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[OOC: A few hours after this.]
Havelock goes unnoticed, or as near as, by timing his return for the very beginning of breakfast, where there are only a few younger students who have not yet taken dark*, strolling in as if he has been for an early walk before classes, and making for a mostly empty section of the hall.
And there he stays, with a cup of very poor but strong coffee, and enough toast to make him feel vaguely human after a night without sleep. His peers drift in just in time to get something to eat, and he contemplates the table in silence, ignores the habitual "Morning, Dogbotherer. No contracts yet?" from Downey as he passes, waits patiently until attention has drifted away from him. Then he heads with the flow of fellow students to his first class of the day.
It isn't until late that evening when he makes a circuit back to the office to check for messages left for him - or indeed, for anyone else that strikes his interest - that he notices the new contract posting, with the discreet black mark that indicates it has been taken up. He carefully looks away and strolls calmly past on his way up to his room as if uninterested, but inwardly he is kicking himself fiercely. He should have checked this morning, when he got back. As if there was much he could have done. As if there's much he can do now.
He locks the door behind him, glances out of the window, and begins to change from black to deep grey clothing while he waits for those departing on contracts to be gone.
* That is: are in the less advanced years and must still wear uniform, as all must before doing well enough to be allowed to dress all in the mostly-black clothing of real assassins. As said uniform consists of much blue and cream, and also features ruffles, it tends to incur shame and a healthy ambition to suceed in their studies as quickly as possible. Older students have the luxury of being too cool for mornings if they aren't necessary, creatures of the night that they generally are.
Havelock goes unnoticed, or as near as, by timing his return for the very beginning of breakfast, where there are only a few younger students who have not yet taken dark*, strolling in as if he has been for an early walk before classes, and making for a mostly empty section of the hall.
And there he stays, with a cup of very poor but strong coffee, and enough toast to make him feel vaguely human after a night without sleep. His peers drift in just in time to get something to eat, and he contemplates the table in silence, ignores the habitual "Morning, Dogbotherer. No contracts yet?" from Downey as he passes, waits patiently until attention has drifted away from him. Then he heads with the flow of fellow students to his first class of the day.
It isn't until late that evening when he makes a circuit back to the office to check for messages left for him - or indeed, for anyone else that strikes his interest - that he notices the new contract posting, with the discreet black mark that indicates it has been taken up. He carefully looks away and strolls calmly past on his way up to his room as if uninterested, but inwardly he is kicking himself fiercely. He should have checked this morning, when he got back. As if there was much he could have done. As if there's much he can do now.
He locks the door behind him, glances out of the window, and begins to change from black to deep grey clothing while he waits for those departing on contracts to be gone.
* That is: are in the less advanced years and must still wear uniform, as all must before doing well enough to be allowed to dress all in the mostly-black clothing of real assassins. As said uniform consists of much blue and cream, and also features ruffles, it tends to incur shame and a healthy ambition to suceed in their studies as quickly as possible. Older students have the luxury of being too cool for mornings if they aren't necessary, creatures of the night that they generally are.
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Date: 2007-10-07 03:02 pm (UTC)From:"Ah, Havelock," she says from her couch in front of the fire, resplendent in a purple silk dressing gown and matching velvet slippers, smiling as brightly as if it isn't close on three in the morning. "I was wondering when you might appear."
"Madam," he greets her absently, eyes flicking to the still intact windows. "You had a visitor?"
"Indeed I did," she says dryly, and nods in front of her, at the floor obscured from his view by her seat. "Here, on the rug. He tried to come down the chimney, it does look temptingly spacious from the outside. I'm surprised you didn't guess. Are you slipping?"
"Apparently," he murmurs, and goes to the black-clad, crumpled figure to check that it is most definitely dead.
"Hmm," she says, amused, and prods the back of his leg delicately with her toe. "He was the only one, I've already checked. You can turn around and let your Auntie look at you."
He obeys, and she raises an eyebrow critically, with a maternal sigh. "Yes. Well, Bertrand is out of the way, I hear; I presume that was you, good boy. The fee has been placed in your account, of course. But did itreally take all night? You know what I said about not sleeping."
"I rather think dark circles are the last of my problems," Havelock says blandly, wrestling to keep his expression blank. He really does have to keep reminding himself that his aunt is only that shallow on the outside. "And yours. The Guild will not stop coming just because of one death, you know. If they cannot take you here, then we will try elsewhere."
"Hmm," she says, not taking offense at the 'we.' "Well, I can't exactly stay here forever. Otherwise I might as well just leave Ankh-Morpork, and I just can't do that. There's the ball at the palace in two weeks which is rather vital, as you know, and the there are my, ah- business meetings. Dear Dotsie and Sadie are only a help where the Ladies are directly concerned. I don't suppose you do escorting?"
Havelock gives her a look. "Hardly. I can watch you from concealment, if that is what you need."
Madam shakes her head impatiently. "No, no. That's all very well for danger striking from above, but not really for close quarters. I meant someone to partner me at parties without sliding a knife between my ribs and provide light, frivolous conversation, and men like that seem in remarkably short suppply. It's either decoration or safe company. So sad. I know the Guild professes to find it unprofessional to pretend friendship when on contract, but it only takes one with a willingness to bend the rules. Doesn't it?"
"Hmm," he says softly. "I might be able to arrange something there."
She nods once, smiling. "It would be lovely if you would, there's a sweet boy. Now give your Auntie a kiss, go back to the Guild, and get some sleep, if your busy schedule allows it. You look like death."
Havelock represses an inward sigh and leans over to obey. "Yes, Madam."