Theoretically

“I’d say,” Gevuyn’s voice came through the kitchen door before the man himself appeared, dressed in the bare necessities, hair still wet from the shower, “I’d say it smells like salt bread.”

“And you’d be correct.” Yurtoril fetched the skewers from the firekeeper.

“Do I get one?” Gevuyn leaned over across the kitchen table, water from his hair dripping down onto the surface.

Yurtoril watched the puddle form for a moment and raised his eyebrows.

“What?” Gevuyn looked down. “Oh.”

“Never mind.” Yurtoril handed him a skewer. “Here. Figured you could use some, too.”

Gevuyn took the skewer and hastily pulled off a piece of salt bread. “And you’d be correct.”

They devoured their bread skewers in silence.

“I had a thought in the shower,” Gevuyn said, laying down the skewer on the table.

“Yeah?”

“About the director.”

“Didn’t you want to be done with that?”

Gevuyn furrowed his brows just a bit. So there was more.

Yurtoril sighed. “You know, after today’s farce, I wouldn’t mind being done with it myself.”

His partner’s look got probing. “Farce, huh.”

“Well, yeah.”

“So you thought so, too. Came to me late.” Gevuyn pointed down to his bare skewer. “How much more do we have?”

“Plenty. I put in the whole package; wasn’t thinking too straight.”

Gevuyn grinned at him. “All the better.”

It was uncomfortable in a different way. He returned the grin. The heaviness seemed lifted for now. Yurtoril got the remaining four bread skewers out of the firekeeper and laid them out on the cutting board. “We can still drop this if you want.”

Gevuyn’s hand halted on the way to the cutting board. “If I want? You mean… Don’t tell me.”

“You wanted to be done with it. The order is happy. There’s no need to pursue it further.”

His partner’s hand was still hovering above the board. Then he was hit by a beaming smile. “Well, we can have a little chat about it. Just to compare.”

“Just to compare,” Yurtoril agreed. “Living room?”

Gevuyn nodded swiftly, his wet hair falling into his face, and picked up the cutting board to carry it over.

Yurtoril held open the door. “Bit well-prepared, wasn’t she?”

Gevuyn balanced the board with the skewers out into the living room and sat it down on the usual book stack. “Have you ever seen an air dryer? I’ve only seen them in books in the academy.”

“Once, in the Eastern district. Shortly before they released me from training, in a practical mission. I accompanied a seasoned knight; was a smuggling case. The stuff we found was from before the war.”

“And the print on the ones today was…”

“Eastern, yeah.” Yurtoril sat down on the couch and reached for the salt bread.

Gevuyn wedged himself in between, blocking his access. “Could you read it?”

Yurtoril raised his eyebrows. But fine. “Same company, long since defunct.”

A snort. “You… Alright. Alright.” Gevuyn picked up a skewer but held it out of reach. “So would you say this was something that a grieving widow could pick up easily, in the…” He twirled the skewer around a few times. “In the twelve days since her husband died?”

Yurtoril smiled. “Even with her connections, it’s highly unlikely.”

Gevuyn returned the smile and finally handed him the bread skewer. “So…” He picked up one for himself.

“So the director being an ally to the order is also highly unlikely.”

Gevuyn laughed that raspy laugh of his. “Figured. And the water filtering systems… and the window cloths… All recent, right?”

“Plausible deniability but not likely.”

“She tried to tell us something, didn’t she? I wonder what.”

Yurtoril tore off a piece of bread. “Nothing we could have acted on in our current position.”

“Figured.” Gevuyn looked at him. “You could have said something.”

“I was trying to…” He paused. In fact… He inclined his head slightly. “I could have.”

Gevuyn’s posture relaxed. “Don’t worry. I could have…” He picked at his bread. “Paid attention right away. Shown more interest. Something.”

“I could have not made her shoot herself.”

His partner broke into laughter. “I couldn’t believe it when Suradin was so happy with our work.”

“We did what we were supposed to.” He mustered the other. “Theoretically, we could still go out now, secure something. In the study maybe. Before they clean it up.”

Gevuyn seemed to ponder it, then leaned over to rest his head on Yurtoril’s shoulder, drenching his shirt with his wet hair. It wasn’t so bad. “It’s comfortable here. And I’m wiped. There’ll be more directors.”

He smiled. “Of that we can be sure, yes.”

“Besides, I’m not going to pass on a gift like that.” Yurtoril could see the corner of his grin. “Not going after a case like that. Whatever got into you?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Not a one.”

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Reversal

Gevuyn’s uniform was constricting when worn properly, and his tightly bound ponytail strained his scalp. And they had to sit through the higher-ups’ questions. It was like being back in training. He longed to loosen it all up.

Meanwhile, the prettiest man in the world was being obnoxiously straight-laced with the head knight. He’d even taken implicit credit for Gevuyn’s ‘unusually professional attire’. Well, he could let that go today. Just barely.

Pay-off would be later today.

 

“Well,” Sir Suradin said from behind his oversized desk, “you did good work overall. We’ve got most of the Department of Development back in line. There are some left-over factors, but if you’re looking for a new challenge, I can hand those to someone else.”

Yes, do it. Though the man’s eyes were too piercing during that offer. Still, anything but more of that department’s mess.

“Thank you,” Yurtoril said. “We appreciate it. But we like to tie up loose ends. It’s no good to leave things to the next ones in disorder.”

Oh for fuck’s sake, why? Of course, of course. Standing in the order. Promotions. But this case out of all?

Gevuyn bit down on the inside of his lip and straightened his shoulders. “I agree.” He gave Yurtoril a curt nod.

They both looked pleased. Fuck this all.

“Good,” Suradin said. “That’s what I was hoping to hear.” He flipped open a folder in front of him and turned it around for them to read. A photo of a grey-haired woman, Reinelle, 62 years old, etc.

“The murdered director’s widow,” their superior explained. “Normally this wouldn’t be the department’s issue anymore, but she’s been acting erratically by some accounts, and seeking contact within the department, spouting conspiracies. Everyone says they didn’t talk to her, but you know how it is. Something’s up there, and we’ve got to get this cleaned up before we set up the new director.” He looked at each of them in turn. “This is a minor issue, and I don’t care how you clear it up, as long as you do it. And do it today. Things are set in motion for tomorrow; a delay would be awkward.”

Yurtoril met the head knight’s gaze with that too sensible expression of his. “When you say you don’t care how, just to clarify…”

“I mean I don’t care. Use your imagination or be unoriginal. I want the rumour-mongering gone by tomorrow. How the source stops spreading them is your business.”

Yurtoril nodded smoothly. “Understood.”

 

“Why?”

The wind was biting into his skin outside the order’s southern headquarters. At least his hair was safely confined. As confined as he felt.

“You know why,” Yurtoril said.

“That’s the worst part,” Gevuyn muttered.

“It was a test,” his partner elaborated. “We can go up or down, hanging on today. We’ve both been displaced from other districts. If we want to achieve anything in the future, it has to be up.”

“I know all that, I know.”

“You did follow.”

He sighed. “That’s the other worst part.” He allowed himself a smile after all. “Fine. So, a widow. Not the most honourable job.”

“Depends on how we handle it.” Yurtoril gave a tiny frown. “Well, maybe not. So. How do we do this? If you want to try the role reversal another time and go for the safe route today…”

“Oh, hell no. That’s all I’ve been looking forward to.” He raised his hand to brush hair out of his face that wasn’t there. “Highlight of my workday,” he amended. “And the only reason I’m wearing this…” He looked down on himself unhappily. “I really hate this.”

Yurtoril grinned. It was endearing, fuck him. “So potential chaos then? Alright. We did get free rein; it’s a good test case.”

He hadn’t planned this on some level, had he?

 

All the windows in Reinelle’s house were hung with air filter cloth. All of them. They’d checked.

Rusty air driers from across the border with illegible labels hummed and clattered for the most long-term-grating sound carpet you could achieve on short notice. Once in a while, one would sputter and die and turn itself back on. Once in a while, one from another room would do the same, and you’d hear it.

All the water ran through filters.

The humidifiers were, of course, emptied out.

“Have fun,” Yurtoril had whispered to him before they’d returned to the salon.

Reinelle herself sat rigidly in her armoire, her grey hair done up with obvious effort, but there were stray hairs escaping, her face was pale and lined, and she was clearly trying to keep it together.

Well. His turn. “You’re aware of how this looks, aren’t you?”

“I’m aware you’re not here to show me any sympathy. But let it be known you’re in the wrong.”

How did this proceed? Yurtoril cast him a glance. His turn still? Alright. “Like you’ve let the whole Department of Development know? Why don’t you share that with us, too? What’s your insight?” Sneer at ‘insight’. The distanced role was so much less taxing.

“You know why my husband is dead.”

This was where the sympathy came in normally. “Some guy went crazy and killed him. Yeah. And now you’re trying to turn yourself into the same kind of crazy. Why? You’re gonna kill somebody, too?”

She clenched her teeth, and her fingers twitched, probably in annoyance.

Yurtoril stepped closer and laid his left hand on Gevuyn’s arm. His turn now, alright. “Madam, I’m sorry your husband is dead. You can be assured none of us wanted that to happen. He was an important member of the government, and an ally to the order.”

Smooth, maybe a bit focused on the professional. Though who knew, maybe with the dignified widow type that wasn’t so bad.

She balled her small hands into fists, then slowly extended her fingers again and laid them on the arm rests. “I appreciate it.” Her voice was small and forced.

“We have to know – We wish you no harm. But we have to know…” He’d stumbled across that one. Out of his element, clearly. This was rare entertainment.

“You can ask,” the director’s widow said. “I will decide if I answer.”

Yurtoril nodded. “Of course. So – You mentioned something about the rain, to the other members of the department, didn’t you? Perhaps out of anger, out of the moment. Out of grief.” He was copying him! With the generous ‘guesses’ that left the other a way out.

“So what if I did?” Defiant. Gevuyn was itching to jump in again. But Yurtoril was still trying his own role.

“We need to deal with this somehow; surely you understand”, his partner said, the way you’d talk to an unruly dog or a 2-year-old. This was too good.

Reinelle folded her hands. “And surely you understand that my husband is dead, and it’s the fault of your rain.”

Enough now. She was too right, but that didn’t matter here. “Understand?” Gevuyn’s thin grin came easily. “There’s nothing to understand about your nonsense. What killed him was an absence of the rain, for a guy who went crazy.” He shifted his stance. “The associate’s taken on sense again. Maybe it’s time for you, too.”

Her composure was flickering. This was easy!

“Indeed… I must correct myself. You don’t understand a thing. How could you?”

Understand, don’t understand… whose keyword was this? He looked over to Yurtoril.

His partner returned the look, then sat down in a chair and leaned forward towards the widow. “I may understand… and not.”

Reinelle raised her carefully plucked eyebrows.

“Not from experience,” Yurtoril conceded.

Her jaw moved, and she was dragged into it. “You’re married?”

He faltered.

Come on, don’t falter now. Bullshit something.

“No. Not yet.”

Good enough.

Reinelle nodded, with expectation in her posture.

“But…” Yurtoril tucked a stray hair strand behind his ear. Good, that looked sincere. “You must think we don’t understand because we don’t get affected by the rain. That’s no secret, and certainly not to someone in your position.”

She gave a non-committal nod, but she was leaning forward and hanging onto his words now.

“Well.” Yurtoril tapped his lips as if in thought, then rested his hand on his thigh. “There are losses where… if they happened, I’d wish I could drink a whole humidifier of the stuff. Or be like those wretches in the city underside. Anything to stop it. But I can’t anymore.” He leaned back. “So in that way, I don’t understand. You have the chance.”

Damn.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

Or … too real. Or at least a lot more real than this normally got.

Or was it? What was this?

Gevuyn noticed his pulse racing, apparently just in case, and he kept his position very still, so as not to spoil whatever this moment was.

The widow was sitting still, too.

Her brow furrowed slightly.

She sat up straight. “Your girlfriend is a lucky woman.” She reached into the pocket of her dress. “My husband should be as lucky. You’ll understand that much.” She pulled out a tiny handgun, held it to her temple and pulled the trigger.

 

They remained still for a moment, then Yurtoril broke the silence. “Well.”

“That…”

“That could have gone better. On the other hand…”

“She’s not going to talk anymore, is she?”

Yurtoril got up. “Not likely.”

Gevuyn walked over to the widow and examined her. Dead. “No. Not likely.”

“Before evening, too. What do you say, do we leave it like this? It’s a clear suicide. Plausible enough.”

And she’d had the right idea, too, about everything. Pity. But couldn’t be helped. She’d come in too early for them. “Yeah. Sooner we get this over with. Report, then dinner?”

“Let’s.”

 

De-briefing

It was night time, and Yurtoril had a headache. He usually did after these outings.

Peace and quiet would fix it.

It would, but it seemed today his partner was more displeased than usual with their work. That look he’d given him when the last light in their target’s eyes had faded in the rain and been replaced by contentment. It was getting critical.

Yurtoril would have to fix that.

It would take contemplation. He didn’t want contemplation. He wanted to end the day and all thought and this damned headache.

He turned off the light in his room and lay down askew on the crisp blanket.

He frowned and adjusted his position to be parallel with the bed.

Better.

But not much.

He didn’t always want to be the human element, Gevuyn had said. And that Yurtoril didn’t understand the toll it took on him.

He sighed. Then quieted himself. Couldn’t have that heard across the wall.

Gevuyn thought Yurtoril was making it easy on himself with his distance.

Obviously, he didn’t understand a thing.

Unwelcome consideration: Then why did he keep giving him that part of the job? The understanding part.

Yurtoril pressed his fingertips against his forehead, slowly rubbed up and down, and across, to no avail. This one wanted to stay. Damned headaches.

So perhaps he’d have to shift the balance somewhat. The biggest pain would be admitting to his mistake. He didn’t make mistakes.

Wrong. He hated making mistakes. Yes. Better. Less welcome, more accurate.

So.

“Sarvino!” a shrill woman’s voice rang from the living room, startling him out of his thoughts. “You can’t! Our baby!”

What the hell was this now?

“Our baby?” a man’s voice yelled. “Our baby? You mean Aranno’s baby! Don’t you, Lurria? Ah, to think I loved you!”

Yurtoril laid one hand across his face, then another, inhaled, then let them both drift down to his chest.

Fine. There wasn’t going to be sleep now anyway.

He felt woefully underprepared.

Might be an idea. Might be some of that human element that his partner claimed to see an imbalance in.

Going out now was a dreadful idea.

He got up, put on a fresh pair of socks, and his slippers, and went out into the living room.

 

Gevuyn was sprawled on the couch watching television with a half-empty bottle of red wine on the stack of books next to him, and a half-filled glass cradled against his chest.

He looked up to him. Yurtoril’s chest clenched. The venom was still there.

He grit his teeth. “Did…” Wrong beginning. And too quiet.

Gevuyn reached for the remote control and silenced the television. Expectant look.

Fine, deliver. But what? “Is it Aranno’s baby?”

His partner was taken aback. Then a probing look. Not the kind he normally got. More like the kind the targets got. The one before he turned on the fake warmth. Was that what they felt like? Couldn’t be. Couldn’t be, because…

“Sit with me.” Gevuyn’s voice was slurred as he sat up, careful not to spill his wine. “Bring a glass. And I’ll explain you all about Lurria.”

This was still a bad time to smile. Nothing was sorted, nothing was fixed. It would be counter-productive. But his lips betrayed him. He walked over to the cabinet and got out a glass. He looked at the couch and faltered.

Gevuyn scooted to the left corner and patted the space to his right. “Sit.”

So he sat. The cabinet’s door was still open.

“So.” Gevuyn filled his glass, more than was usual, and added more to his own glass for good measure. The bottle made it safely back to the book stack.

Yurtoril raised his glass, then cursed himself inwardly. He wouldn’t want that yet, and getting blown off would be…

Gevuyn gave him another one of his probing looks, then clanked his glass against his. “To Lurria.”

He failed at getting rid of the smile, again. “Lurria seems like an unfaithful kind. Maybe someone else. Is anyone there better at this?”

“No. Well, you’d think Sarvino would, for all he’s yelling, but… oh.” Gevuyn grabbed the remote control and turned the volume up again, filling the room with crying voices. “He actually had a thing with Natrija when Lurria had her brain tumour. Aranno was there, but then he caved to the family obligations. And Ninna had the fortune from the tax fraud. So…” The look turned probing again, but this time like the ones Yurtoril normally got. “You don’t normally smile that long.”

Did he? He felt caught. “I… I wanted… You said, I…” Damn this all.

It did get him a smile in return, at last. Not a target smile, either. A real one. For all he knew.

He swallowed. “To the baby. May it grow up to be a better person.”

Gevuyn clanked their glasses together again. “If it survives.”

They drank in silence while a new couple provided the backdrop argument.

“Can I ask what this is?” Yurtoril asked at last.

“This…” Gevuyn looked almost embarrassed. But he caught himself and brushed his hair off his shoulder. “This is our reward.”

He knew he looked confused, and there was no helping it.

Gevuyn poured them both more wine, and they drank in silence again.

“This is approved television,” the explanation went on at last. “This, and the rain, killer combination. Not like the serious stuff we get at the order, with all the actual information and background. Well, that’s a cliché. Our stuff is just as filtered for what they want us to see. But this.” He pointed at the screen with his barely filled glass. “This without the rain. We can do this. They can’t.”

Yurtoril frowned, trying to grasp it. He looked down on his wine glass and downed the rest, then held it out to his partner. Then halted when he realised what he was doing.

Gevuyn looked at him, and reached for the bottle. “It’s funny,” he explained as if to a child.

Yurtoril snorted, looked at the screen, at the glass, briefly at his partner, at the screen.

His glass was being filled.

The other, too.

The empty bottle went down on the floor, and another full one surfaced and took the place on the book stack.

“So you like the faithful kind, huh?”

“What?”

“Lurria.”

Yurtoril blinked. “Oh. That. I…” There was no uncompromising answer here. “I suppose.”

“Don’t worry.”

He blinked again.

Gevuyn looked down on his glass, looking almost vulnerable for a moment, then clanked it against Yurtoril’s, spilling some wine onto their hands. “Sorry. Anyway. You want to be good? Then we’re good.”

Yurtoril tried to still the clenching in his chest, or in his jaw, or just his hand. It had wine on it. “I. Yes. I… may have…”

“We’re good.” Gevuyn drank from his glass, and Yurtoril watched him before following suit. There was still wine on his hand. He should get rid of it, but it would break the spell.

Gevuyn sat closer to him.

Yurtoril swallowed. “I… suppose… I could try to be that more. The… human.”

His partner was shaken with a raspy laugh, then gave him a side glance into his eyes. “So I see.”