The answer seems to come easily to him—such a far cry from the flickering, guarded looks that question might often be expected to elicit from a considerable portion of the Gallows' resident that Laurentius doesn't so much as shrug or turn his hand in what is evidently a somewhat habitual method for filling space.
"Do you intend to return Tevinter once Corypheus is no longer a threat?"
It is a little bit disjointed, this question. She has not asked what brought him here in the first place, only drawn the assumption that it was motivated by the war. Perhaps by curiosity.
Perhaps he is as dangerous to them as Brother Gideon had been. She wonders a little at that too, though she cannot imagine Yseult had been anything other than thorough in her examination of this man and his wife before turning them loose in the Gallows.
Does the question surprise him? The heavy line of his brow certainly rises by some incrementally degree, and his head tips slightly sideways as if he suspects if he views the matter from another angle that it will become more complicated.
"Obviously there are some considerations for the Venatori and to what extent they can function without their head, and the state of the Magisterium. But yes, of course. Tevinter is my home."
"More or less. No one would openly accuse the Archon of being the instrument of fanatics, of course. Particularly not when the war is going so well for us on paper." No offense, says the look he gives her; it's hard to look at the conflict on a map and not conclude that the Tevinter Imperium is running roughshod over the south.
"But the effect of the Venatori inside Tevinter is hard to deny. Their influence made my work unpopular enough that the safety of my family had become a concern. If things continue in that direction, I worry about the Chantry becoming little more than an instrument of the Magisterium similar to how the one here is compelled by the South's various heads of state. To say nothing of what will happen should the war turn and Divine Beatrix's Exalted March actually come North."
A pause. He drums his fingers on the heavy book in his lap. Then—
"We have three children, and want to protect them from this."
This—the war, Corypheus, what may happen should Minrathous crumble, the influence of the South and its poisonous conception of what a mage is good for. The list seems to get longer every day.
"As safe as they can be. They're still in Tevinter—staying with an aunt who lives in the country. There's enough plausible deniability with respect to where we've disappeared to that they and their reputations should be reasonably well protected. So long as no one finds out that Lalla and I are here, then theoretically there should be no reason to trouble them."
It has the tenor of something he's practiced. He's familiar with that pinch of worry there in Derrica's face in the sense that he has seen it (and more) echoed in his wife's expression. He's seen it in his own either when it's very early and he's forgotten to smooth it away, or when it's very late and he's grown too tired too. They're fine, he tells himself. Lalla's sister is a perfectly capable guardian, and there is no reason at all for the Venatori to go looking for three children when the primary concern of their heretic father has already fallen off the map.
They're just children. They're perfectly safe now that they've been removed from his company.
This is not the direction Derrica had meant to steer their conversation. But they are here now. She is observing his expression. Thinking of how this must weigh on him.
And still, he presents himself in this office with a list of names they might prevail upon. In a fight that is not necessarily his own.
"Would you rather keep your name off any correspondence we send? Avoid traveling to the chantries and meeting with people there?"
If he is to lay low, how would he like to approach it?
Yes, maybe it does weigh a little. Certainly something has motivated him to go flipping idly back through the pages of the book in his lap, seeking nothing by the whisking murmur of the paper.
"It might be best if I were to serve more of a consulting role than otherwise, yes. Not just for them," he adds, looking at her. "You probably don't want to be accused of supporting an Imperial conversion effort. Though, by all means. I'd be happy to help with that too if that's more your preference."
A tug at the corner of his mouth. He's extremely funny, thank you.
The fact that Byerly Rutyer, who seems very certain of how the world here in this little fortress ought to work, might be benefitted by being alarmed now and again goes unremarked on account if the fact that yes, Laurentius is still pleased with his joke, and also on account if the fact that this next question does clearly surprise him.
His eyebrows climb by a few significant degrees. He stops the idle flipping of pages.
"I don't know anything about how mages live in the South."
"I don't need someone who is familiar with the way things have been done in the south."
Dairsmuid was not Tevinter. Rivain is unique, with attitudes and traditions that range far and away from what is commonplace in Tevinter. Derrica knows that. The two countries take vastly different approaches to anything. But between them, there is some common ground.
"We cannot arrive at the conclave empty-handed. And you weren't wrong before. There are questions that will need to be answered, even if we are able to convince the fraternities to back a proposal more in line with what the southern mages were seeking when they rebelled."
Maybe between them, two northern mages, they might come up with something worth proposing.
It doesn't sound like the only thing he's going to say. There's something in the absent shifting of his fingers, or faintly unfocused straying point of his attention which suggests Laurentius is considering some further object. Flipping back to where the pencil is lodged in the book's gutter, he slowly pages after his blank sheet of note paper.
"How well do you know—" Maker, what was his name? Laurentius closes his hand into a fist and mimes a short jab. "He got popped in the face."
(For the record, that's more or less when Laurentius and Lalla had decided they were done for the evening.)
"Enchanter Averesch," Derrica supplies. It is still faintly miraculous that there had only been one altercation. Following after, marginally fonder, "Kostos."
Though this hadn't been who she was expecting Laurentius to ask after, if anyone at all.
"I gather there are nearly as many Loyalists in Riftwatch as there are members of the southern Chantry. Barring no better option," he says, making a brief note on that scrap of a page. Kostos Averesch. "He might be a good person to practice whatever we might suggest on."
She might not need someone for the south for her ideas, but she's going to have to figure out a way of convincing them.
This comes easily to him too. It's an inherently simply exchange. Once upon a time, before he made himself unpopular with bespoke heresies, Laurentius Vesperus could be relied on to at least pretend at being well mannered.
"Anyway, I'm not being entirely altruistic. A few Chantry contacts closer to hand might do my own work some good."
With a small thump, he closes the heavy volume on his lap and bends to collect the collection of scrolls from where they've been piled near his heel.
It's a good thing for the preservation of both their afternoons that Derrica stands. At 'I'd like to hear about it', Laurentius glances briskly up and forgets for a moment to stuff the scroll in his hand back under his arm. But no, he has a list of things he means to accomplish before the day is through. Sitting here in this little office explaining the minutiae of translation work is likely to be something of an imposition on actually accomplishing said labor.
He gathers the rest of his things.
"My time is largely my own. I've joined diplomacy"—Is that an outrageous statement, given the blasé way he'd barreled into her office?—"But one hour is as good for answering correspondence as the next, so whenever you prefer to meet should suit me. Regular or not."
He's scraped himself to his feet at some point in all that, and now absently adjusts the arrangement of his things under his arm.
"In the mean time, I'll see if I can't confirm where a few of those scholars are currently based."
"Please do," comes as Derrica rounds the corner of her desk, drifting back to where he had found her. "Let's say any morning you like, once a week. For now."
They have something to actively dissect together. That warrants gathering more regularly, in Derrica's opinion.
And even if there wasn't something to be worked on, it strikes Derrica as productive to grow more familiar with someone who had volunteered himself to work alongside her.
"Thank you, again," is as good as a dismissal, for all its warmth.
And that seems to be that. With a curt nod, Laurentius takes his heavy book and his scrolls and his general impression—intentional or otherwise—of intense, glowering melancholy from the office. There's work to be done. The length of his stride as he goes suggests that he intends to get to some of it directly.
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It is her instinct to take these to someone with more skill at managing people. But she will have to choose carefully.
They will have to choose carefully, she corrects, silently.
"Can I ask you something personal?"
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The answer seems to come easily to him—such a far cry from the flickering, guarded looks that question might often be expected to elicit from a considerable portion of the Gallows' resident that Laurentius doesn't so much as shrug or turn his hand in what is evidently a somewhat habitual method for filling space.
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It is a little bit disjointed, this question. She has not asked what brought him here in the first place, only drawn the assumption that it was motivated by the war. Perhaps by curiosity.
Perhaps he is as dangerous to them as Brother Gideon had been. She wonders a little at that too, though she cannot imagine Yseult had been anything other than thorough in her examination of this man and his wife before turning them loose in the Gallows.
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"Obviously there are some considerations for the Venatori and to what extent they can function without their head, and the state of the Magisterium. But yes, of course. Tevinter is my home."
He isn't a traitor.
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Envy, maybe.
How straightforward.
"Is that all that brought you here? The Venatori?"
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"But the effect of the Venatori inside Tevinter is hard to deny. Their influence made my work unpopular enough that the safety of my family had become a concern. If things continue in that direction, I worry about the Chantry becoming little more than an instrument of the Magisterium similar to how the one here is compelled by the South's various heads of state. To say nothing of what will happen should the war turn and Divine Beatrix's Exalted March actually come North."
A pause. He drums his fingers on the heavy book in his lap. Then—
"We have three children, and want to protect them from this."
This—the war, Corypheus, what may happen should Minrathous crumble, the influence of the South and its poisonous conception of what a mage is good for. The list seems to get longer every day.
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The recitation of politics is not so surprising, even if Derrica is unfamiliar with the nuance of it. But then—
"Three children," is a soft echo. The pinch of worry returns to her brow, as she too weighs up the many threats at play here.
How much safety can be found fleeing south, with so much uncertain? Three children, perhaps mages. What is there for them here?
"Are they safe now?"
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It has the tenor of something he's practiced. He's familiar with that pinch of worry there in Derrica's face in the sense that he has seen it (and more) echoed in his wife's expression. He's seen it in his own either when it's very early and he's forgotten to smooth it away, or when it's very late and he's grown too tired too. They're fine, he tells himself. Lalla's sister is a perfectly capable guardian, and there is no reason at all for the Venatori to go looking for three children when the primary concern of their heretic father has already fallen off the map.
They're just children. They're perfectly safe now that they've been removed from his company.
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And still, he presents himself in this office with a list of names they might prevail upon. In a fight that is not necessarily his own.
"Would you rather keep your name off any correspondence we send? Avoid traveling to the chantries and meeting with people there?"
If he is to lay low, how would he like to approach it?
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"It might be best if I were to serve more of a consulting role than otherwise, yes. Not just for them," he adds, looking at her. "You probably don't want to be accused of supporting an Imperial conversion effort. Though, by all means. I'd be happy to help with that too if that's more your preference."
A tug at the corner of his mouth. He's extremely funny, thank you.
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"Maybe we can call it a side project, so as not to alarm the Ambassador."
Though it does bring her to her intention in asking the question in the first place—
"Would you consult with me, ahead of the second conclave?"
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His eyebrows climb by a few significant degrees. He stops the idle flipping of pages.
"I don't know anything about how mages live in the South."
It's not a no. It's just a little baffled.
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Dairsmuid was not Tevinter. Rivain is unique, with attitudes and traditions that range far and away from what is commonplace in Tevinter. Derrica knows that. The two countries take vastly different approaches to anything. But between them, there is some common ground.
"We cannot arrive at the conclave empty-handed. And you weren't wrong before. There are questions that will need to be answered, even if we are able to convince the fraternities to back a proposal more in line with what the southern mages were seeking when they rebelled."
Maybe between them, two northern mages, they might come up with something worth proposing.
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It doesn't sound like the only thing he's going to say. There's something in the absent shifting of his fingers, or faintly unfocused straying point of his attention which suggests Laurentius is considering some further object. Flipping back to where the pencil is lodged in the book's gutter, he slowly pages after his blank sheet of note paper.
"How well do you know—" Maker, what was his name? Laurentius closes his hand into a fist and mimes a short jab. "He got popped in the face."
(For the record, that's more or less when Laurentius and Lalla had decided they were done for the evening.)
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Though this hadn't been who she was expecting Laurentius to ask after, if anyone at all.
"We are friends. Why?"
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She might not need someone for the south for her ideas, but she's going to have to figure out a way of convincing them.
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The wisdom of the proposition is immediately clear to her, as are the chances of Kostos agreeing to entertain a Tevene cleric on this topic.
"Thank you," is sincere, genuine gratitude weighting the words. "For all of this."
The names. The willingness to entertain her faltering considerations of how the might proceed. For volunteering in the first place.
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This comes easily to him too. It's an inherently simply exchange. Once upon a time, before he made himself unpopular with bespoke heresies, Laurentius Vesperus could be relied on to at least pretend at being well mannered.
"Anyway, I'm not being entirely altruistic. A few Chantry contacts closer to hand might do my own work some good."
With a small thump, he closes the heavy volume on his lap and bends to collect the collection of scrolls from where they've been piled near his heel.
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"I'd like to hear about it, next time."
Sensing the end of this meeting, signaled by the gathering of his items. Derrica stands herself, sheaf of papers in hand.
"It's been only me since I took over the project. I haven't thought of setting a time for regular meetings."
Truthfully, even office hours are a little scattershot. But who needs to volunteer that?
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He gathers the rest of his things.
"My time is largely my own. I've joined diplomacy"—Is that an outrageous statement, given the blasé way he'd barreled into her office?—"But one hour is as good for answering correspondence as the next, so whenever you prefer to meet should suit me. Regular or not."
He's scraped himself to his feet at some point in all that, and now absently adjusts the arrangement of his things under his arm.
"In the mean time, I'll see if I can't confirm where a few of those scholars are currently based."
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They have something to actively dissect together. That warrants gathering more regularly, in Derrica's opinion.
And even if there wasn't something to be worked on, it strikes Derrica as productive to grow more familiar with someone who had volunteered himself to work alongside her.
"Thank you, again," is as good as a dismissal, for all its warmth.
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And that seems to be that. With a curt nod, Laurentius takes his heavy book and his scrolls and his general impression—intentional or otherwise—of intense, glowering melancholy from the office. There's work to be done. The length of his stride as he goes suggests that he intends to get to some of it directly.