. As to be expected, after making their way through groups of people, taking a moment here and there to rub hands with a few, Gaspard was soon in sight. He was alone, save for a large glass of wine in his hand. Before they were able to get too close, they were intercepted by what had to be his entourage.
"Hold there," the bodyguard stopped them for a moment, juggling his glance between Marceline and Cyrus, "Do you have personal business with the Grand Duke?" he asked mildly.
There was a rather heavy sigh from behind the guard. "Henri, let them pass. That is the Inquisition. If I can be sure anyone isn't trying to kill me, I suppose it is them."
With a small grimace only they could see, Henri inclined his head, stepping aside to allow the two of them to draw within striking distance of his employer. Once all the bows had been exchanged, Gaspard eyed them over the rim of his glass. Upon closer inspection, it looked to contain something significantly stronger than wine, though the Grand Duke himself did not seem at all incapacitated. Perhaps it was only his first.
"Well... not even important enough to merit a visit from the Inquisitors themselves, I see. That's just my luck, really." He wore a clear frown, etching lines quite deeply into his darkly-stubbled face, or what of it was visible beneath his bronzed mask. "Who are you lot, then?"
The frown that snapped to Marceline's lips was almost audible. It was obvious that she wasn't very happy with the fact that Gaspard didn't know who she was, and her pride must have been hurt a little in the process. Regardless of the state of her pride however, she nevertheless dipped into a low bow and introduced herself. "Your Highness, I am Lady Marceline Benoît, née Lécuyer, of the Inquisition, and my associate here," she gestured to Cyrus, "is Lord Cyrus Avenarius." She added, managing another mild smile.
"Well, there's a name I know, at least. Avenarius was the Lady Inquisitor, yes?" The question seemed to be entirely rhetorical. He took a large gulp from his glass and eyed the both of them. "Gaspard de Chalons, which you knew, or you wouldn't have bothered me. What exactly is it you want to ask?"
Cyrus waited a heartbeat, rather expecting that Lady Marceline would respond, but when none was immediately forthcoming, he spoke first. “I can think of a few things." He lifted his shoulders, deliberately letting his eyes fall to the glass. “Most obvious is why a potential claimant to the Orlesian throne is out here drinking instead of in there, playing your strange little Game with the others. Ceding quite a lot of advantage to Celene right from the start, aren't you?"
The easy answer was that he had some other move planned that he believed would render all such maneuvering irrelevant. Cyrus didn't have much more than a first impression and some rumors to go on, but Gaspard didn't come across as a subtle man. Likely his plan would not be that subtle either. One fell swoop, then, and probably a forceful one. But that was only a preliminary hypothesis. Confirmation was necessary.
Gaspard scoffed so hard he might as well have spat, for the distaste it conveyed. "Why bother? My dear cousin has the Council of Heralds wrapped around her little finger. She always has." He tossed the rest of his drink back in one motion, and set it down on the wooden table next to him with a heavy thud. His lip curled slightly.
"Did you know I was supposed to be Emperor? Emperor Judicael I had four living grandchildren at the time, and I was the oldest of them. After Florian's death, we all had an equal claim otherwise: I and my sister Florianne were Judicael's daughter Melisande's children, and she was the eldest. Celene and her sister Veronique, Maker rest her soul, were the daughters of the younger Reynaud. So it should have been me." His face twisted; he shook his head. "But Celene charmed the Council, and so they decided that the Valmont name was of greater value than my mother's blood, and handed the crown to a snake." He grunted.
"And look at all she's done with it, no? Such a wonderful state our country is in."
Marceline agreed with a sigh and a tired nod of her head. "Wonderful indeed. I still have family on the field,", undoubtedly speaking of her father, "I am happy enough that this occasion managed to halt the fighting, at least for a time. Still, we have not come to trouble you with my family matters," she said, waving off the thought.
She then glanced at Cyrus and then back to Gaspard, an inquisitive tilt to her head now. "I fear that there are forces about that desire to keep our nation in the civil war, or worse," She said with a bit more firmness, "We have heard rumors of a missing Herald, and were curious to know if you have any information on the matter?" She said without accusation in her tone
"One of those pompous bastards is missing?" Gaspard blinked, pouring himself another drink. "Good for him. He doesn't have to deal with all this farce. I would say I hope he's enjoying himself, but I really don't, considering." He took another liberal swallow.
“Surely your first attempt at the throne was a while ago." Given his age, and Celene's, and how long she'd ruled, it couldn't have been recent. “A bit strange to be upset at the Council when it might well have different members now, no?" He doubted Gemma would have mentioned the conflict if she meant a very old one. Which meant there was something a bit more recent. “If we ask around, are we going to hear of any altercations this evening, perhaps?" Gaspard seemed to be direct, for a nobleman. He'd probably respond best to the same.
Gaspard bobbed his head, apparently untroubled by the admission. "I'd thought new council members would be a chance," he said, frustration leaking into his voice. "But they're all the same. Had a shouting match with one of the junior members. Not... my proudest moment, but it was disappointing to learn that every last one of them is still my cousin's lapdog." Cyrus could almost see the pieces click together for him. "It's not Philippe, is it? The missing one? He is the one I argued with."
Cyrus thought the question was a genuine one, which suggested that Gaspard was not responsible for the disappearance. Not that he knew which Herald it was, either. No doubt the Grand Duke had some nefarious plan or another, but Cyrus didn't think he was indirect or dissembling enough to pull of such a good appearance of ignorance without actually lacking the right information. So of this, at least, it was probably safe to clear him. Which meant they had to turn their attention elsewhere.
“Not sure, honestly." He made the admission with a slight shrug. “In any case, enjoy your evening, Grand Duke. It's bound to be eventful. Lady Marceline?" He offered her his arm, more as a formality and polite gesture than anything. He could at least escort her as far as Michaël.
“Seems like a good time to check in with everyone else, doesn't it?" That, he said in a much lower voice as they departed. There were bound to be a great deal of accumulated tidbits by now, surely.