Chapter Text
Bolaire can’t help but count himself remarkably lucky for the lack of museum employees at such an early hour of the morning. He’d be making an utter ass of himself otherwise, skidding across the polished marble floors as he sprints through the quiet hallways. He ducks into his office upstairs for exactly long enough to fix his wig and straighten his clothes before scurrying for the front.
Several archivists, joined by attendants in House Comoray’s colors, already hold open the front doors as Temoday walks Lady Comoray in by the arm. Bolaire slows his pace and schools his expression into something distinctly more pleasant, squaring his shoulders. “Good morning, and welcome back!” he calls in greeting. “I’m terribly for not being here to unlock the doors for you, I—”
Amariya Cormoray holds up a hand for silence. “Nonsense, curator,” she says smoothly. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”
Bolaire laughs. “Quite, quite. I trust your trip went well?”
“Smooth as can be,” Temoday chuckles good-naturedly. “Are you alright, Master Bolaire? You seem a bit frazzled.”
“Oh, it was just a busy night,” Bolaire sighs, batting a hand dismissively. “I fear I may have overslept.”
“We can assure you that you’re perfectly on time,” Lady Cormoray smiles. “And I do believe we were promised a tour of the Pariah Blades?”
“But of course,” Bolaire gushes. He sweeps into a low bow, the ends of his curls brushing the floor. “Right this way.”
He hates this more with every passing second.
Lady Cormoray is an attentive guest, his favorite kind: asking questions when questions are permitted, but never asking or daring to touch the artifacts. She stays several feet back from all of the display cases, eyes sharp and analytical.
That may be the worst part, honestly.
Bolaire is an actor of a very specific kind. He’s spent more time observing people and learning to replicate mannerisms in the last eight years than most people do in their entire lives. He knows people. And he knows the look in Lady Cormoray’s eye.
Cold fascination. Vicious intelligence.
Her house wants something from him. Icy dread pools in Bolaire’s core, but he forces it down. It’s as he said to the others, right? He can be bought. And if he can be bought, people will trust him. It’s an in.
Yes, squeaks a voice at the back of his head, but an in to where?
“Curator,” Lady Cormoray says smoothly, towards the end of the tour, “while I admire your knowledge of these artifacts, and respect that you are a busy man, Temoday here—” Temoday chuckles bashfully, “tells me that you house several more of artifacts of this sort in the archives.” Her eyes glitter, even as she smiles sweetly. “If you would be so kind, I would love to have a look at them, too.”
It isn’t a request.
Bolaire smiles broadly, dipping into another quick bow. “But of course, my lady. If you’ll be so kind as to follow me, I’ll escort you to our…shall we say, private collection?”
She chuckles. “I would be honored, curator. Do lead the way.”
Employees scurry out of the way as Bolaire escorts them through the winding hallways, all the way down to the archives. “I must request you all stay close,” he says formally as he unlocks the door. “Many of the objects kept in this area are quite dangerous.”
“Quite,” Lady Cormoray agrees pleasantly.
Bolaire pretends he doesn’t hear the door slamming shut behind them, despite the alarm bells that sound in his head. He simply picks up a lantern and leads on.
“If you don’t mind my asking, Master Bolaire,” Lady Cormoray begins.
“Anything, my lady,” he replies pleasantly.
“What would you say is the most dangerous artifact in this room? I’m curious.”
Fuck. Bolaire hums, pretends to ponder the question while he wrestles his panic back under control. He can’t give her the real answer, obviously—god only knows what the houses would do with that—but he can give her an answer, and probably play dumb if anyone accuses him of lying. “I suppose I must say the Pariah Blades,” he says faux-thoughtfully, swiftly guiding them further back. “Though that may be because I struggle to comprehend a legend and legacy greater than theirs.”
Behind him, Lady Cormoray sighs. “You make a valuable point. It begs the question as to which is more powerful: the weapon itself, or the imprint it leaves on history.”
She goes quiet, and Bolaire realizes she must be awaiting an answer. “I suppose it depends on the weapon,” he replies gracefully. “Something that has the power to stir people even after its retirement is mighty, to be certain, but there’s also something to be said about a weapon so efficient in its work that no one even realizes work has been done.”
Lady Cormoray laughs. “Such as yourself, you mean?”
For a moment, the world ceases to spin under Bolaire’s feet.
“Pardon?” he asks breathlessly. He doesn’t dare turn around or stop walking, his body numb with horror. Perhaps he just misheard, and the exhaustion of the night is starting to wear on his new body. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re referring to.”
“A weapon so efficient that its very existence is but a rumor. Were you not describing yourself just now, Bolaire Lathalia?”
Instinct kicks in, and Bolaire drops the lantern with a crash—artifacts be damned. His thoughts race. Damn fool, they played you like you hoped to play them. Ironic, isn’t it? God you’ve gone soft. If you weren’t so busy playing human you could’ve killed every single one of them and been gone by now. Have to run. Have to get out of here, warn the others—
A smell like static fills the air as buzzing, smothering magic curls around his body’s limbs, locking them in place. Bolaire swallows a growl, thrashing under the grip of the Hold Person spell. Quiet footsteps. With a wave of Lady Cormoray’s hand, the glow of the flames that had begun to lap at the floor go dark.
It’s not like Bolaire needs them to see her: intelligent eyes and a pitying smile as she takes another step.
“Sloppy,” she chides. “I expected this to be more difficult.”
Behind him, Bolaire hears Temoday clear his throat. “Lady Cormoray, is this truly necessary?” he squeaks, a quiver of fear in his voice.
“Run!” Bolaire snarls as she rolls her eyes.
“Shut up a moment, Temoday,” she says primly, and flicks a hand. There’s a scattering of sand in the air, and a soft thump as the old man hits the ground.
“Do not hurt him,” Bolaire hisses. “He’s a benefactor, for fuck’s sake—he knows nothing!”
Lady Cormoray laughs. “Please, why would I hurt him? After all, he was my bridge to you, Bolaire.” Her nose wrinkles. “Where did you come up with that name? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Bolaire knows well the disgust in her voice. He closes his mouth tightly and stares at her, unblinking.
“Fair enough,” she sighs. Another step closer. “This really isn’t personal, you know. House Cormoray has much to offer your little museum—and you, if you’re willing to hear our offer.”
“Offer?” Bolaire spits. His limbs quiver and with a little concentration a glass stiletto blade manifests between his fingers. Lady Cormoray’s eyes drop to it before she laughs again, as if he’s little more than a particularly amusing dog.
“And just how did you plan on using that when you can’t move?” She sighs amusedly, taking another step. There’s little more than a foot between them now as she stares studiously up into him. “I suppose that’s why I was told to disarm you before bringing you to somewhere we’ll be a bit more even. Do forgive me.”
Her hands reach up.
Bolaire jerks in the hold of the spell, though he refuses to grant her the satisfaction of protesting. An animal scream builds in his throat as he thinks of the life he’s built, of his office in this museum and his home a few streets over. Of Occtis and the others, of Murray and Azune and Hal—