Long before he had been transformed, Dalibor had found that most people see what they believe, rather than believing what they were actually seeing. It had served him well as a young soldier. By being able to slip in with the clerks or servants in his father’s court, he had been able to find out all manner of intrigues, and warn his brothers of problems they could handle when the issues were small and manageable, before they got to be tangles that would distract their father from the management and protection of their lands.
One of the benefits of the Jägerbrau was that it did not create a consistent look to his brothers-in-arms. Dalibor had found that if he did not act like a Jägermonster, he could be mistaken for any number of constructs. His platoon either did not know or did not care what he did when they were not on duty. Everyone had their hobbies, but not all of them were not fit for polite conversation, even among the Jägerkin.
Since his hobby occasionally involved bathing with soap, the few Jägerkin who knew of it generally considered Dalibor’s avocation to be a subject best left alone. It is likely that some few others knew of the out-of-order washroom on deck six that never seemed to be on any maintenance crew’s work orders. The door was always locked, so it was unlikely anyone knew it was stocked with several different uniforms and one working shower.
The library presented a special problem, in that Herr Ples was not one of the Baron’s tame addle-pated researchers. He had been a minion, and one that had been sharp enough to survive. Octavian Ples had been the one to surrender his master’s lab to the Baron, nearly intact, while the Spark in charge had been twitching and frothing in his courtyard after his latest rampage. So sharp a man required a bit more misdirection.
Thus it came to pass that someone in a bright fuchsia footman’s uniform, complete with a matching bow holding back his carefully-pomaded tawny hair in a queue and an intricately-tied cravat at his throat minced past the mechanic’s apprentice slouching along the grand hall that midnight.
~=*=~
Dafi had to concentrate to keep from straightening up when she heard the hurried footsteps behind her in the grand hall. The footfalls seemed familiar, but she realized it was wishful thinking when she saw the uniform, and then the scent of the perfume hit her. With his eyes hidden by corrective goggles, it was obvious why the footman was holding the clipboard so close to his face as he walked.
Her slouch became more dejected as she realized just how much she missed the company of the sergeant, if she was comparing the footman to Dalibor. The build was right, but the carriage and gait was wrong, and that perfume was far too flowery to be something a Jäger would tolerate. For one thing, it would make them scent-blind.
Resolutely turning her mind away from the distraction that Dalibor presented, she thought over the findings she and Herr Ples had turned up the night before, tracking down the wording of the original treaty. She had known it was old, simply because it was not something her father had noted in the current alliances when they had gone over her studies of battle tactics, applying them to the fortress. She was actually reading back through the genealogy of the house of Movila, this time with an eye to political arrangements rather than literary roots.
When she got to the library entrance, she detected a trace of the footman’s perfume at the entrance, but could not track it inside the library. Perhaps it had made her scent-blind as well. Herr Ples had new information for her when she got to the desk. “Normally, I would steer clear of legends and folktales when conducting political research, but I happened to remember one scholar had gotten his teeth into the history of this noble house at one point before he disappeared."
Dafi had a thrill of recognition as Herr Ples pulled out a copy of Eliezer Bârsănescu’s textbook. “I have read that one, but not any of his other works. Are there any of his other papers here?"
The librarian chuckled, “If it is not here, there are only two reasons; the manuscript was destroyed before we heard about it,” then Herr Ples lowered his voice, tapping the side of his nose, “or it contains information too dangerous to be outside the Baron’s personal library.” But then his voice matched his merry smile as he checked the catalogue, “Let us see if any of his thesis planning works are here!”
~=*=~
Sitting in the shadows would have been too obvious a mistake. But Dalibor’s goggles were on temples with large loops at the tips rather than a strap. This allowed him to put the book in the light, and the goggles at an angle aimed at the book, leaving a gap at his face over which he could observe the room. He further obscured his face with a large, very lacy, handkerchief, trying to keep the perfumed pomander that was hanging from his belt from asphyxiating him. Even if having the damned thing meant others would steer clear of him, he would need at least an hour’s workout of sweat to clear the scent of it from his nose.
The night librarian was sharp, but polite enough that when Dalibor had silently taken himself to the section on art and lithographic prints, Herr Ples had left him alone. The thinly-veiled interest in art books was a common ruse when someone was too shy to request access to the restricted area. Most of the librarians respected the restraint, and made no mention of it. By turning the pages at lengthy intervals, most patrons, especially at this time of night, would leave him alone
Besides, the living warrior woman at the center of the genealogy section held his interest far more than the odalisques of the Enlightenment. Her disguise was thinner than his, but then, she was dodging those who avoided libraries in general. Highborns of this generation sent others to find things out for them, or retrieve reading material. Anything else smacked of actual labor.
He noted the direction of their conversation, liberally punctuated with the words “treaty” and “aid”. Most of it involved tracing back through the Movila line, finding the alliances and when they were made, when they were formalized, and if they were dissolved. Dafi and Herr Ples seemed to be drawing out a tree of all the trading partners of the house, which in turn were also military allies. They were doing well on their own, so he merely watched and listened.
There was a soft chime an hour before the actual shift change, a warning to those that needed to be at their duty stations. Dafi began wrapping up her research, tucking it into her coverall as Herr Ples pretended to check his watch against the clock on the wall. Everyone knew his watch was more accurate than anything but the Castle’s central timekeeper
Dal quietly reshelved his book, and tucking the pomander into a glassine envelope sealed with beeswax, slipped out to the upper concourse as Dafi exited. It would not do to have her get repeated views of him, especially in the improved light - the sun was just rising, with dawn-light spilling into the grand hall. When she reached the hospital section, Dalibor dashed off to his closet, to rid himself of the candy-colored uniform, and lose himself in mindless exertion in the Jägers’ gymnasium for an hour or two.
~=*=~
Dafi was able to slip into her invalid’s gown and hide her notes and boilersuit before the day shift arrived. These doctors and nurses seemed less engaging to her, perhaps because they seemed so relentlessly cheerful. They did not seem quite real to Dafi, more like actors in a troupe specializing in inane chatter. She tried to be asleep before the nurse who sang to himself as he made his rounds was on her hallway. It was not because he was a bad singer, or out of tune, but it was because he sang the hiking and wandering songs
Her sleep was interrupted by the usual meals, which she ignored as before, except for the tea and water. The night shift arrived with more than the usual chatter. In fact, it seemed as if there was quite a row going on at the nursing station. Dafi slipped out of bed, not bothering with changing out of her gown, standing with her back against the wall on the hinge side of the door, taking a firm grip on the chair for visitors. Eventually, the noise died down, but she did not leave her position. A knock at the door, followed by Dr Shriram’s careful greeting of “Dama?”, still did not signal Dafi to stand down
She waited for Dr Shriram to close the door after her to ask, “What happened?” Dafi kept her hand on the back of the chair.
The question seemed to let the other woman relax, and still wind her up. “Here you are, good. We have a situation. The first of the Movila delegation arrived this afternoon. Just as I got here, two of them were trying to get access to your medical records.”
Dafi was aghast, “Whatever for?”, then angry, “What right did they think they have?”
Dr Shriram reflected her anger, “They claimed to be representatives of the matchmaker, and they had the right to review your ‘health’ for the betrothal.” Her eyes snapped with her fury. “Here,” she handed Dafi a slim file, “these are all the records for you here. We are getting you out of here as soon as I can find the quester.”
“That would be a bad idea.” Quester Hasdeu’s voice came from the other side of the door. “May I come in?”
Dafi let him in, asking “Why is it bad for me to be out of the hospital?”
“Because here, we can restrict their access to you.” Hasdeu bowed to her, “and that will mean their focus is tied up in trying to get to you and your information.”
The doctor was not mollified. “I will NOT have those toffee-nosed gits hanging around here! We are not here to entertain them.”
“I am... not sure they will stop with just a warning.” Dafi frowned, her arms crossed over her file held to her chest, deep in thought. “I disappear, they have people all over trying to find me again. But if they find nothing of my records here, that could be just as bad.”
“You’re not far wrong. The laws governing the hospital state they have no right to your personal information without your permission, but they will argue that it is ‘traditional’ for the contract.” He shrugged, “The counter to that is you have not accepted the offer yet, and this is not acceptable courting behavior.”
“You’re damned right it is not acceptable,” Dr Shriram muttered. “I almost wish we had put her in disease quarantine. At least there, we wouldn’t have to worry about them upsetting the other patients that need quiet.”
“Can I be moved there, to save the nerves of the others?”
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