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| Details |
| Author: | inkie |
| Summary: | Ben returns from his visit home to the Lord and Lady Ference with good news and chickens. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Chain: Bizzy
Ismene doesn’t mean to hover near the gryphons? Exactly? It’s just that today is the day Ben said he would return and obviously this is the place he would land and surely he’d come here first since she’s staying at Honor Hol–
She sidesteps the walking pillar of half-elven temper that is Sir Arator Windrunner, the Redeemer, ignoring him as he mutters something about his patience. It may be that more red dust is kicked up in his wake than is strictly necessary, but she tries not to notice. Another gryphon wings in and she hurries forward.
The gryphon passes low overhead, though, and the rider leans down to yell something to the Watch Commander. Leonus draws his sword and bellows, “We're under attack! RUN FOR COVER!”
Ismene leaps back, pressing herself against the wall. Should she go inside? Absolutely. Is she moving from the site set aside for gryphons? She is not. Golden light ruffles the air around her, though, proving she is not entirely insensible to the danger.
You know what is insensible to danger? A panicked gryphon that just wants to reach its home roost. One such idiot bird hurtles desperately for a landing now, skree-ing its displeasure as the first felfire meteor whistles past it to crater in the yard.
The gryphon’s rider, folded low over its neck and hanging on for his life, is also expressing some displeasure, though it’s more of the hoarse swearing variety. A second meteor streaks by and the gryphon attempts to dodge it midair, nearly pitching the unfortunate rider over its left shoulder. The gryphon beats its wings wildly, talons out for the landing, just as a third meteor shatters against the packed earth of the Hold’s courtyard. Fel embers begin to draw themselves together into towering, tottering life.
As the gryphon makes its frantic crash-landing in a flurry of feathers and dust, the rider takes a controlled — semi-controlled? — tumble from its back and comes up on his knees in the dirt to one side. The crate he was carrying tucked tightly against his body breaks free and tumbles end over end away toward the stable, emitting some outraged avian squawking of its own.
Ben staggers to his feet, trying to draw his sword — which isn’t at his hip as usual, but secured on his back, along with his traveling pack and rifle. Nor is he wearing his plate armor, but only the lighter mail and leather he wore to travel. I can’t tell whether that’s a complete sentence or not. In any case, he stumbles back a step toward the gryphon roost and the stable, shedding his pack and unbuckling the strap that holds his weapons in place, as the infernal takes its heavy, uneven steps toward the inn. Other flakes and chunks of glowing stone still pelt down around the yard’s inhabitants, but these range from mere chips to fist-sized pieces, none of them the seed of a full-grown infernal.
Because Mizzy has her priorities, she keeps the wall at her side and runs for Ben, only leaving the (somewhat dubious) safety when she must. As she moves, a fervent whispered prayer is answered by a glowing shield around Ben, a shield her hand easily penetrates. “Don’t you dare!” she admonishes him, tugging him backward. “It will splat you flat in that get-up.”
It must be noted she says nothing about Grumpy Arator yelling something dramatic and inspirational as he draws his sword and rushes the infernal while wearing a robe. The robe flares around him dramatically. His long, silken blond hair ripples and flows, also dramatically. Soldiers pour from the keep, the training grounds, some even from the inn though that’s less pouring and more spitting out erratically.
For the record, the sound of fel-tainted rocks bouncing off a holy shield is ‘fft-pwing’.
Reflexively, Ben jerks out of her grip with a curse, and then her voice and the shield around him register. He falters and blinks down at her. “Mizz. Oh, damn, Mizmainy, I did not realize —” Meekly chagrined, he submits to admonishment, and stoops to collect his discarded pack from the ground. Ducking his head and hunching his shoulders instinctively against the shower of stone (even as it pwings harmlessly off the priestly shield) he backtracks toward the stable to pick up the squabbling crate as well, and tucks it under his arm before jogging back to Mizzy’s side. “Sorry!” he shouts — he has to shout to be heard against the commotion of the fight now, which seems to be well in hand. “Didn’t know you were out here waitin’.” He squints at her. “Why are you out here? It’s rainin’ infernals!”
She frowns at him, head tilted. What a silly question. “Waiting for you,” she shouts in return. A falling rock takes her shield out, but only after it bounces off and rolls away. Before another can strike, her shield rises again. “What did they say?”
She shows no signs of leaving the courtyard. Around the pair (and the angry crate), the air continues to be filled with “arg!” and “for the Alliance!” and “yeargh!” and a particularly nice example of the Wilhelm Scream, all of which Ismene ignores in favor of staring anxiously at Ben. My, haven’t we gotten callous. Ismene Callous.
Ben stares back at her for a moment, trying to parse this question. In his defense, there is a lot going on. But then he blinks and breaks into a grin. He bends toward her and shouts, “They said congratulation! Now either you got to let me fight or we got to go inside, missus. I will tell you the whole thing.”
Ismene exhales heavily, so relieved that several nearby people are also relieved and have no idea why. “Inside then,” she says, tugging on his arm. “You can’t fight in leather. Who do you think you are, Sil?”
Nor is she a Clydesdale, but she tries to urge him into the Keep, as it’s the nearest shelter. “Did you speak with both of them?” she asks, anxious again. “They weren’t mad at all?”
Ben, concluding that Mizzy’s focus is insufficient to the urgency of the task at hand, takes over the Clydesdale role, considerably more effectively. Having muscled them both successfully into the Keep’s downstairs hall, he sets the crate at his feet and rakes a hand through his travel-dusted hair. The crate mutters irritably.
“I talked to ‘em both,” Ben confirms. “Mr Ference said he is relieved he does not have to think of a thing to wear to a weddin’, and that he never minded much about the weddin’ bit, only the marriage. He said, ‘I have always just done what my woman told me.’” He grins at Mizzy. “Don’t let it give you ideas.
“Aunt Nir said, ‘Bless.’ She was annoyed we did not tell about it sooner, but I think mostly because she is put out we thought she would be annoyed. She said, real starchy, that she never thought much of all the fuss to begin with, and that gettin’ eloped is just sensible. Then she reminded me we ain’t s’posed to do a baby for a while.” His smile fades a degree and his ears redden. “Mr Ference agreed that you are pretty young for it. He said we got plenty of time anyhow.”
He glances up as a pair of infirmary nurses bustle past, shepherded by a soldier, and steps in to press Mizzy to the wall to make way for them. Once they’ve passed, and since Mizzy is already now pinned against the wall, he bends to kiss her.
Her lips draw tight for a moment and she shakes with muffled laughter, but kissing Ben is Very Important Work and she likes to focus on such things. She also tends to get lost in tasks, and this one is particularly pleasant. He’s even in leather, which means the general shape of his body is more accessible to her hands than it usually is when he’s got her pressed up against public walls.
Still, she does have a sense of decorum and pulls her head back just enough to break the kiss before quite inappropriate things can happen. “We’ll have babies,” she murmurs, “there’s just too much going on right now. Maybe we’ll name the first one Elohad Silvestre. And if it’s a girl, Niris Silvestre.” Of course she smiles. Smiling at Ben is also very important work.
Ben smiles down at her in answer, and his hand finds her hip. He gives her a squeeze. “You forgot Marie. Elohad Silvestre Marie.” He steals another kiss, quick and light. “But yeah, we have talked about it. You know I ain’t in a hurry.” He does seem, actually, to be kind of in a hurry, but not in the long-term child-producing sense. “I just was — y’know. When Mr Ference said you are young, I was thinkin’, like —” He studies her face, his brow creased. “You ain’t that young,” he decides, a little indignantly. “I have known girls back home who was married an’ mothers before eighteen. But … I mean, yeah. We have got a lot of time. We got work to do, both of us. And I would rather — I mean I think we both would rather — see you doin’ your work right now than tied to any baby.”
“Speakin’ of …” He glances toward the infirmary. “You met Mordecai Harbrooke yet? Speakin’ of work, I mean, not babies.”
“Funny you should mention him,” she says. “I was just thinking I should get to know him better. We sometimes share shifts in the infirmary, but I wouldn’t say I know him.” As much as possible, Ismene keeps his hips against hers. Because they should stay out of the way, of course. And not take up too much room. Because infernol.
“And I’m a little young but hardly too young. Maybe in a year or two? We want a home first, don’t we?”
She is eyeing that notch in his collarbone with intent, though she does no more than brush a finger along it.
Ben gives the slightest little shiver at that brush, and grins at her. He bends his head again to nip at the edge of her ear, and murmurs into it, “Yeah. A house first.” It is current circumstances, perhaps, that lend the words a suggestion that they should get a room. If you know what he means.
Rather than getting a room, however, he straightens again. “I hope you will get to know him, if you don’t mind my askin’ it. He is shy as hell, but I reckon you would be a real good kind of friend for him. He’s done time as a army chaplain and healer — over in Kalimdor, in Theramore an’ at Warsong? So maybe he has got some good experience for you, too. Hard to hit it off with a fellow that shy — though I’m tryin’ — but I’d bet you are just the kind of friend he needs.”
Her smile softens and her dark eyes warm. “My Ben,” she murmurs, transferring her touch to his jaw, a trace of his stubble, then she cups her hand around it. “You are so good to others. Not many people would have noticed or cared that Mordecai is shy and alone. But then you do have that protective streak I love so much.
“In fact, that’s how this whole thing started,” she says. “You know that? You saved a woman who was nothing but nasty to you, when even nastier men were treating her poorly. And so you needed healing and then I got you a shirt and you got me a locket …”
With a sigh, she drops her hand and rests her cheek against his chest. “My Ben,” she says again, softly.
“Your Ben,” he agrees, and slips a hand into her hair to cradle her against him. “Also,” he admits after a moment, “I have seen that Mordecai is real shy, and I would like to help him along with that and make sure he’s got some friends. But he ain’t entirely alone. You never heard the name before? Harbrooke?”
“Yes,” she says, absorbing his warmth. “It comes after Mordecai.”
Ben huffs a soft laugh. “Well,” he concedes. “Yes. It does that too. But also — Miss Cressidha never mentioned to you her fiancé?”
“No,” Mizzy says, tipping her head back and back and back. “We um … didn’t exactly talk about that kind of thing.”
She frowns a little. “At least, I don’t think we did. There may have been some panicking and several times when my face almost burned entirely off my skull.”
Ben blinks and peers down at her. “You — what? What the hell kind of conversation did you have with her? She wasn’t — I mean, was she mean?” His expression is clouding. Because, you see, Cressidha is a mage. Who could, in theory, probably burn people’s faces off their skulls. Why anyone would do this to Mizzy, Ben’s face says, is extremely unclear, but it would not end well for that person.
“Mean?” He can’t mean Cressidha. “Cressidha Aspenwood?” He must mean Cressidha. “Bless, Ben, she would never be mean! We talked about sex!”
Oh Light. She looks around, grateful that everyone is too busy being wounded or fighting or fighting while wounded. Whew. Thank the Light for infernals.
Ben does some more blinking. “You — and Miss Cressidha? Talked about — ?” He awaits clarification cautiously, in case when Mizzy said sex she meant, like, something other than sex-sex. Maybe she said sects. Priest talk. “Did she, like … want advice? As a … engaged lady? Or … something?”
“No,” Mizzy explains patiently, peeking around to make sure no one’s listening. “This was before. When I still … you know. Seeds and pods and the romance novel.”
YOU know, Ben.
“So you … asked her for advice?” Judging by the crease in Ben’s brow, this makes even less sense to him. Clearly Cressidha has not struck him as Authoritative on the subject.
This is a very embarrassing discussion. Mizzy’s forehead thunks against Ben’s chest. “I thought maybe she’d know a … a safe way to kiss someone. A proper way. So I could kiss you more and still be proper because you kissed me and I liked it so.”
It’s mostly said to his sternum. Let’s hope it relays the message.
Ben’s sternum absorbs this information.
“Oh,” he says eventually. “Okay.” He puts his hands on her hips and gently but firmly maneuvers her back against the wall. “Did she have some good advice for you? And … you told her you liked it, huh?” His smile is audible. Sure, it may have been one inexperienced young lady too timid to say the s-word aloud seeking advice on propriety from another, presumably equally inexperienced young lady, but his girl bragged on him, says his tone.
How anyone getting it so regularly can still blush about it is an eternal Mizzy mystery. She laughs a little and slaps his chest in rebuke. “NOOOOooo,” she says. “She didn’t have any advice for me. Well, about the kissing she said that maybe if no one saw it, but I said that I didn’t think kissing in private would be very proper either and then we started talking about more … um … intricate? Things?”
She looks around again. No one’s paying attention but that never stopped her from being sure everyone’s paying attention.
“Oh yeah?” Ben traps her hand against his chest and raises his eyebrows, the very picture of confused innocence. “Intricate things? Like what?”
Laughter is her only defense, so she does it more. In case that doesn’t work, she’s still employing the Turn Pink maneuver. “Ben!” she protests. But she lowers her eyes and, still smiling, confesses, “You know. How … babies and things. She didn’t know and I didn’t know and so we …” She squirms a little. “Guessed.”
Ben grins down at her and shifts closer, pinning her absolutely against the wall, hands possessively on her hips again. “You guessed. Why didn’t you just ask me? Or Aunt Nir?” He tilts his head. “… you set her straight yet? I will not ask what you guessed, but I am guessin’ myself that she prob’ly needs to be set straight. If you haven’t.”
Mizzy seems very distressed at being pinned. Oh help. My handsome husband who I adore has his body plastered all over mine. Help. “Oh yes, ask you, that would’ve been very productive. I’m certain you’d have only been too willing to show me, and I still was fairly certain I should’ve slapped you for kissing me!”
Her hands circle his lean waist, resting at the small of his back. “Anyway, I did ask Niris, after a fashion, and I even wrote to Cressidha saying I’d learned what we wanted to know and would she like to know. She wrote back yes.” So there. “I just … haven’t gotten around to it.” Extremely Pink upgrade deployed.
Ben nods gravely. His gaze roves her face and he crooks a slight smile, lifting a hand to brush his thumb across an Extremely Pink cheek. Extremely Pink seems to please him, though he has almost certainly witnessed its deployment before. “Well,” he observes reasonably, “good thing you girls are both here now. You should have plenty of chance to catch up and sort her out, yeah?”
Then he says, more seriously, “Anyhow, though, I thought if you had heard the name before, that might be where from. Because he — Mordecai, yeah? — he used to be Miss Cressidha’s fiancé.”
“Mm hmm,” she agrees, staring up at him, just the feathery touch of a smile left. Then she starts and blinks and processes his actual words. “Oh! Do you suppose I should talk to her first about him, before speaking with him?”
“Well, no,” says Ben. “I said he used to be, yeah? He is Cole’s … fiancé now. The wedding is gonna be pretty soon, I think. Anyhow, so it’d be nice for us to make him feel welcomed, you know? Since he’s gonna be Cole’s … husband?” It is the slightest questioning rise, as Ben realizes he is not one hundred percent clear himself what you call the spouse of a man if that spouse is also himself a man? This was not covered in the etiquette book Colson lent him a few months back.
“But surely she knows him better than I do,” Ismene says reasonably. “She’ll know, oh, what his favorite food is or who he knows that I might know. Conversation starters, I mean. And yes, I suppose fiancé is correct. The man to whom one is engaged. You used to be my fiancé, for about three seconds. Until we got to the priests.” She grins at him.
Ben grins back at her and brushes her cheek again. Less pink now. Disappointing. “Okay,” he agrees. “Sure, she prob’ly would. I mean, you two — you and him, I mean — got work in common, so that is kind of a conversation starter? But Miss Cress would know some more, I guess. And you are overdue for a talk with her anyhow, seems like.”
Nope, pink again. “I think that’s a talk I’d rather not have. Maybe you should speak with her,” she says, brown eyes wide and soft. “You know so much more than I do.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Okay,” he concedes. “I will tell her you sent me, on account of you thought I’d explain it better.”
“All right,” Mizzy says, clearly feeling she’s called his bluff. Then she frowns. “Wait, what if she wants you to demonstrate? You can’t demonstrate! She’s … rich and beautiful! I’ll tell her, just never you mind. You are married!”
“I am,” Ben agrees. “I am extremely married. So probably yeah, it is more appropriate for you to tell her.” He hesitates, then knits his brow sternly at her. “You ain’t really worried about that, are you? That I’d carry on in an unmarried way?”
Ismene smooths her hands along his shoulders. “No,” she admits. “Not when I think about it. But it’s easy to be jealous. You’re tall and strong and handsome, and you ride around saving people and wearing shining armor … I think every woman must fall in love with you, just a little.” Brown eyes peek up at him.
"Ismene Hazan, that is some picture of me you have got in your head. I am flattered." His manner is serious now, not teasing. "I do not think ladies are fallin' over themselves about it, but even if they was it makes no difference, because I'm your Ben." He smiles wryly. "Like you ain't the sweetest, most beautiful girl around. I'm surprised I ain't had to fight half the Hold about it yet." He is absolutely prepared to fight half the Hold about it, his tone says.
That arrant bit of silliness is dismissed out of hand. “Well,” she temporizes, looking down again, “I suppose it’s for the best we each think the world of the other.” She pushes it all aside with a shake of her head, babyfine hair shivering with the motion. “All right, so that’s Mordecai and Rae. Any other lonely Cobalters on your list of People Who Need Nice Friends?” Her smile is back, as is the warm approval in her eyes.
"I don't know that she's lonely," Ben muses, "because she stays busy and also she's keeping pretty regular company with a man, but I do wonder if maybe Mrs. Ismene Hazan could do with a couple more nice friends? If you got some time, maybe you should ask around, with Rae or Mordecai or Miss Cressidha?" He smiles fondly at her. "I am honest, Mizzy, when I say I think you would be a good friend to them. But it ain't like you get nothin' from it neither. I think they could all be friends back at you, which might be nice, yeah? Sweetest girl in the world ought to have a whole damn flock of friends."
That makes her blink and go the opposite of pink, which in this case just means ‘pale-ish’. “Oh no. No, I have plenty of friends. I have you, and Sil, and Halliday. I’ve never had so many friends. P-people don’t … they won’t really like me. You know how I get and then they’ll say ‘She’s slow and backwards and tries too hard’ and then they won’t just be people I don’t know yet who might be nice, they’ll be people who know me but don’t like me, you must see how that’s worse!”
"Hey," says Ben soothingly, "hey, hey." He lifts a hand to lay it lightly around the base of her throat, a very gentle restraint, which may or may not in fact be soothing. "No one is gonna think that. I promise you. Who'd think you're slow? You never been slow a day in your life, Mrs Hazan. People might think maybe you get a little flustered, but no one's gonna think worse of you for it. Everyone's got their own kind of fluster, yeah? Anyhow, you already know Miss Cressidha and had a pretty flusterin' talk with her, it sounds like, and not only did you come out of it okay but she wrote back to say yes she'd like to talk with you more about it, and also I guess she drew you some dresses based on that one talk. And trust me, I have talked to Mordecai, and that poor fellow is so shy he would melt into a puddle if he could to stop people noticin' him. He is for sure not gonna be thinking anybody else is any kind of awkward." His gaze is warm and earnest and concerned, and his thumb strokes the pulse in the side of her throat.
That pulse isn’t fluttering, it’s definitely going WHAMMITY-WHAMMITY-WHAMMITY under his thumb. “N-no, they do! They think that because they don’t know that I just … I can’t talk when all those people are … Like when you made me ri– Well, you didn’t make me, that’s not fair, but when you just … so I rode even though all those people and they’re so … Even though you’re one too! I mean, they’re fam– Anyway then we got to the bar and I — I didn’t want to ask ab-bout people ending up in random … But I had to because what if you went through and then didn’t … and everyone looked at me and I was stammering and …”
With a shiver, she hides against him much as she tried to hide behind his arm that day. And was mostly successful, let us note. She whispers, “I’m very sure they must think me slow.”
"Okay," says Ben, still soothing: his whole body language is wilfully projecting A Soothe. He lets go of Mizzy’s throat to collect her against him and begins to stroke her back. Soothingly. "I am sorry, first off, that you felt obliged to ride with us if you were not comfortable about it. I would not have made you. But you had only just arrived and I was pretty happy to have you with me, and you are part of Cobalt too, yeah? Also, you asked a damn good question, and it was good someone did." Pet pet. "Can I ask you something?"
She nods. Just that.
"Okay," he says, and then strokes her back some more in silence. At length, though, he does ask: "Out of Captain Jocoza, Aunt Niris, and Miss Cressidha, would you say any of those ladies is not sharp?"
“No!” she answers, looking up at him, eyes wide. Then she checks around just in case any of the three (or Light forbid all of them) were nearby, listening in case she said yes.
Ben nods. "I don't think it neither. But Miss Cressidha, now, I already said she would like you to talk to her again — you said it, in fact, that she wrote back yes — and that she drew up some dresses for you just because. Aunt Nir you might have noticed does not suffer a lot of foolishness and she told me I have done well in marrying you and she expects you will be a good and … civilizing is the word she used — influence on me. And Captain Jo has you for an assistant and left you to manage the whole damn office while she was gone. So none of those three sharp ladies who have all spoke more than a dozen words at you think you are slow. Okay? I do not want — I ain't pushin' you, I do not want you scared or uncomfortable, Mizmainy, you are safe with me, okay? But I just want you to think about that, and think about the kind of people who likes and respects you back. Okay?"
He wraps one arm around her waist and threads his other hand into her hair at the nape of her neck, keeping her close. "And I am no Captain Jo or Gerhold for brains but I ain't dumb, and you are a pretty fucken clever girl in my opinion. When I was tellin' Mr Ference months back why you would be a good Ference wife, that was one of the reasons. He did not disagree with me. You tell me some damn smart advice all the time."
With a shaky sigh, she leans into him. This is warm. This is safe. “I know I’m smart,” she says, slightly muffled, “and I know you know. And I think Niris knows. But other people who don’t know me won’t. I’ll be nice to– Well, I’m nice to everyone but I’ll talk to Mordecai, and Rae if you really want me to, but just don’t ask me to for me. I’m happy. I have everything I need. I’ll do it for them. All right?”
She doesn’t look up to see if it’s all right. She just hides against her husband.
"Okay," says Ben gently. "That's all I want, really. Is you to be happy. Okay? I won't push. If you feel like I am gettin' too pushy about it, you can … smack me, or whatever." A hint of a smile in his voice. "You are nice to everyone, just sweet as hell, and that is why I would like you to talk to Mordecai. I reckon he could use it. Rae too, though I know she might be trickier because she has got a prickly shell. I won't lean on the Rae thing if you don't like, I just think you would be good for her. I don't think she believes there are real sweet people in the world no more. But I am not askin' you to be sweet to Rae at the expense of you, so if you don't like it, that's that." He hesitates. "And I do think you got to talk to Miss Cressidha again. Not just about Mordecai, or … sorting out your other talk, but because you are gonna be a lady yourself, Lady Ference, and it'll be good for us to have the Aspenwoods for friends when we got to … do noble stuff. She will be a good friend for you to have."
“Fine,” she says, nudging herself away from him as much as she can with a wall behind her. Now she looks up, a semi-resentful look. Stupid logic. “You’re right about Lady Aspenwood. And I do like her. She’s very nice.” Glum compliments. Thanks, Eeyore. “And Mordecai because, well, he’ll be an Aspenwood too, won’t he? Or will Colson be a Harbrooke?” She thinks about it. “I suppose they’ll be Aspenwoods because that’s the better name to have. And Rae because it’s important to you, but she doesn’t like me much at all, you know.”
"They will be Aspenwoods," Ben confirms. "That was the deal, I thi–" He breaks off and considers, frowning. "I think it was the deal. But does that mean if he married Miss Cressidha he'd have been an Aspenwood?" He peers at Mizzy. Nobility: pls explain. "And Rae … honestly she tries real hard not to seem like she likes anybody. But I think it's kind of a kicked-dog thing. She has took a lot of kicks from people she trusted, and it has made her always shy of the next boot."
“She’s not shy, she bites,” Mizzy mumbles. Then she tosses her head. “They’d have been Harbrookes, unless they agreed he’d take her name, but that only happens if there aren’t any males left in the family line. So the name doesn’t die out, you see. Which does make one wonder what the agreement was, actually. I can’t imagine what the Harbrookes have that the Aspenwoods need so badly.”
Ben furrows his brow. "The Harbrookes — I know they were after money. Miss Cressidha’s dowry, in specific. I guessed the Aspenwoods were after land, but I also know they have got land, so … could be wrong." A thought occurs to him and he blinks at Mizzy. "Do you — did you have a dowry?"
Ismene nods. “Of course. But I won’t get it if my parents don’t approve of the match. I’m the only heir, so the entire business and the lands and all my parents’ money is my dowry, basically.” Oh dear. “You … you don’t care, right? If we don’t get it? Because you said you didn’t, only you didn’t think it was my dowry just my inheritance but it’s basically the same thing in my case you see!”
"Mizmainy," says Ben firmly, and takes her face between his hands. "I do not give a shit about your dowry. Nobody got to pay me to marry you. I was just thinkin' it might be a point to make to your people when we go to deal with them. That they got the title without havin' to shell out the dowry. But if it amounts to the same thing as inheritance, then …." He shrugs. "Either way, I ain't fussed. Just thinkin' about whether it might help smooth things for you."
Just as suddenly as she gets upset, she calms again and grins at him. “I’d pay you to marry me,” she informs him. “I can pay in … apples? And really bad pancakes? And sponge baths?”
Ben whistles. “Well, now, that is a hell of an offer. But lucky for you, ma’am, you got to marry me free of charge. And let me tell you, that was a special Ismene-Callis-only deal, so it was real thrift of you to snap it up.” He stoops to kiss the tip of her nose. “Anyway, speakin’ of our future lands an’ estates, guess what I have brought?” He steps back to gesture at the crate by their feet, which has stopped squabbling and now only emits the occasional discontented mutter.
She eyes the box. “That better not be our house, Bennarin Marie Hazan.”
Ben grins at her. “Well. I s’pose you might fit in it, but not the both of us, for sure. Anyway, no, it is already occupied.” He nudges the box with his foot; he does not kick it like the football, but a storm of indignant squawking erupts from inside it nevertheless. Jail for Bennarin! Jail for Bennarin for One Thousand Years!!!
Ben crouches down by the crate. “Hey, ladies,” he says soothingly. The soothing does not seem to work as well on chickens as it does on actual ladies. “Y’all calm down, we will get you settled here in a few. This is Mrs. Ismene Hazan.” He looks up at Mizzy and cants her a half-grin. “Mizzy, this is Princess and Darlin’.” After a moment he adds, in case she has not discerned this from all the clucking, “They are hens.”
Mizzy crouches as well, peering at the box in delight. “You got chickens? Can I pet them?”
"You can," says Ben, clearly as pleased by her reaction as she is by, apparently, the prospect of chickens. "Well, you can pet Darlin'. She is real tame. Should've seen her followin' after me. Princess is a little … snickety, though."
He rises to his feet again, lifting the crate with him and tucking it under his arm. With his free hand, he reaches for Mizzy’s hand. "Let's get out from underfoot, though, yeah? Someplace quieter that won't fuss 'em as much." The commotion from outside has quieted entirely by now, but occasional knots of intent-looking personnel still hurry past the pair. Ben draws Mizzy down the corridor toward one of the less-used side armory rooms.