They spoke a bit more, him mostly asking her questions. She was an indenture, like one of the ones he’d narrowly avoided. But not as hardened as the orphanage kids.

He was vague about his family, and downplayed his position. “Ah being Chosen ain’t all its cracked up to be. You gotta act all serious and scary all the time. But its all a loada bluster”

He visited her in the kitchens a few times over the next few days. Being friendly and keeping his hands to himself, learning from her about how the servants worked, and picking up bits of gossip.  

She slipped him extra food sometimes, which he didn’t really need now, but it was good to have a friend.  indicated she could be a reliable tool.

Later that week he knocked on the door of the chambers of one of the noble-born students. 

He had sent a note in advance, in carefully neat but simple handwriting, asking to meet. So he only had to wait while she slid back the grate at eye level, confirmed it was him, and removed the bars and locks from within. 

As he entered, she stepped back, keeping a few paces between them.

She had the broad solid build and rounded cheeks he associated with wealthy children. She had a few inches on him in height and tried to emphasize it with how she stood, head tilted to look down at him, affecting a bored and contemptuous air.  

From the corner of his downcast eyes, he caught glimpses of the room around her. A warm-looking quilt on the bed (embroidered with tasteful patterns of hunting devils, in red and black), smooth white paper on the desk, bottles of spirits and wine on the far shelf. All strictly against the rules. It pleases Asmodeus for those with power to enjoy it.

His mouth tasted of acid, his throat was full of hot coals, his stomach throbbing painfully. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to scream. He wanted to swing at her in jealous rage.

Slowly and deliberately, he bowed to her. Not the carefully rank gradated bows between priests, but on his knees in the abject supplication of a peasant before his Lord’s throne.

 “My lady, I come to seek your forgiveness for my transgressions.”

Strictly the title wasn’t necessary. She referred to herself as the Daughter of a Count, but from the gossip she was the fifth child of a third wife, legitimate, but far from inheriting. Raised in proximity to power but not having it herself.

“I spoke out of ignorance in our early lessons, and did not appreciate the nature of nobility, and wisdom of my betters. But scripture teaches us that even the least of Cheliax, the poorest peasant, the most wretched orphan, can serve our Lord well by devoted submission. I wish to offer you my service, and in so doing learn how best to serve our Lord.”

Now to see if he had judged her correctly. 

She didn’t smile. She was Chelish, and some peasant boy supplicating himself wasn’t going to flatter her into letting her guard down.

(But he might notice her posture shift slightly. More upright, more relaxed, still with tension in her arms.)

She’d paid the boy little attention previously, beyond joining in with the others in showing him his place. Such utter abasement was undignified for a Chosen, and a marked shift from his prior impudence. It could be a trick, but he was only a peasant boy. And she’d never had a servant of her own before. 

Before speaking she drew out the knife she’d concealed in her robe, and idly picked at her nails with it, looking down at him with aristocratic contempt.* 

“It is well that you have come to understand your place better, however long that might take it shows some capacity to learn. But I have concerns of my own, and little time to discipline a hound. Were I to grant you my patronage your behavior would reflect on me as well. What value do you bring that it is worth my effort? And why are you dirtying my floor, not that of another of your betters you insulted?”

*She'd seen a noblewoman in an opera do it, before flaying her treacherous lover with the same knife he'd gifted her. A love of the theatre was one of the few things she and her father shared. 

Because you are high enough to act as a protector, but low enough this is worth something to you.

Because none of the others with influence are staunch allies of yours. 

Because you've never abused the servants, so will likely be a soft touch with me as well. 

Because, judging by your unguarded expressions, you have no particular attraction to men. 

She would brush off the most obvious flatteries, she’s suspicious. Needs to be something that feels plausible, while still flattering her self-image. Not just birth then, or beauty, something she can credit to her own actions. 

He allowed a little more confidence into his voice: "I am ignorant of noble politics, so perhaps if I ought to have gone for others were I purely seeking patronage." A strike, but a deniable one, enough to demonstrate he was not an utter idiot. 

"But I do not merely wish protection. I meant what I said about learning to serve our lord best." I am an earnest and naïve peasant boy. 

"I observed your performance in class. You use the powers our Lord grants you with finesse and skill." You can cast an acid splash under the desks, near silently, narrowly targeted. 

"And you perform near perfectly in catechism, where my sadly limited education has left me at a deficit. I could learn these from you, and you could teach me to serve you better. I can serve you in whatever menial ways you desire, a Lady of your station should not be troubled to carry her own books, or clean up the mess after practical classes.” I will raise your status. Others will see you have another Chosen, even a lowly one, at your beck and call. 

“And being of little note to others I may pick up occasional tidbits that they would know to hide from one such as you.” And bait.