hovering with intent

Illario: Very, well, Talon. Illario Dellamorte, Master Assassin, and the lesser of Caterina Dellamorte's grandsons. Do you need my middle names as well? I have an impressive array of dead relatives catalogued in that list.

Viago: No.

Illario: Your loss.

Viago: I shall have to bear it. Now, to the business at hand. Tell us about your new friends.

Illario: laughter You, of all people, should know I do not have any friends. But I will generously assume you mean the Venatori, in the spirit of cooperation. What do you wish to know?

Teia: Why them, Illario? Why our enemies?

Viago: We will get to why later—

Illario: Why not now? Venatori are easily manipulated. They were arrogant, disorganized, powerful, and incredibly stupid. Venatori are singularly focused on their glorious ambition, and pay little attention to anything else. They're willing to cut deals with anyone they think they can double-cross—"

Viago: With so much in common, I think my confusion about your degree of amity can be excused.

Teia: Vi! Illario, just tell him what he wants to know, or we will all grow old while you two bicker like old women with a grudge about their niece's wedding banquet two decades ago.

Illario: I am being quite cooperative. The Venatori do little work on their own, but a large amount of money can do a lot work for you if you spend it correctly.

Viago: Numbers?

Illario: In Treviso? Not much more than what you saw. They are not welcomed by the Antaam, no matter how much either one takes in power from these so-called old gods.

Teia: They're not working with them?

Illario: No. They are two different knives, only likely to succeed when wielded separately. Useless in the same fist.

Viago: So you have nothing?

Illario: I have less than that. My cousin sits where I once aimed. My allies are scattered, my cousin won't even do me the courtesy of a quick death, and my city still sits under the thumb of an invading army lead by a madman.

…

Illario: Oh, don't give me that look. If you have someone pull the green leather books from the shelf nearest the fireplace in my room, I can give you something to at least keep me breathing the air outside of Velabanchel for the night.

Viago: Are they trapped?

Illario: I am wounded by the accusation. Of course they are.

Teia: Illario.

Illario: Nothing your people should have any trouble with, Teia, I promise. I have Venatori supply lines, contacts, and smugglers they lean on frequently. Schedules, routes, estimated numbers and a couple of their codes.

Teia: Any names?

Illario: For the cultists? Only the lower level lackeys, or those so high up they can't remain hidden, like Zara Renata. There should be more than enough in there to track them, though, or at the least hobble their network.

Viago: You had this information for how long, Dellamorte? How many of our people did you let die while you gathered your insurance?

Illario: It wasn't insurance, it was my plan. The Venatori eliminate the Antaam, the Crows do what we do best and eliminate the Venatori. Treviso is free.

Viago: With you as First Talon.

Illario: As I should have been! I have done everything I was ever asked to do, but somehow this is too far? Too much? It is not enough. It has never been enough.

Viago: That your grandmother and cousin are still both alive to stand in judgment over you should be enough of an answer to that.

…

Viago: Is that all you have, then? All you are? Failed ambition, overwrought hair, and some information about supply lines?

Illario: I am also a very snappy dresser. But if you insist, do ask your questions Viago. Perhaps we will find there is a small bit more to me than my very public failures.

• ───────────────── •

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The collective intake of breath that fell across the room was heavy, all silence and stillness and stunned contemplation of the truth Harding had just casually tossed out during the post-dinner conversation.

Which was - surprising. Harding looked over the room, meeting everyone’s eyes. “Wait. You all didn’t know?”

Taash recovered first, shifting in their seat. “Huh.”

“Lucanis, sure,” Davrin said slowly. “Man’s too uptight to have done much of anything - but Rook?”

“I know quite well the - shall we say, indiscretions - young Watchers indulge in during their off hours. And occasionally during lectures.” Emmrich shook his head. “If Rook managed to make it through her formative years without finding companionships amongst her fellows well…that would be unusual.”

Neve had that look on her face. Her ‘mentally reviewing the clues’ look. “Is your source reliable?”

“Uh-huh,” Harding leaned back in her chair. “The most reliable.”

“I don’t see Lucanis talking about that sort of thing,” Bellara said.

“So - Rook?” Neve asked.

“She’s a really chatty drunk,” Harding confirmed. “And we were on the road with Varric for over a year.”

😘

It's patiently drizzling, something to which they're either completely oblivious, or entirely unconcerned with. Though he'd imagine that after exerting themselves on every dance floor the street had to offer, the water droplets and accompanying cool wind are a welcome relief.

They arrive at the intersection, and because Davrin is for some strange, unknowable reason, in possession of the phone that had ordered the car service, he's the one who ventures to check the license plate before giving the green light. It has just enough room for all of them—all except him, of course. He passes the phone off to Lace Harding, its rightful owner, as she piles into the car after the other two.

He closes the door behind them and, noting the way Cyri hangs back, opens the front with a barely contained smile. She arches an eyebrow, remaining rooted to her spot on the curb. Rain drips off the edges of the red umbrella that has somehow ended up in her possession.

"I figured I'd be going home with you."

Davrin hesitates. Half a second.