faderift | closed.

"Would you be willing?" is the product of quick calculation of who they have to hand. The Commander cannot go. Marcus certainly can't, and Julius is in no condition either. Tsenka is not a diplomat. Edgard is out of the question.

And Bastien knows something more than he is saying, so perhaps better that he returns to Kirkwall with them to share it with the Scoutmaster if he hasn't already.

That leaves the pair of them, and Derrica is certain that between them, Tiffany will have the better luck at delicately prying information loose from the Chantry apparatus that waits in Val Chevin.

She gives Derrica a small smile.

"I suppose that's what I'm here for. After all, what good is a Seeker if not for seeking out the truth? And I'm unlikely to get any trouble from the Templars. None I can't handle, at least."

During the brief scuffle, some of Tiffany's hair had fallen loose from its plait, drooped onto her shoulder. She pushes it back behind her ear--which, as always, makes her feel particularly childish. Not a good feeling, when you're preparing to commit to traveling alongside people who were particularly unfriendly not thirty minutes ago, when you ought to be staunch and firm and unassailable. But you can't always travel alongside friends.

She looks more closely at Derrica and weighs, again, what she might say next--then decides to go for it.

"You would trust me to go, as a representative?"

You. Riftwatch, as a whole, is an opinion she really ought to care most about. And does, really. But there's this as well.

It's on the tip of her tongue: No.

There is a very real worry about what decisions Theophania might make, what she might do on her own without a cluster of Riftwatch agents around her.

But at the same time, Derrica realizes the importance of that symbol on Theophania's armor. She is a Seeker. That carries more weight than anything else Riftwatch could put forth. It would be foolish, to let her misgivings prevent them from pursuing this matter to the fullest extent of their ability.

"I need to know what this is," is not a direct answer, but it's part of one. An explanation. "And I think you want to know too, and that you have the best chance out of all of us of getting Mother Madeline to show us the letters she received. So yes. I'm going to trust you with this."

Because really, what sort of reception would a mage from Dairsmuid get from a Chantry Mother?

"I hope I'm not making the wrong decision."

On the approach again, Bastien raises his eyebrows. He also hopes Derrica is not making the wrong decision, but he doesn't know what the decision may be. He looks between them, pauses a moment as if he might be able to tell from their faces, and then volunteers to go first:

"We might know who. We might—Fitcher. She could fit. Those are her initials, the other pieces are... Maybe."

He would not be hedging so much if he didn't like her so much. But he isn't covering for her, either.

"But if it is her, we need to know why, who she is working for, who we might be in trouble with if we put her in a cell. If she has lied to them, too, if she has gotten one of their men killed for a lie. That might make a difference."

Tiffany takes that information in and--considering it, weighing it--nods. There is a lot to be weighed here, whole histories between people, even longer histories that came before, so many secrets, told and not told. Maybe those which are still being forged somewhere.

"The division heads should know before too many others, even if it is only a suspicion for now."

Every choice is one of trust, now especially. Tiffany stops herself from looking over at Rowantree and Abendroth and Julius, stops herself from wondering if this should have been told to them here, and now, with so many pieces on the board or hidden offsides. It isn't her place to ask those sorts of questions.

"I'll tell Arlyn I mean to travel with him and make ready for that departure. The sooner we're away, the sooner we will know more, and stop this before it gets much worse. I am with Riftwatch, but my other affiliations should help to assure some level of cooperation. And I hope you have correctly read me--" This part is to Derrica, a point drawn. "I want to know what this is. I will find out."

"Yes, the Division Heads need to know. Even if it isn't her, they should be aware that there's someone."

Easy agreement. Something has gone wrong. And perhaps it stretches farther than just Marcus. What else could have been arranged? They cannot see everything.

Derrica is thinking of Brother Gideon. Of the damage that could be done from within their own ranks.

"Will you be safe traveling alone?"

More or less alone. In the company of templars, who may or may not be trusted.

"Honestly? If I had a choice, I would take another of us with me. But we've counted ourselves and discovered that our options are limited. And--"

Tiffany gives a tiny little smile. Gestures at herself, demure.

"I do have a few tricks I can use if things get hairy. Besides which, if they manage to kill a Seeker, they'll have a lot more than Riftwatch to answer to. Hopefully this isn't me being overconfident."

She glances over at Bastien. "Is there anything else we should ask Arlyn?"

Bastien gives a sweeping-hand shrugged that means yes, everything, beginning with confirmation that this ambiguously-referenced SF wrote the letters rather than being tangentially involved in some other way, but—

"If you are going to look at the letters anyway, I'm not sure it worth trying to wiggle more facts out of him. Maybe he will be more chatty on the road, when he can be more certain having information is not the only thing keeping him alive."

If he were to behave the way he feels, he would sulkily kick the little rock near his boots. Instead he steps on top of it and rolls it in a circle with his foot.

"The Scoutmaster knows we have a spy. And the Ambassador," because of course Bastien told Byerly. "Rowntree has been concerned for some time."

This had to be about Marcus himself, Tsenka said—and it seems likely. A rebel mage with a worrisome history, and one of the people most doggedly sniffing after her trail. Twofer. He thinks of the blood mage he encountered with Fitcher, years ago. She stabbed him with a candelabrum. He stops his rock-rolling.

"We should have invited you, Seeker. But this seemed to be a Chantry spy, you are a Chantry affiliate—you know how it goes."

Understandable, says Tiffany's first nod. But, still, unimpressed, says her second, slower nod. It's only through her training that she refrains from giving the little sigh that is in her chest. Of course if there was a suspected spy, being cautious about who was brought in to that knowledge makes sense--and inviting the Chantry-affiliated newcomer in to the inner circle makes no sense--but, even so.

"I hate dishonesty." Which is maybe putting it a bit too plainly, and causing her composure to suffer--but, even so. "And subterfuge, and spies, and the lot of it. I always have. Probably that accounts for a third of why I became a Seeker of Truth in the first place--I like things fair, and open, and honest. Oh, well. I'm glad to know it now. I don't know how much my knowing before would have done, really. It's far too late to even bother guessing." She tucks her hair behind her ear again, that same girlish gesture. Better to get it out now before she's on the road with Templars and Searah Arlyn, trying to pleasantly and subtly ferret more truths from him.

"Though for the record, if there is a Chantry spy, they didn't run it by my order first, which I suppose they wouldn't do. You may share that with anyone. It's the truth, as far as I'm aware."

Right. Enough of this. She draws herself up, and takes a breath.

"I'll go and tell Serah Arlyn the good news."

closed.

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