Post by Seek on Jul 13, 2013 19:24:41 GMT 10
Title: Lost
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Lost, (#54)
Character/Couple/Theme: Mattes
Series: White Shores Calling
Summary: Mattes was lost the moment he said yes.
Notes: This is sort of a Mastiff AU. Therefore, spoilers for Mastiff. Kind of.
-
He’s never gotten used to the nobles in Tortall. The way all everyone ever seems to think about is wealth and birth and status. It’s not like they don’t have their share of poverty and greed-killings in the hills; there’s just no question that the daughter of a headman can marry whomever she chooses, even if he’s the blacksmith’s son.
In the same way, they’ve had their share of cobblers-turned-headmen.
In Tortall, blood is everything.
Lord Gershom, though, is different from your average Tortallan noble, Mattes thinks. He always dresses in worn clothing, and the only thing that gives away his station is the fact he doesn’t speak like them as is common-born, and the golden signet ring set with a ruby that he wears on his finger.
The other man has a face that instantly sends all sorts of alarm-bells ringing in Mattes’ head. Dogs hate these kind of men, flag them instantly as dangerous because their features are so forgettable that it’s men like these who get away with the worst of deeds. Callused hands, and pale white knife-scars trace their way along his skin. Knife-fighter then, Mattes thinks. Only knife-fighters get so many scars. Getting cut up is more or less inevitable in a knife-fight.
“My lord,” says the Other Man. “He’s too old.”
“Exactly,” Lord Gershom says, coolly. “You asked for someone they would approach. An old Dog on his last legs, with a secret. He’s the perfect candidate.”
“My lord?” Mattes asks, as politely as he can. He doesn’t quite like it so much, when they’re talking about him as if he’s a horse for sale at the summer fair.
The Other Man glances at him; hazel-green eyes hard like stone. The eyes of a killer, Mattes thinks. He meets them with the careless, likeable Dog grin he’s practised while charming so many citizens of the Lower City. The Other Man snorts and looks away. “He’s a fool,” he mutters. “I must protest—”
“You have asked me for a Dog,” Lord Gershom says, “And you will respect my decision.”
They don’t like each other much, Mattes reflects. Which means—there’s only one thing he can think of—
“Senior Guardsman Tunstall,” the Other Man says. “What you will hear here, you are sworn never to speak of to anybody else in the kingdom. Not your partner, your flower-seller, your gixie, or anyone you could possibly think of telling.”
Mattes drawls, “Who, me? I keep secrets to the grave. Just ask my lord Gershom.”
Lord Gershom makes a sound that could just possibly be a muffled chuckle.
“Swear it,” says the Ferret, because there’s only one thing he could possible be.
“I swear by the eyes of the Wise Ones,” Mattes says, because that’s the most solemn oath a hillman can give. The Ferret’s eyes twitch.
“A Tortallan oath if you please, hillman. Swear by the Goddess and the Black God.”
“Not a blood oath?” Mattes asks, with mock surprise.
Another twitch, a flicker of suppressed irritation. It’s almost amusing, how easy it is to get underneath the Ferret’s skin. Too good for a hillman-turned-common-Dog, and all that. “We do not practise such things in Tortall,” the Ferret snaps. “If you please, Guardsman…?”
Mattes’ legs ache, even though the fire’s stoked against the winter cold. Stone walls, he thinks. Always drafty. His eyes flick over to Lord Gershom, who waits, expectantly. Devourer take his eyes, he’s already given his word to Lord Gershom.
“I swear by the Goddess,” he says, slowly and deliberately. “And by the Black God. I will keep this secret until death. Are you satisfied?”
The Ferret gives a curt nod. “Good enough,” he says grudgingly. And then he says, “We believe there is a conspiracy against the Crown. They will move soon. We do not know what they want.”
Mattes does snort, now. “Awfully vague, for a tip,” he drawls. “Isn’t it?”
The Ferret’s eyes narrow. “Watch your tongue, Guardsman. Good men died bringing us the information. We know there are mages involved. Powerful mages. We know they have turned Dogs. Dogs who are greedy have been tempted with offers of power and wealth, Dogs with secrets have been blackmailed.”
He’s the perfect candidate, Lord Gershom had said. And now here he was, with his legs in a bear-trap.
“I will not use my lady Sabine in this,” he says, warning.
The Ferret glances at Lord Gershom. Sedik! They did plan on it.
“When we ask you to kill, you kill,” the Ferret said, coldly. “When we ask you to lie, you lie. You understand this. Tortall stands over any of your scruples, anything you could possible value, Guardsman. You swore this when you took your oath as a member of the Provost’s Guard and once again when you walked into this room.”
“I swore to keep all of this secret, to my dying breath,” Mattes retorts. “I said nothing about binding myself to Ferret-work. I’m just a common Dog, after all. And an old Dog, who’d like to retire some day and have a house of his own, with little ones running around. And plenty of flowers.”
Lord Gershom’s lips twitched. The Ferret was less amused. “You won’t get that chance,” the man said, dryly. “The conspiracy goes deeper. It threatens civil war. Perhaps Copper Islander hands stir the pot. You won’t have your peaceful life in Tortall for very much longer, Guardsman.”
Mattes looks, for a very long moment, at Lord Gershom. He holds the man’s gaze for too long. He sighs, and straightens up, and gets to the point. Stops needling the Ferret.
“Very well,” he says. “What do you want from me?”
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Lost, (#54)
Character/Couple/Theme: Mattes
Series: White Shores Calling
Summary: Mattes was lost the moment he said yes.
Notes: This is sort of a Mastiff AU. Therefore, spoilers for Mastiff. Kind of.
-
He’s never gotten used to the nobles in Tortall. The way all everyone ever seems to think about is wealth and birth and status. It’s not like they don’t have their share of poverty and greed-killings in the hills; there’s just no question that the daughter of a headman can marry whomever she chooses, even if he’s the blacksmith’s son.
In the same way, they’ve had their share of cobblers-turned-headmen.
In Tortall, blood is everything.
Lord Gershom, though, is different from your average Tortallan noble, Mattes thinks. He always dresses in worn clothing, and the only thing that gives away his station is the fact he doesn’t speak like them as is common-born, and the golden signet ring set with a ruby that he wears on his finger.
The other man has a face that instantly sends all sorts of alarm-bells ringing in Mattes’ head. Dogs hate these kind of men, flag them instantly as dangerous because their features are so forgettable that it’s men like these who get away with the worst of deeds. Callused hands, and pale white knife-scars trace their way along his skin. Knife-fighter then, Mattes thinks. Only knife-fighters get so many scars. Getting cut up is more or less inevitable in a knife-fight.
“My lord,” says the Other Man. “He’s too old.”
“Exactly,” Lord Gershom says, coolly. “You asked for someone they would approach. An old Dog on his last legs, with a secret. He’s the perfect candidate.”
“My lord?” Mattes asks, as politely as he can. He doesn’t quite like it so much, when they’re talking about him as if he’s a horse for sale at the summer fair.
The Other Man glances at him; hazel-green eyes hard like stone. The eyes of a killer, Mattes thinks. He meets them with the careless, likeable Dog grin he’s practised while charming so many citizens of the Lower City. The Other Man snorts and looks away. “He’s a fool,” he mutters. “I must protest—”
“You have asked me for a Dog,” Lord Gershom says, “And you will respect my decision.”
They don’t like each other much, Mattes reflects. Which means—there’s only one thing he can think of—
“Senior Guardsman Tunstall,” the Other Man says. “What you will hear here, you are sworn never to speak of to anybody else in the kingdom. Not your partner, your flower-seller, your gixie, or anyone you could possibly think of telling.”
Mattes drawls, “Who, me? I keep secrets to the grave. Just ask my lord Gershom.”
Lord Gershom makes a sound that could just possibly be a muffled chuckle.
“Swear it,” says the Ferret, because there’s only one thing he could possible be.
“I swear by the eyes of the Wise Ones,” Mattes says, because that’s the most solemn oath a hillman can give. The Ferret’s eyes twitch.
“A Tortallan oath if you please, hillman. Swear by the Goddess and the Black God.”
“Not a blood oath?” Mattes asks, with mock surprise.
Another twitch, a flicker of suppressed irritation. It’s almost amusing, how easy it is to get underneath the Ferret’s skin. Too good for a hillman-turned-common-Dog, and all that. “We do not practise such things in Tortall,” the Ferret snaps. “If you please, Guardsman…?”
Mattes’ legs ache, even though the fire’s stoked against the winter cold. Stone walls, he thinks. Always drafty. His eyes flick over to Lord Gershom, who waits, expectantly. Devourer take his eyes, he’s already given his word to Lord Gershom.
“I swear by the Goddess,” he says, slowly and deliberately. “And by the Black God. I will keep this secret until death. Are you satisfied?”
The Ferret gives a curt nod. “Good enough,” he says grudgingly. And then he says, “We believe there is a conspiracy against the Crown. They will move soon. We do not know what they want.”
Mattes does snort, now. “Awfully vague, for a tip,” he drawls. “Isn’t it?”
The Ferret’s eyes narrow. “Watch your tongue, Guardsman. Good men died bringing us the information. We know there are mages involved. Powerful mages. We know they have turned Dogs. Dogs who are greedy have been tempted with offers of power and wealth, Dogs with secrets have been blackmailed.”
He’s the perfect candidate, Lord Gershom had said. And now here he was, with his legs in a bear-trap.
“I will not use my lady Sabine in this,” he says, warning.
The Ferret glances at Lord Gershom. Sedik! They did plan on it.
“When we ask you to kill, you kill,” the Ferret said, coldly. “When we ask you to lie, you lie. You understand this. Tortall stands over any of your scruples, anything you could possible value, Guardsman. You swore this when you took your oath as a member of the Provost’s Guard and once again when you walked into this room.”
“I swore to keep all of this secret, to my dying breath,” Mattes retorts. “I said nothing about binding myself to Ferret-work. I’m just a common Dog, after all. And an old Dog, who’d like to retire some day and have a house of his own, with little ones running around. And plenty of flowers.”
Lord Gershom’s lips twitched. The Ferret was less amused. “You won’t get that chance,” the man said, dryly. “The conspiracy goes deeper. It threatens civil war. Perhaps Copper Islander hands stir the pot. You won’t have your peaceful life in Tortall for very much longer, Guardsman.”
Mattes looks, for a very long moment, at Lord Gershom. He holds the man’s gaze for too long. He sighs, and straightens up, and gets to the point. Stops needling the Ferret.
“Very well,” he says. “What do you want from me?”
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!