Chapter Thirty-Six: Apprehension

--SI--

Lahallia was up to something. Orphael knew it. The problem was, whatever she was up to appeared so top secret she not only refused to tell him anything, she took to locking herself in her room, or vanishing without so much as an 'I'll be back before supper' for hours on end. Not that he was the person to talk to about supper—he'd had the inns on either side of the city taking care of catering. Mazken, were soldiers. Sometime babysitters.

They were not chefs.

Still, the secrecy left him edgy, almost fidgety. No doubt remained that, whatever she was planning, he would not find out what it was until it was too late to do anything about it. All he could do was hope whatever it was would not somehow land him in a clown pit.

Despite Orphael's opinion the situation, Lahallia did not mean to give such a fantastic show of inscrutable motives. Far from it, her intent being to appear every inch the Apocrypha attendant, working with the same focus and attention to detail she usually exhibited while doing this, that or the other thing. While such behaviors came across as exemplary behavior within those gray walls, in the Isles she looked like a textbook resident of Dementia: obsessive, secretive, and uncommunicative. Far removed from any sense of relative normalcy.

This, the fourth night since bringing back the Flame of Agnon to New Sheoth—and while the day-night balance was not yet wholly fixed, they tended to occur in blocks of no less than six hours, though no more than eight. So far.

Plainly as the Forces of Order amassed wherever they were, pending the invasion into the Isles via the crystalline spires, their very nature began to affect the Isles themselves. Doubtless sooner or later the balance of day and night would echo that of Nirn. Or, she flicked through her notes, scribbling towards the back of her catalogue which she'd dug out so as to keep her gathered information from falling into the wrong hands, they'd simply balance out with a certain number of hours each of light and darkness.

Glancing at the timepiece moved from the dining room to her bedroom, Lahallia got to her feet. It was still not reliable with regards to light and darkness, but as a clock it seemed to function more or less as she expected it to. Which was to say, time did not move at speed, or crawl along like an injured creature.

Sixty minutes to an hours, twenty-four hours in a day.

The light outside hinted at late afternoon. Restlessly, Lahallia walked back over to the small desk, covered in preparations for disposing of Syl. It had taken the better part of four days—and quite a bit of energy went into trying to keep Orphael's nose out of current events—to come up with a plan that bordered on feasible. Revision raised the probability of success. As for Orphael, she simply could not trust him not to try stopping her, since the Mazken were under mandate to protect and serve House Dementia.

This came directly from Orphael, during a long conversation in which she wormed out of him quite a bit of information. She might lack charisma, but she knew how to elicit information. Not only had she learned necessary information for her mission, she learned quite a bit more about the Mazken in general. It had become something of a routine to sit in the living room, each with a drink in hand, and either watch the magical fire burning in different colors in comfortable silence, or watch the fire and talk. It was during these conversations she discovered that a liking for teasing and getting other people riled up might just be Orphael's worst habit.

That and needling her about the Apocrypha, but thankfully he'd not mentioned it recently. She did not think for a moment he'd given up on trying to get her to agree it was 'a bad place'. He was simply biding his time, waiting to try and ambush her with the topic when she least expected it. Still, she could think of many worse habits than a liking of acting contrary, and teasing poor, easily riled mortals.

It was then, as she stood there grinning to herself, she realized she did not really mind. She had the impression that when Orphael drew his wits like a warrior drew a sword, he was not used to being bested. She might find herself lacking in many social skills, but she enjoyed trying to tip his arguments off balance.

But, she yanked her thoughts back to the gruesome business in the works, battles of wits would not affect Syl in the slightest. No, what would affect Syl—Lahallia raised Malice, checking the fresh edge Cutter had put on it earlier in the day—was cold steel.

Or rather, crafted amber. Malice was useful, but this was cloak-and-dagger work. She approved the irony of using a Manic weapon to slay the Duchess of Dementia. It also appealed to her to kill Syl in the manner Syl most feared: assassination as opposed to a head to head fight.

With these things in mind, Lahallia had braved Dumag's overly helpful company in order to acquire what had to be the perfect weapon or the job: a curved dagger of amber and gold. He'd had it on hand, and added extra keenness to the blade. The weapon was far too small for the Orc, but fit Lahallia's hand reasonably well.

Lahallia fingered the sheathed amber blade. Tonight. It had to be tonight. Orphael had, the 'night' before last, let slip that the Mazken garrison expected a changing-out. This happened periodically, and was scheduled to happen before Lahallia ever set foot in the Isles. Syl demanded such a change in staffing out of paranoia, hoping to derail any plots against her by sending the traitors away, forcing them to start their plans all over again at a later date.

Lahallia snorted: ridiculous. Definitely the product of a deranged mind. However, it worked in her favor.

The Mazken capitulated as it relieved those unfortunate enough to pull Palace duties of having to deal with Syl more than…well, Orphael failed to articulate what the time frame for the changing of the guard was, though he did say that the guard was changed regularly and one-third of the force at a time. Which meant tonight would see more Mazken in the garrison than unusual, but rather than meaning increased security, it implied lessened security, as they would spend much of the night passing duties from one soldier to another.

Syl would doubtless hole herself up somewhere with only one way in, and one way out. This put her in the position of a cornered rat, though the Duchess didn't know it, or chose not to notice. Syl suspected everyone of treason. Word in the palace was, Syl continued to grow more and more paranoid. The only reason she had not yet tried to put a dagger between Lahallia's ribs—or asked Herdir to do it, Lahallia grimaced at the thought of the little toad—came down to Lahallia's great care in staying out of Syl's way and out of sight.

Which complicated her other plans. Gold, promises of safety and security, and several very powerful charm spells yielded subtle allies in the forms of Anya Herrick and the Redguard Kithlan. Both were, by now, worried Syl's growing paranoia might target them next. With a sense of self-preservation for a basis, Lahallia applied gold, tact, and magicka to manipulate the situation to her advantage. Anya promised to draw away as many Mazken as she could, by starting a commotion shortly after nightfall—Lahallia specified tonight as the night for doing so—thus clearing Lahallia's way somewhat, and keeping it clear.

Kithlan gave far more practical help. He gave her his key to House Dementia, letting Syl's death in by the front door. Lahallia was not much good at mountaineering, and certainly not at scrambling up the sides of buildings. She preferred the idea of going in by the front door.

And still, Syl remained none the wiser. Lahallia had cautioned both Anya and Kithlan to keep themselves as far from Syl's rooms as possible, to avoid drawing suspicion. She did not need to promise dire consequences if she found herself betrayed. She did not think this was a concern, yet. Not when Syl seemed so eager to root out traitors and plots, whether they existed or not.

Between the Greymarch and Lahallia's rise in Sheogorath's favor—or her perceived rise in favor—Syl's already tenuous remnants of sanity only eroded further. Sooner or later, Syl would snap. Everyone knew it, and those approached were willing to jump ship before it sank, throwing their lot in with Syl''s would-be successor.

Lahallia could not work out how to manipulate a psychological breakdown to her advantage, but if she could she certainly would. Meeting Syl head on was not only stupid, it was deadly. It also meant not making a good show-for surely Sheogorath kept himself aware of what was going on. She did not wish to bore him.

But, for all Syl's cunning, there were certain advantages to being a librarian, and that advantage pooled in a small glass bottle on a cord, not unlike the small bottles ladies in the realms sometimes carried, so as to refresh their perfume during a fete. The perfume originally in the bottle ended up in a much more mundane potion vial, hidden in her dresser.

The poison worked best if taken via the mouth, the stomach absorbed the poison better than anything else, but Syl was too crafty for something like that. It would work well enough if administered through a nick in the skin.

Lahallia jumped as Orphael knocked on her door. "Are you awake?" He called softly. If she was sleeping, he would not have wakened her.

"No I'm sound asleep. What do you want?" She did not panic, trying to hide her implements. Such would make suspicious noise, and Orphael was curious by nature. He would never rest until eh found out what was going on, if she gave him any more reason to act nosey.

Orphael tried to open the door, and swore. It was his habit to assume a response meant 'come in and speak to me face to face'. Because of this, Lahallia took to spelling her door shut. Particularly with weapons, notes, and poison strewn across her desk.

She had made plans for Orphael as well, as she did not want to have to kill him for getting in her way.

For all his failings, she did like the Mazken. If she spoke honestly to herself, she could see the differences—and indeed, the pros—of living in the Isles. Within the Apocrypha, she occasionally had the odd feeling of being not unlike a porcelain figure, something left on a shelf until it grew dusty. At which point someone would take it down, dust it off, and put it back, to gaze blankly over the comings and goings from its lofty perch.

Here, she felt like a plant in a pot, growing and changing—which was ridiculous. Constantly shuffled around from room to room, kept in the sunlight and watered regularly. The idea of a plant with flowers in the shape of her face made Lahallia snort. Talking flowers...what next?

Of course, it was all nonsense. But it wasn't dangerous nonsense, after all, merely amusing.

Speaking of amusing, she smirked as she retrieved another potion vial from beneath her pillow, hiding it in a pocket of her clothes. Would Orphael be amused when he realized she drugged him into deepest sleep?

Probably not, Lahallia mused as she unlocked her door. In fact, the likelihood he would end up very cranky indeed—and part of her wondered idly what 'cranky behavior' might entail—remained high.

If she had remembered their conversation after he got her tipsy, she would have blushed, and stifled those thoughts immediately.

"You're getting as paranoid as Syl." Orphael greeted her as she stepped into the hall, clsing her door—and locking it—behind her.

"Nonsense. You're miffed because you keep hoping you'll walk in on me while I'm dressing, or having a bath." Lahallia used the tease as a means to distract him from the locked doors. Whens he headed down the stairs, he followed without hesitation.

Orphael simply pinned her with his vivid eyes and smirked at her, once she turned to face him in the dining room. So much could be implied by a simple look, and Lahallia tended to read too much into such things. Right now, it worked in his favor, for she turned pink in the cheeks, and swallowed visibly.

"So, what's for supper?" Lahallia tried to ignore the burning in her cheeks and the odd flip-flop in her stomach. If she knew he was so adept with that look so heavy with implications and not-so-subtle wickedness—and she did—she could not figure out why she gave him opportunities to employ it.

Unless it had to do with the sneaking feeling that she rather enjoyed the idea that the look was leveled at her, whether he was only joking or not. Logic said it distracted him from asking uncomfortable questions about what she was up to. Something illogical declared the logic was just a cover for something she did not want to question too much.

Once Orphael—riding the tide of having won the match without having aid a word—stepped out of the room, Lahallia permitted herself to reorder her thoughts, which meant acknowledging the ones making her uncomfortable. The fact remained—and she did not want to admit it—he was slowly bringing back feelings she had thought dead, buried, and forgotten.

Well, she thought acidly, setting the table for two with unwonted vehemence, as long as she was not having odd dreams, there was nothing to worry about. It was fascination. It would die out eventually.

Orphael came back into the room to find Lahallia's mouth pursed, her eyes hard as flint, and her posture screaming irritation. Well, he could fix that. "I'm not eating. It's Bliss' best."

Lahallia's expression lost its rigidity as disappointment crept across it. Orphael, while alternating meals between Bliss and Crucible to give her a good taste of both sides of the Isles—pun intended—did not usually eat when the food came from Bliss. Lahallia could not tell if he had a real reason for this, or if it was just the Mazken anti-Mania stance.

He did, however, sit down beside her after setting the tray he carried on the table.

Lahallia's mouth dropped open as the faint smell of strawberries, fresh and sweet, curled about her angular nose.

Orphael smiled as Lahallia's expression cleared the rest of the way, her eyes falling on the bowl of berries. He had not expected to find anything on her list of favorite foods. He expected her years in the Apocrypha would make her forget what real food tasted like, but unmistakably he'd made a lucky guess. "I take it you approve?"

The memory fascinating Lahallia was faded, half-forgotten and therefore distracting. The smell reminded her of…of… she absently picked up one of the large, plump berries, pursing her lips as she looked at it. Of…

Her eyes drifted out of focus, as though looking through her hand and the delectable fruit propped like a jewel on display in her fingers.

For a moment Orphael thought she was about to have an episode of Visions. It had not escaped him that the more she did not think about them, the fewer episodes she seemed to have. Now, whether that was always the case or if it was the case here in the Isles, he was not certain. Regardless, since he first took to wearing gloves, she stopped snapping at him when he touched her.

"Lahallia?" Orphael's hand closed over her shoulder, spell at the ready.

"This reminds me of something…" she murmured softly, not paying attention to her words.

"Something pleasant?" Whatever it was, he doubted she would remember. How long had she walked the Apocrypha's gray halls, after all?

"It reminds me of…" her mouth worked. She swallowed, her gaze still fixed on the rich, red berry as though it were a portent of the future. "Of…" Lahallia shook her head, blinked, and came out of her reverie. "Are they good?"

"I would assume so." Orphael had not missed the moment of deep uncertainty before Lahallia had changed the subject. Surely that meant she was beginning to suspect something amiss in her precious Apocrypha…

"Try." The thoughtful look on his face unnerved her, pushing her to do something to distract him from it. She held the berry out to him, the shadows of doubt still lurking behind her mismatched eyes.

"No, thank you."

"Try," she repeated, teasingly, poking the berry in his direction.

Orphael caught her wrist, grinning wickedly at her. Leaning forward, he abruptly bit the end of the fruit off, then leaned back, making a show of licking his lips. "Tastes fine to me…but don't trust my word for it." He continued smirking as Lahallia's neck showed a creep of blush. Really, it should be illegal, teasing her. She was so easy to get to. He managed to filch the remains of the berry from her, and held it up.

Lahallia knew he meant her to take it from his hand—but not with her fingers—and froze. "No, that's all right…you can have the rest of it."

Orphael, still smirking, but with incredible care so as not to send her from the room, moved the berry forward until the bitten end touched her lower lip, leaving a faint trail of glistening juice as he traced the shape of her mouth. Lahallia's heart hammered as the fruit moved cool and gentle across her slightly parted lips. The experience both novel, new, and unsettling…

…but not frightening, intimidating, or unwelcome. Perhaps the right word was...fascinating.

The lights in the room changed, as they always did when darkness settled over the streets of New Sheoth.

Lahallia, dry mouthed, slowly licked her lips, without any consciousness of doing so. "I forgot our drinks," pulling away she hurried to the kitchen, poured two glasses of Dementia wine, and into Orphael's emptied the sleeping draught produced from its hiding place within her clothes. Unexpectedly, her hands shook as she made these last preparations before she could disappear into the night.

Orphael wordlessly smirked at her, finishing the strawberry as she resumed her seat. As Orphael winked at her before tipping back his glass, Lahallia licked her lips again. The taste of strawberry still lingered on them like a kiss.