Chapter Text
Since the trial, troubled dreams dog Barok’s nights. Klint on the autopsy table, dressed in only his red viscera, gloved hands slipping into him as if into a pocket or a puppet. Sithe and Gregson, whispering to each other at the edges of his hearing. Stronghart’s hand on his shoulder. Balmung snuffling wetly at his feet. Genshin, what he’d said to Genshin, all the words that he can never take back—
Footsteps echo in the hallway outside his cell.
“Still abed?”
Barok sits up, fast enough to disorient. For a moment, his sleep-blurred eyes struggle with the face on the other side of the bars—but no, that other face had worn a mask—
“Prosecutor Asogi,” he says.
Asogi’s dark eyes take him in: unshaven, bleary-eyed, his shirt and hair rumpled from sleep. Amusement curls the corner of his mouth. “Really. This morning I’ve already been to Dover and back.”
“Forgive the discourtesy of my current state,” Barok says, straight-backed, dignified—an English gentleman can muster dignity no matter the situation. “I had not expected the paperwork to be processed so quickly.”
“I’ve had a busy few days,” Asogi agrees.
Asogi himself is, of course, impeccably dressed, the white of his uniform luminous in the dimness of the prison. He has a cup of coffee in one hand and a stack of files in the other.
At his hip… “You do not have the other sword.”
“I have the honor of entrusting my soul to my friend’s keeping. I entrust the rest of me to your keeping. My teacher.”
“At the moment, I rather seem to be in your keeping,” Barok returns.
On the other side of the bars, Asogi’s eyes narrow pleasurably like a cat’s. “Yes.”
He takes a step back, as if to find a better vantage point. He spends a moment longer to appreciate the view, before motioning for a warden.
The door unlocks with a noisy rattling. “Dress,” says Asogi. “We have business.”
He makes himself at home while Barok drags himself out of bed, setting the files down on the cell’s small table, lighting the stub of candle in the holder. He sips at his coffee as he leafs through Barok’s notes: the first painful, halting attempts to begin an account of the events of ten years ago. Barok does not stop him. Kazuma Asogi has more right to this story than anyone.
Asogi sets down the notes. Barok lets out a quiet breath and resumes buttoning his vest.
“The Prosecutor’s Office is in pandemonium,” Asogi says. “Every major trial that can be pushed back, has been pushed back, but the day-to-day roster still needs taking care of. I took the liberty of accepting the Watterson case on your behalf—”
“They let you?”
“And they were grateful for it.” Barok’s hand is still outstretched, its purpose forgotten; Asogi drops into it the cravat pin from the table. “We could both use some goodwill around the office, given our current circumstances.”
“I was not aware my silent apprentice was so adept at ingratiation.”
“I keep my hand in out of necessity, given I have neither wealth, title, nor a reputation for supernatural death-dealing to hold me aloof.”
No, he doesn’t. Asogi’s position is breathtakingly precarious. If not for Stronghart’s beneficence, he would have been deported upon arrival. If not for his role in Stronghart’s downfall, he would be in jail as more than a visitor. London has afforded the Asogi family the bitterest of hospitality.
“Why did you stay?” Barok asks, abruptly.
He is still not used to the knowledge that his silent apprentice can laugh .
It’s like sunlight splitting the lowering clouds. “There’s too much I need to learn.” Asogi’s teeth flash. “After all, I lost .”
And then he’s reaching for the files. “In fact, before we go to the scene of the crime, there’s certain details I wanted to ask you about. The procedure here suggests that…”
It’s with some consternation that Barok has to interrupt him, some ways into his explanation. “Forgive me. Please repeat what you just said.”
Asogi cocks an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re growing rusty after barely a week out of the courts.”
“I have not been…resting well.”
Asogi looks at him. And then he holds out his cup of coffee.
Barok looks down. It’s pitch-black and half-drunk.
“We have a crime scene to go to,” Asogi says, challenge glinting in his eyes like an out-held sword.
Barok takes the cup and downs it. “Then let us go.”