To Kill a Nightingale

Unfulfilled

"Bashnag. A Septim for your thoughts."

It had been a good long while, indeed all the way since when he was a runt, when Bashnag gro-Ghasharzol had last come anywhere near the vicinity of anything that could have been characterized as a flinch, but now it was a damned near miss. "Nothin' important, sir," he rumbled. "Just, the prisoner. His unresponsiveness . . . bothers me. And I was just wonderin' what to do about it."

Far too many words there. He grunted. It hadn't been, of course, at all what he'd been thinking about. He could care less whether or not the cat talked. Almost better he did not.

"Still thinking about that, are you, old friend?" The Nightingale spiced his words with a tender smile. "Not to worry, his silence is hardly the greatest threat facing me."

Bashnag raised one eyebrow but infinitesimally. Hesitated.

"What is, then?" he finally asked. "Sir?"

The Nightingale reached up to place a hand on one of the Orsimer's massive shoulders. "Why, losing you, of course! So, please, try to stay with me here."

Bashnag grunted, giving a nod.

The Nightingale sat down in front of the table and lifted the goblet of wine to his lips, his eyes twinkling at Bashnag over the rim. For someone who could kill people within the blink of an eye without as much as a flicker of his, he could certainly have an affable air about him. To be sure, the sort of affable air that could just as soon turn into its opposite. Overall, his was a presence about which you could never be sure what, if anything, truly lurked behind it.

"As I said, this is going to be a rather busy day for us. Are you sure you won't join me for breakfast?"

"No, sir. Thank you. I prefer to not eat in the morning."

"Aye. I know. Honestly, for someone as bulky as yourself, I'd really expect you to eat much more than you do."

"Yes, sir."

The man eyed him for a moment longer before grunting softly. "I'm sure I will never quite come to understand you, friend. No matter, I shall be done shortly and then we can be on your way."

Bashnag grunted.

The Nightingale attended to his platter of fried potatoes, bacon, and eggs. Between bites, he kept talking. "I have been thinking. This place, I've grown weary of it of late. So . . . bleak. I believe, as our operation is moving into its next phase, it's time to consider a new home. Don't you agree?"

Bashnag had not heard any talk of any new phases until now. "As you say, sir."

"Not just as I say, Bashnag. This concerns you as well. Have you no opinion on the matter? Fret not, I would not ask if I did not truly want to hear it."

After a moment, he replied, "I can't say. I haven't thought about it. Sir."

"Yes," the Imperial mused. "Best not to rush it, true. However, I have given it quite some thought already. And I'm beginning to feel that we would do better someplace else. I am thinking we could return this castle to Isran. Do you think that our metal-armed friend would like that?"

"I imagine he might."

"It's settled then! After today, I shall start the necessary arrangements. Should not be overly complicated."

Bashnag grunted.

"Indeed." The Nightingale cast a nearly wistful eye about the room, furnished so plainly it was nearly a parody of minimal. He gave a small sigh. "I must admit to a personal weakness of mine, a touch of the sentimental. Most likely I shall miss even these desolate halls. Yet leave them behind I must."