Signed, sealed, delivered.

[Cinnabar]

It's been a few days since his last visit to the bakery, a meeting full of information and negotiation and demands over pardons and lists, explanations and examples and layer upon layer of metaphor over a chessboard. The interim has been filled with all sorts of things; bladework training, reading reports, issuing instructions, reading more reports... reams of paper flowing in an endless tide across his desk. It's nice to get out and about once more, and even nicer that it's to deliver some news that he suspects will be quite well-received.

Civilian dress today, coat and boots and doublet unbuttoned in recognition of the day's warmth. No satchel with him this time. Once more he navigates the fearsome doorkeeper with her threats of terrible hurt and prompt eviction, ascends the stairs and knocks briskly upon the door at the top. A slight grin in the dim light at there in the stairwell.

"Psst. Hey." He clears his throat, speaking in a voice to carry through the door, but with a tone that imply some kind of secretive fear of being heard down the stairs. "Lively elven troubadours merrily exhort indolent newts."

Let's see what she makes of that. Heh.

[Carnath-Emory]

There is progress made, here. This may be attributed to the nudgings of Altias Bromn, which have been quite pointed, and to the handful of visitors who've introduced challenges of a different sort to her mornings. Even to Dhrin, with his talk of cripples and guards and threats--

But to need, most of all; to the near arrival of Different Times, for which a woman does not intend to be found lacking.

So that below, the very fearsome doorkeeper is also an inquisitive one, and observes the Constable as if she meant to discern the truth behind recent rumours. Trouble, those amount to. Trouble on the streets. And he is let to pass unharassed, but what awaits above is perhaps not quite so satisfying as Calomel might have hoped, for in answer to this very surreptitious spot of intrigue, there is a single reply -- a little strained, perhaps. A little breathless, if a man's ears will discern this through the filter of a well-shaped door.

"Come."

[Cinnabar]

Handle turned, the door is pushed open and he steps within, closing it firmly behind him. He glances around the room briefly, a reflexive check of surroundings, before looking to Ariane. He is composed, features a careful mask of neutrality, revealing nothing that goes on behind those pale eyes. He nods to the swordswoman, though, a slight smile in greeting.

"Good morning. Your leg is improved, I hope?"

Not that he might be spinning this out at all. Heavens forfend, dear me no.

[Carnath-Emory]

What Cinnabar discovers, upon opening that door, is a room in a state of flux. Oh, here are the opulent accomodations that he will recall: these lavish drapes, these fine rugs upon the floor, but sellsword's militant world has begun to encroach upon them. Indeed, with its stacks of books, its scattering of weapons, its array of medicines and bandages and splints -- why, one might be forgiven for thinking that luxury's a newcomer to far simpler a scene.

Perhaps the room's occupant will seal that notion as certainty, for she is sleeveless and lightly sweated, and ... suspended. By the forearm, an upwards glance will discover, a forearm wound about an edge of the bed's canopy, and only now lowering her body back onto its bare toes. She drops the last few inches of it, lands upon the good leg --

And smiles.

"I'll learn that soon for certain. What is a newt?"

A pause.

"What news?"

[Cinnabar]

Absently curious, Cinnabar notes the changes with roving eye - the books, the weapons... heh. A well-appointed retreat furnished initially for comfort, now taking an altogether more practical look.

On the first question, he shrugs lightly. "A small creature that lives in ponds. Something between a frog and a lizard." He holds thumb and forefinger apart, four or five inches. "About yea big."

To her second question, a brief quirk of the lips and wave of the hand, as if the matter is of no great consequence at all.

"I spoke to the Governor, yes, and explained your terms: three pardons, for yourself and the two others named in exchange for a list of the creature's followers - as many as you are able to provide. Those were the terms, yes?"

[Carnath-Emory]

A newt. A diminished frog, blackmailed by elven musicians -- hah! It makes no sense at all, but what else is one to expect of elves? Still, the woman's nod is a particularly dubious one, and afterwards she's in motion again: an uneven progress around the corner of the bed, towards the table upon which a pitcher and mugs awaits.

Less dependance upon the bed's posts for support, now. A little weight concentrated onto the toes of the bad leg. Some gradual improvement is made, and perhaps its slow pace might be blamed for the impatient glance shot Cinnabar's way, now.

"Yes. Three names. Three pardons. A list of their names, and whatever else is of use to you, but ser Calomel...

What news?"

[Cinnabar]

He shrugs once more, idly picking a loose thread or hair or speck of dust from the cuff of his coat. His demeanour speaks of reluctance, as if putting off bad news.

"He was... not enthused with the idea, as I'm sure you can imagine - suspicious, mistrustful, wary of being played for a fool. Extortion, he called it - as if requesting a favour for a favour were somehow a threat. Also, apparently you keep suspect company."

He cannot maintain the pretence forever, though, and cracks a sudden grin.

"Nevertheless, he has agreed to issue your three pardons - for yourself, for Bromn and this Renne fellow."

[Carnath-Emory]

"I do nothing without that the Governor finds cause to suspect. You might have care, lest he find your associations reason enough to doubt you, mn?"

But this is not precisely kind, and Cinnabar might quite accurately ascribe it more to restlessness, than genuine displeasure. Prohibited from actually pacing, the woman's frustration has found different outlets: the gripping of a table's edge, the tap of fingertips upon a mug's curve; this very hasty swallow of its water. A glance is flung back towards Calomel --

-- and it resolves into a wide-eyed stare, behind which fierce pleasure gradually swells.

"Ot'ebis'," she breathes at first, quietly, quietly. "You have done this, this ... podi ku'evo? You truly have." This trembling grin refuses to be constrained, and it is blackened with old bruise and lacerated scars, but its triumph is unmistakeable, much like the tone with which she cries:

"Ostokhuitel'no! Cinnabar Calomel, you have done so fine a thing!"

[Cinnabar]

A pleasant laugh, and a flourishing bow as of a stage conjuror who has just completed some particularly delightful trick.

"All in a day's work." He straightens, but raises a cautionary finger. "There is one small condition - the Governor is still not a particularly trusting man. Two of these pardons will be issued straight away, to yourself and either Bromn or Renne - the choice is left to you. The third will be signed and sealed, but held by the Governor until we have moved against the beast's followers whose names you provide. At which point it will also be delivered into your hands. Security, you see?" He waits for her reaction, for the inevitable protests and mistrust.

"He has given his word that this will be so."

[Carnath-Emory]

There might have been even applause for this elaborate display, if the damaged hand could support it. Instead, a lift of her mug as if in toast, a great gulp of its water and oh, a grin that blazes. Her nod is almost impatient in its quickness: it comes close to dismissing this talk of conditions before they've even been named. Too naive, Bromn had warned her once, furious. Too trusting. And here is the proof of it, for her bandaged limb is already waving aside this matter of the Governor's fears, of his inevitable distrust, and urging Calomel towards a mug of something finer than water --

Ah.

Cinnabar will note the moment at which she realises the whole of what's said to her. It is marked by a blanking of expression, by a heartbeat's blank, incomprehending stare. Her gaze finds a new direction, then, a resting-place that is not Calomel. "'The choice'," she echoes, after a time. A glance is shot back towards the man.

"He would have me choose."

[Cinnabar]

Her words have him pausing midway through pouring a mug for himself - as she has so graciously urged - but he shrugs a moment after and completes the motion, setting the wine bottle down and taking a sip.

"For the moment. A gesture of goodwill, he called it - letting you have a say in the matter, I suppose, rather than deciding it himself." This really is rather good wine, it has to be said. Here's to the good Altias Bromn, for his discerning palate. "It makes little difference in the long run, though - you all three get your pardons once the matter is properly resolved, and it's all neat and tidy. One of the two just has to wait a short while - and this does not leave the room, but I intend that it will be a short while."

[Carnath-Emory]

"Hm."

Myrken Wood is not one of the land's wealthier territories: the Council is not much prone to such lavish displays as gardens with fountains, as caged menageries. But if they were, such behaviour as Calomel witnesses now might not be unfamiliar; he might recall in it the memory of caged beasts, hobbled and restless.

Oh, she paces. Three minutes see a wall measured by means of her uneven stride. Paces, and punctuates her stride with brisk sips from the mug, and draws her lips taut between them. Perhaps she performs wordless calculations, for the thin fingers tap, hold, release that mug in turn, as if they kept a-pace with her silent reckonings. Perhaps she weighs two eyes against a sole confession, two lives against a fool's thoughtless admission, three lives against all of Myrkentown --

"I would have these altered," she states at last, and with a twist of the narrow body to face the Constable once more. "But yours is not the authority to do this, yes? I would propose at least an exchange. He holds one of them hostage against the names I provide, yes?

I will not have it. He may hold my name in their stead."

[Cinnabar]

For his part, the High Constable sips his drink and watches patiently as Ariane paces the room. He cannot offer much by way of advice to assist her in this matter, as only the swordswoman knows her own mind. He picks up the tension, the indecision in her movements, and can certainly empathise with the difficulty of such choices.

Finally, though, she stops. He listens to her suggestion quietly, then nods once.

"I shall let the Governor know, and have the relevant pardons delivered to you."

A slight grin, then, approving.

"I don't think that will be the answer he expected."

[Carnath-Emory]

"It will not be. He does not understand me -- and why would he? I do not expect that of him." I do not want it of him. Him or them or even -- "He must expect terrible things, it is his way. So I will be glad to surprise.

"And I shall see the evidence of it myself, for I accompany you on this. When the exchange is made, I amend the list given him. This will not matter for you, ser: you will know already what I mean to write, for I am prepared to tell you the whole of it. But the Governor...

He will agree to this exchange. It makes a very fine advantage his."

There is a pause to her movements, then; for a second time she shoots a glance towards the man, but this time it is held upon him. It waits.

[Cinnabar]

A nod of acceptance.

"Perhaps it is best that you explain this to him yourself. If nothing else" a grin, "it saves me from having to further act as messenger-boy."

He tilts his head then, returning her own gaze unflinchingly.

"So then: regarding your side of the arrangement...?"

It's not only the swordswoman who can watch, and wait.