Loiral and Marcus - Flight - 6.ii
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Aeliira falters at the threshold to the bank foyer. The dim light shows off the rich decor in a full spectrum of hues, from the dark, plush carpet to the faerie fire flickering across the carvings of the vaulted ceiling. Aeliira has probably never seen so much wealth in her life. Her hesitance brings Loiral a kind of bitter satisfaction, and he uses that feeling of contempt to bolster his fraying nerves. He needs all the confidence he can get to keep his chin high and make himself stride forwards without hesitating himself. He's keenly aware of the stained, sweat-soaked rags he's wearing, the dirt on his knees, the state of his hair. All eyes must be on him, but he resists the urge to look around.
Clinging to anger at the injustice of it all as a defence against shame, he marches straight up to the closest member of staff. Shoulders square, back straight, chin high. All deliberate attempts to project status and confidence. A sneer crawls across his face - and he fights not to let it become a desperate snarl. He can't fail here, he can't. It doesn't bear contemplating. "I wish to make a withdrawal from my bank vault," he announces in clipped, barely even tones. "Now, if you please." The attendant's eyes flick up and down, assessing Loiral's dishevelled state. "And who might you be?" she inquires. Her tone is perfectly polite, but the lack of honorific grates. "My name is Loiral Al'Sekath," he declares. It feels good, surprisingly good. "And I would like to access my account." She inclines her head, expression pleasant but unreadable. "If you would step this way."
Following on her heels, Loiral tries not to glance up at the overlooks where he knows concealed guards keep watch. It's impolite to acknowledge the security. A point of etiquette that's hard to keep as hulking, heavily-armoured guards fall in behind them. Aeliira's presence at his shoulder does nothing to ease Loiral's tension. He knows it's ridiculous to fear a literal knife in the back here and now. But she is uncomfortably close. And she could make this very difficult for him with a few well-placed words.
But as they are lead through gilded doors that click locked behind them, he begins to worry that betrayal shouldn't be his biggest fear. He's been back here a hundred times, but he's never been so acutely conscious of how completely the bank controls the situation. He could disappear here without a chance to defend himself, and no one would ever know.
When they are shown into a familiar consultation room, he deliberately flops into one of the plush chairs. Maybe affecting bored relaxation will help him settle his fraying nerves. "If you would wait here," the attendant smiles, "A consultant will be with you shortly." "I just want to make a withdrawal," Loiral repeats shortly. Though he knows she heard him the first time. "Of course." This should not be complicated. But his heart insists on fluttering against his ribs, and when the attendant lets herself out, he almost expects to hear another lock click.
Almost immediately, a slave is at Loiral's elbow, offering a tray of fluted glasses. Loiral takes one deliberately. A moment's hesitation is dismissed. Even if the glim were poisoned - which would make little sense under the circumstances - refusing to drink wouldn't get him out of trouble. So he knocks it back. Aeliira takes a glass too, and perches herself nervously on the edge of another chair.
Loiral puts his empty glass down with a little more force than necessary. "Don't just stand there," he snaps at the slave. "Find me some clothes, by the hells." She bows deeply, and scurries away. It's unlikely that she'll succeed, and for a moment he wonders how she'll take the unreasonable instruction. But it's not as if she's actually obliged to follow his orders. And maybe she'll pass the instruction on to someone with the power to do something.
He's distracted by watching Aeliira realise that she now has nowhere to put her glass. He takes a small, petty satisfaction in it. The more off-balance she looks, the more readily he can convince himself that he belongs here. This is his world. Nothing has changed, just because he did a brief stint in chains.
The broker, when she arrives, is no stranger to Loiral. Her name is Phyraias, and he has never seen her less than perfectly composed. "Lord Al'Sekath," she greets him as she sweeps into the room. Her dress is close-fitted and immaculate, and her long hair piled atop her head in an elaborate do. Loiral has never managed to discern whether she is genuinely nobility, or if she's simply wealthy and powerful enough to wear the fashions of nobility without fear. "Good gracious, what has happened to you." Loiral feels naked in front of her, every humiliation laid bare. She pauses just long enough that he begins to fear that an answer is expected, but presses on before he can string the words together. "What can I do for you today?"
"I want to make a withdrawal." Why is she making him repeat himself? The attendant must have passed on his words. "Of course, of course. And your ally here, you trust her?" Loiral glances back at Aeliira. Tension accentuates the lines of her neck. Her fingers are tight on the stem of the glass. A smirk quirks Loiral's lips. "Only barely," he answers honestly. "Would you prefer she leave the room?" "I'll speak quietly." He stands and steps closer to Phyraias. She leans in obligingly, turning one ear. The smell of her doubtless expensive perfume fills Loiral's nose as he leans close and breathes the words of his pass-phrase. Phyraias smiles at him as he steps back to a more comfortable distance.
"Very good," she agrees. "In the interest of security, however, I must ask. Do you have any proof of identity?" Loiral is stunned. "Is this a joke?" he snaps irritably. "You know who I am." "I should hate to let a potential impostor have access to a client's vault." Her expression is serious, but her eyes are alight with something vicious. "A runaway slave, perhaps, or other such lowlife. You understand me, I trust." "You have my damned passphrase." Panic is rising fast. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why did he refuse to plan for this possibility? "Isn't that enough?" "Normally it would be," Phyraias smiles, showing many perfect, pearly teeth. "But unusual circumstances call for unusual measures, do they not?" "How dare you!" Loiral snaps, taking a step forwards. He's had enough of people yanking his chain, he needs this to work.
But something in her demeanour stops him. She doesn't lift a finger. Maybe her predatory smile grows a fraction wider. Maybe her eyes flicker for a moment to something behind Loiral. Or maybe it's all in his head. But he is suddenly, chillingly conscious of how deeply within her domain he is. He steps back, heart thudding, anger sputtering out faster than he can rekindle it. Cold fear lurks behind it. "I apologise," he says into the chilly silence. "That was impolite of me." Her smile has not moved.
As Loiral hesitates, thoughts scrambled, Aeliira gets to her feet. "On what grounds are these circumstances unusual?" She sounds confident. Damn, Loiral thinks. She's come up with a plan while he's still reeling. She's going to snatch this out from under his feet. He should have disposed of her sooner. "You presume much about my lord's business," Aeliira continues. "And is your security really so lax that you think an impostor could fool you so easily? Do you not employ wizards? My lord is both tired and in a hurry, and has no time for your obstructive demands." Phyraias' smile is unwavering. Loiral fights not to gawk. "Of course, of course. Nevertheless, some proof of identity would put my mind at ease." "Do you really think we would have come here," Aeliira counters, "If we had time to spare?" "Stop playing games," Loiral agrees, finding his voice. "And give me my money." "Of course. How much would you like to withdraw?" No more objections? Can it be that easy? Alright. "All of it."
He was hoping for the satisfaction of seeing Phyraias surprised, but there isn't so much as a blink. "Give me five thousand as promissory notes," he continues, "Split as three thousands and four half thousands, three thousand in mixed bars, and the rest in coins." He resists an impulse to glance at Aeliira. "That is quite an unusual request," Phyraias notes. Anger bubbles to the surface again, but Loiral reminds himself to be polite. "I'm well aware. Don't make my life difficult." "Such a large transaction cannot be processed instantaneously, you realise." "So long as it's as quick as possible," he allows, "I'll wait." "Very good. I do hope you will be comfortable here – shall I send for more glim?" "Please do. Oh, and get me some clothes, would you?" It's an effort to mask his impatience as annoyance rather than desperation. "I've spent quite enough time in these rags." "Lord Al'Sekath, I'm afraid this is a bank, not a tailor's shop." "Find something," Aeliira instructs. "If we must waste our time waiting, you can at least spare us the necessity of making a detour." "Clothing is not free," Phyraias notes. "Yes, yes," Loiral agrees, "I'll pay a fair price. Just be quick about it." "I will see what can be done."
As the broker takes her leave, Aeliira shoots a delighted, incredulous grin at Loiral. For a moment, he can't help but smile back, amused by her glee. Before he remembers that she is not his friend.
Aeliira's face falls as his expression hardens. Disappointment morphs into angry suspicion. Loiral offers her a cold smile. "Don't sulk," he mocks. "You had your chance." "I'm still getting my cut," she insists. Loiral's silence is answer enough. "Don't you dare ditch me now -" she starts, getting to her feet. But Loiral cuts her off with a snarl. "Don't raise your voice to me, commoner. You had your chance, and you failed. You should be happy with whatever scraps I deign to give you!" "Ignorant boy," she snaps back, surprising him with her vehemence. "I just dragged your ass out of the fire for the second time there! You need me, or -" "I do not! I would have been just fine without -" "You were about to let that bitch bully you into a very awkward position!" Despite his anger, the casual reference to Phyraias as 'that bitch' startles a laugh out of Loiral. Aeliira looks just as surprised to hear it as he is.
There's a moment of silence.
"I'd be an idiot to let you follow me," Loiral tells her bitterly. "You'd slit my throat at the first opportunity - all you want is my money." "No, you cretin." He expects a counter-argument, but she just stares at him. "What, then?" he prompts, suspicious. She takes a breath. "You know what anyone else is going to say, if we admit to being scared of a human?" "They'd mock us. But I don't intend -" "Shut up and listen, will you?" Loiral glares, but he lets her talk. "If we - if either of us admit what we're running from, we will be laughed at. And if he catches up with us, do you think anyone else will take the threat seriously enough? Who else would understand how important it is not to be taken alive?" Loiral can feel the fear rising at the very thought. His pulse is loud in his ears, and his chest is full of cold weight. Aeliira's voice is soft as she implores, "Wouldn't you prefer to have an ally who understands? I know I would."
Something in Loiral wants to agree. Because she's good at this, isn't she - convincing people of things. But it's a false promise. How could he and she be allies, after what's already passed between them? He laughs - a bitter, brittle sound. "You would trust me?" he asks her. "Don't you think I should rather kill you than look at you?" She pauses. Then, "Go on, then." "What, you want me to throttle you?" But his objection falls flat as she pulls a knife from the folds of her tunic and offers it to him hilt first. It's a narrow blade, undecorated but pleasingly elegant. In Loiral's opinion it's barely long enough to be practical for fighting, and so narrow that he'd fear it snapping. He wonders if she's ever used it, or if its only purpose is looking good. "Don't be ridiculous," he tells her sourly. "As if I'm paying for getting blood on their floors." "Cleaning a carpet is hardly expensive," she points out. "Come on, take it."
So despite a certain reluctance, Loiral takes her knife. The balance in his hand is a little far forwards, despite the narrow blade. Aeliira takes his wrist gently. Her fingers are hot on his skin. She tugs him forwards gently. Her free hand taps against her throat. "Right here," she says. "Come on." When she lets go, she leaves him pressing the edge of the blade against the smooth skin. It's not sharp enough, Loiral reflects. It should be grazing the skin, not indenting it. Someone should teach her how to use a whetstone. He's aware of her chest rising and falling with fast, deep huffs of breath. Her lips are slightly parted, her eyes a touch too wide, intense, staring into his. "Do it," she urges softly. "If you really want to kill me, do it. I can't stop you." Loiral's gut twists with nameless emotions. He ought to feel in control. And there is a thrill to it. But when the sword was at his throat, he flinched and cowered and begged for his life. What in the Nine Hells is she playing at? Who does that? He has all the cards, but he still feels like she's playing him. He should kill her, to head off whatever scheme she's weaving. Carpet cleaning is cheap. Cheaper than feeding a travelling companion.
He can't look away from her eyes.
Maybe he shouldn't kill her. But lowering the knife would be admitting defeat. Wouldn't it? He's suffered too many defeats and humiliations, he can't face bending the knee again. But this is his choice, isn't it? He searches the depths of her eyes, hoping for answers, but finds nothing. His breath is almost as fast as hers. He hates this trickery, hates not knowing what to do. He should just kill her and make it simple. It hurts inside his chest. A tight ache, as if his organs had somehow tied themselves in knots inside his ribcage.
When he lowers the knife, he doesn't know why. Aeliira swallows visibly and takes a deep breath. She smiles, and for a moment he's tempted to stab her after all, just to spite her expectations. But he doesn't. He looks down at the knife, turning it over in his hand. He could keep it, to stop her putting it in his back later. But that seems like an insecure thing to do. And besides, she probably has another one somewhere. He flips it, lamenting the poor balance again, and offers her the hilt.
"Thank you." Her smile is hesitant. Loiral gives a little huff of irritation. "Let's try it?" She's almost pleading, for all that she kept her cool while the blade was out. "What do you have to lose? I'm not exactly a threat. Let's try and make it together?" "Fine," he sighs. He expects her to return to the question of the money. But all she says is "Okay."