In Which Falidor's Schemes Have Limits

October 8, 1202

"Couldn't you just cook up one of your diabolical plots? You used to do that all the time when we lived on campus."

That... was not entirely untrue. But said diabolical plots, Falidor had always made sure, never harmed, traumatized, or permanently altered the lives of the targets of said plots. Darry's request differed somewhat. It also differed in another important aspect. "Darry, all of my plots involve getting people black-out drunk. Do you really want your baby sister getting so drunk that she doesn't remember how she woke up with a hangover?"

"If it somehow keeps her from running off to Death Island? Damn right, I do."

"Death Island." Just what this conversation needed: another element of context-free nonsense. Darry must have been spending too much time listening to those damn trees. "What the hell is Death Island?"

"Oh--not common knowledge yet." Darry sighed in relief, or some facsimile of such. Ish. "Good. So... you remember Landus? He married my cousin Lyssa? They're in Carvallon now, since he's stationed there?"

"Sure? All you nobles do kind of look alike--even you 'technically not full nobles'."

"Funny." Darry groaned. "Anyway, he sent this report to Lorn about one of the islands off the coast. There's a convent-run orphanage there, and apparently they're dealing with... an outbreak."

An outbreak. That explained Darry's sudden willingness to accept the idea of a drunken Aspen. "Of... what?"

"Leprosy."

That really explained Darry's sudden willingness to accept the idea of a drunken Aspen. "All right, I think I can fill in the gaps now. I'm guessing Aspen isn't privy to this report, and that you and your father and everyone else who knows about the illness thing wants to keep it that way--because, knowing Aspen, she'll absolutely make a martyr of herself and head out there. So, in the event that she does find out, you want me to... keep her drunk for the rest of her life?"

"All right, when you put it like that, it sounds terrible." And yet, Darry made no effort to phrase it in a better light. "Just... at least she won't die young of fucking leprosy."

"And instead she risks dying of the much-preferable alcoholism. That is, assuming that my betrothed doesn't object to my obsessively providing drinks to another woman."

"Well, I never said it had to be alcohol. You can come up with schemes that don't involve alcohol, right?"

"Darry, my father taught me how to scheme; it's either alcohol, nudity, or unsuspecting animals--or some combination of the above." Falidor indulged himself with a smirk, but it was apparently too much to hope that Darry would find any part of that humorous. "Look, if this isn't going to be public knowledge, I don't know if you need to worry about it too much. Sweet that you'd be willing to risk your sister's respectability to save her life, though. A lot of people have an odd tendency to mix up those priorities, it seems."

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