river_meimei | (no subject)

She's a little to one side of him, and it takes until he tilts his head fractionally, turning a page, that he catches a glimpse of pink at the corner of his eye and stills to focus on her for a moment.

Then he nods in polite recognition.

River is motionless a moment longer, watching him in silence.

Then she uncoils and rises to her feet in one unselfconsciously graceful motion, and begins pacing along the rafter towards Havelock's shadowed corner. She's barefoot, and her toes spread against rough-sanded wood; it's easy to balance this way, and to be silent.

He watches openly, noting the fluid way she moves, the way she doesn't need to look down to be perfectly assured even though a fall from this height could hurt badly.

It's both familiar, and not, from watching his fellow students at the Guild. Moving in shadow, they are always holding themselves tense and alert for danger or competition so that sometimes, against all logic, they are more obvious. It would be very easy, he thinks, for the eye to slide past River if she wanted it to.

River brushes a hand down a vertical support beam, and then steps daintily around it with her hand curled on an edge for balance; it's a dancer's move, or would be with the slightest bit more flair.

But it doesn't, in this moment, have that flair. Havelock isn't wrong.

She paces down the rafter towards him. A yard or so from his outstretched foot, she crouches comfortably down on one knee, folding forward to rest her palms against wood.

"Hello," he says, after a few beats of comfortable silence.

They haven't spoken that often, all things considered, but enough for Havelock to know that River will get around to what she wants to say in her own time. There's still no reason not to be polite and make a start on a conversation.

"Hi," River says, with a quick ghost of a grin. It flickers across her face, fast and open, and fades back into sobriety.

"I have," she says carefully, paying attention to each word as she pronounces it, "a message."

"Oh?" he says, and shuts his book to give her his undivided attention.

(It's something in a language that looks something like Arabic, but isn't. Language Masters don't just earn themselves.)

River's gaze drops to the book for a second, at the motion or perhaps at the sight of the writing, but she doesn't linger on it. Her eyes return to Havelock, and then to the shadows around them.

Softly, "People listen."

That's not the message.

"Often," Havelock agrees calmly.

He doesn't glance away, but looks politely inquiring.

"Would it be preferable if they did not?"

"In the specificities."

He nods.

"Where would be better, do you think?"

He's happy to infer, but at the end of the day only one of them knows the details of what's going on and it is not Havelock.

One corner of River's mouth ticks up in a tiny, strangely sweet smile.

"There's garlic."

Havelock's head tilts at her, as if tracking the smile sideways.

Then he swings his legs of the side of the rafter.

"Follow me," he says.

River twists from her crouch to a similarly seated position, ready to slide off the rafter after him. The silent gesture has a eloquence that her words tend to lack; it says, lead on.

Puck and Havelock's room tends be hard to find, depending where you come from, but from the Bar it is simple enough as long as you know where you are going.

There's apparently some kind of trick to opening the door, though. Havelock pauses, and waits for a conspicious thump before it opens fully. He then holds the door politely for River to enter.

Edited 2010-01-04 23:36 (UTC)

Havelock Vetinari is a true gentleman.

"Skip the knives," River says amicably to the room at large, and steps in without hesitation. But with a certain degree of care.

Havelock looks innocent, shutting the door.

Well, maybe River can just about detect the attempt.

Or not.

"Please, take a seat," he offers. Translated, this means 'the chair is not booby-trapped.'

Since this is not a context in which the offer would mean 'the chair is totally booby-trapped, please do sit in it,' River correctly translates. At least, she settles down comfortably.

"From Puck," she says. "In the palaver."

The chair completely fails to explode or collapse under her. Havelock leans thoughtfully back against the wall instead of taking a seat as well.

"I see," he says.

River has settled down with one leg tucked beneath her. Now she pulls the other to her chest, arms twined loosely around her ankle, and regards Havelock's general vicinity. (Mostly that wall, from the look of her focus.)

"It's a loophole."

"He promised. No talking. Aid and succor in the externalities."

"I'm the interlocution."

AREN'T YOU GLAD to have such an articulate translator, Havelock!

It could be easier, but then again, it would be a lot worse without her. And for someone who constantly analyses every word everyone says in any case, it's almost refreshing.

Havelock's expression doesn't change, but he is silent for a moment.

"Yes," he says finally. "I thought it had to be something like that."

River's expression says, briefly: yeah, it's kind of a theme, isn't it.

It's mild, though, and the exasperation is tinged with something between sympathy and affection; River wouldn't quite call Puck a friend, but she wouldn't quite avoid it either, and Dracula is very clearly the enemy here. River has no fondness for anyone preying on patrons. She's a gunslinger, and at Milliways, she watches the bounds.

Softly, "Got teeth inside the shadows."

It is getting to be something of a tradition.

Havelock doesn't say that out loud.

"A vampire of some kind, yes?" he asks instead.

River nods, just a little, her gaze fixed on Havelock.

Softly, "He likes to listen. Rummage and cover the tracks."

Vampires are known on the Disc, but he's never encountered one before himself. It's almost a pity, since seperating lore and reality - always tricky - will now be near impossible.

And it's no guarantee that whoever this one is will be the same.

"Hmm," he says softly. "No, Nita could not remember much about her attack."