Cohost writing prompt: @spy-thief-assassin-who — Assassin who won't stop pulling out another knife
At the doors to the Great Library, two pike-wielding guards block the path. Not in any personal way; they're just there, and although their livery is as gaudy as the rest of the Sanctum of Knowledge, they have the distinct air of not being ceremonial.
To one side, there's a desk, and at it sits one of the Sanctum's scholars; a librarian, inkstained and squinting, hair dragged brutally into a pinned bundle at the back of her head, from which it's rebelliously jailbreaking itself, one wavy strand at a time.
"I can't allow you to take weapons into the presence of the Chancellor," she says, and after only a token staring match, the Destined Warrior acquiesces, laying his sword on her desk with poor grace.
"Does this count?" the hexworth says dubiously, putting two fingers to the sheathe of her athame. "It's a ritual implement—"
"Much as we love a good terminological debate, here," the scholar says, "it's functionally a sharp blade."
"...I suppose."
The magician reluctantly turns some indeterminate trinkets out of xer pockets; the whipcord scoundrel who gets huffy if you use the word "thief" sets out some knives. The big-thewed silent type hands over her wicked limb-hewing axe with a placid smile and not a moment of hesitation. The veiled young woman, in a noblewoman's travelling gown of slightly old-fashioned cut and careful absence of lineage-identifying marks, surrenders a slim dagger of feminine delicacy.
And the scholar folds her hands, looks benevolently at them, and does not signal to the guards to unbar the door.
"Anyone who would really rather keep their weapons," she says, "is welcome to keep me company out here."
There's a certain embarrassed shuffling. The scoundrel discovers another knife; the magician pretends to be surprised that some additional inscrutable bauble about xer person might be considered a threat.
The scholar waits, again. Hums lightly. "Really," she says. "If your assassin would prefer, I have an extra chair. I can call for a pot of tea."
The magician and scoundrel exchange rapid, calculating looks. "I could drink tea, maybe," the scoundrel allows diffidently.
"Mm," the scholar says. "...No disrespect, sir, you're welcome to tea; but your assassin?" and makes a shushing gesture when the magician starts to sputter something.
"Please don't disrespect me, or your Niece of Starlight," she says pleasantly, and the young noblewoman quietly clicks her tongue, drifts up to the desk, and divests herself of another dagger.
Then another one, then several throwing knives of alchemically blackened steel, a wire garotte, another knife, a second garotte, and several small devices of obscure purpose and probable magical working.
Then there's a slight pause.
"There are five more knives," the young lady says matter-of-factly, "that I cannot get to, myself, without ripping my skirt. I don't care to allow these people beyond my sight; I'm afraid I must ask your assistance, Daughter of the Eye."
"Of course." The scholar rises and walks around the desk. "Might I ask," she adds, as she puts a single gentle finger to the assassin's shoulder, which the young woman easily follows the pressure of and bends herself over the desk, "that the remainder of you avert your gaze?"
Spaced somewhat apart, amid the gentle rustle of skirts, four weapons are audibly placed on the desk.
"I apologise, Niece of Starlight," the scholar murmurs, "that my fingers are callused, and probably somewhat cold—" and the young lady draws a little breath; and then a fifth knife clicks onto the wooden top of the table. "There."
"I appreciate your care and consideration," the assassin says demurely, as the scholar sits back down; adjusting her dress a little as her companions turn their various facial expressions back toward her.
The scholar gives her a little smile.
"...Now your hairpins," she says.