#literally basim bringing this one viking he picked up from the street

[almakfi]

yours is a heart stowing secrets. from sigurd…

basim laughs, so quietly that sigurd's eyes widen with offense.

"and that frustrates you."

it's a hot night, even in the bureau that sits by the bosphorus. sigurd's cheeks bear the flush of sunburn and ayran, and by the start of the evening he had already discarded most of his princely pelts. he would find them, neatly piled, on his bed—in the room reserved for him at the bureau. the place itself is near empty, except for a couple of nervous novices that don't seem to know what to make of the viking's presence. the rafiq, an older assassin with a scarred face, seems lax about it. he's been trying to communicate with sigurd all evening, and refilled his drink when all other attempts failed. he's a man who has had his fair share of strange allies, and is not accustomed to questioning his superiors.

but throughout the evening, candles have burned almost to the hilt, the plates have been cleared and jugs with water, wine and turkic ayran are empty. a couple of novices requested an heron feather. basim studied them carefully as they disappeared into the street. come morning, they will return with a bloody feather, inshallah. or they will not return at all. he does not spare them more than a thought.

on the rooftop of the bureau, where sigurd sought relief from the heat inside, a cool breeze blows. he asked about the feather—in a strained but not quite drunken greek, almost in practice, he asked about many things; his head tilted back, chest heaving with full, content breaths. some answers he gets. basim speaks slowly, half greek and half norse, and the words come to him although he cannot tell if the effort to look for them is a conscious one. and the viking does not try to look unimpressed. at least as long as basim indulges him.

some answers he does not get. he's tense about it, and dangerous as a high-strung horse. basim speaks soothingly, as to pacify one.

"ease, prince. you are among friends." he studies sigurd's reaction as it washes over the horizon of his pale eyes like daybreak. common sense and suspicion have nested there, with the high of alcohol gently fading, but also the thrill of the challenge. like a wary cat, lured with food so delicious that it makes it worth the risk.

and the food is knowledge. he's the one.

"i will not tell you everything, but i will not lie to you." the language of norsemen slips from basim like water. "is that an acceptable arrangement, sigurd?"

the boatman's daughter.