“That some kind of proposal?”

“Eh.  There are parts to it I wouldn't readily gab, chief.  The public part is I’m mostly keen to travel the planes and stay out of the dead book.

“I read once that our kind ‘consumes secrets like a man consumes a fine banquet’, and while I doubt Kai Zunik the Younger knew his ass from his elbow, I guess it’s fair to say an aria sung by a pretty jay bird hits different when you can play it back at will for the rest of your days.  See the slight tremble in her hand, the hair curling down onto her breast.  Trace the line of her eyes, lighting upon that young man in the third row in particular.”

“Even this.”  He thrusts his chin in the direction of the youth on the stage.  “It’s worth a listen.”

He listens in silence to a few of the lines of verse.

“A modest agenda.”

“Tell me. Have you heard the saying that ‘A man may live three score years if he stays away from violence, four score if he keeps dry and swears off spirits, and five score if he is very lucky and very boring’?”

“Now prophets weep what they in signs foresaw”

says the young man.  One of the drunks leans forward expectantly, perhaps anticipating a verbal stumble.

“Something like it, sure.”

“What is the usual allotment for a mimir?”

“From what I’ve heard, our shapes were crafted so that the knowledge we hold would never be lost.  You won’t see a mimir go lame except by violence or some plague made of the Art.  Never heard of one dying of old age.”

“Ah. I had it in my mind to ask you. I do judge you a sensible man, and I was perplexed why you hadn't yet talked your way out of bondage, both from the dustmen and from your sorcerous master. Surely you have enough cunning to defy any overseer who is not constantly looming over you. But if you have eternity, I can imagine you might see it differently.

Did you enjoy your time in the mortuary?”

“Enjoy?  That’d be a stretch.  I saw and heard some things.  I don’t taste or smell, which is probably a commendable state of being for a dustie.  But can’t say I enjoyed my time in the basement, no.”

“And does your kind… breed?”

Morte tilts his chin fully forward to stare straight upwards at the ceiling for a few seconds.  It's the first time The Nameless One has seen him make that particular movement.

“In fantasy, perhaps.”

He says nothing for a time.  

“I hear you.”

He notices a nagging thought. It isn’t a new one, but now for the first time he’s able to put words to it. 

Morte is… too convenient as a companion. He presents himself as an intelligent, submissive counselor and court jester. He doesn’t raise difficulties. He expresses no ego.

Maybe that is because he was manufactured to order by his mysterious master, much in the way the dustmen train their vessels to fit a particular purpose… but is it not plausible that this mimir was designed for a different patron altogether, to serve as a double agent, acting against he, the immortal, himself?

He says, “Answer immediately. Do you believe it was a coincidence that you and I crossed paths?”

Morte makes a movement with his jaw that calls to mind a grimace.  “No. And don't ask me now what all I suspect about that.”

Bloody hell.

New scenario Option c.2: The adversary is Morte’s master/ creator.

But. In what possible world would it be in Morte’s interest to speak as he just did, if he is an agent of the adversary? Is he to believe the skull is so childishly sloppy in his deceptions that he will blurt out secrets if merely asked forcefully? Or was it to make him think that Morte is playing some high-order recursive bluff game? 

“Very well. You will answer this one simple question, and then afterwards nothing further on the subject for today. Were you expecting me or one like me to arrive this morning, or, rather, more broadly, this month?”

"No."

Hmm.

Any conspiracy that requires 1) his liberating Morte from the dustmen, 2) his choosing Morte as a traveling companion, and 3) Morte betraying him into the hands of his enemy, must needs be some very subtle manipulation, playing out over a long period… for otherwise there would be no point in it. He was already brought helpless before Morte this morning. So the best course is to act at the surface-level interpretation: Morte knows something related to the enemy, the immortality, or the amnesia, but he’s reluctant to share it. 

He should more actively make common cause with the skull, while presenting a false picture of his own state of knowledge concerning the enemy.

“Thank you.”

“It must be quite difficult for you to make your way in this city without having the limbs or hands of a man. I imagine you’d benefit much from having a boy bound to you, to hold coin and handle doors and other like things.”

“We could probably accomplish it in The Hive quite cheaply. If we cannot find a boy who is trustworthy, there might well be some arcane ritual that could cement a servant to you, or at least take the bite out of a betrayal. Would that interest you? I tell you candidly that it is not so unlikely that I might possess immense wealth before our week together is up.”

Morte laughs grimly and slowly rotates his skull back and forth. 

“You've certainly got a way with words.  What would I want with a slave?”

“My mistake. I spoke brashly.”

Then, a few seconds later, “I am at fault,” he says softly, as if to himself.

He doesn’t know the state of the law in Sigil concerning mimirs. Perhaps Morte is permanently designated property, and not person. That might give the dustmen a strong claim on him as stolen goods if ever they’re brought before a magistrate… But no, surely Morte’s sorcerer-master has the prior claim, and in any court proceeding it would swiftly come out that the skull was fenced property.

After they’ve listened to a few more stanzas he says,“I have as much spending money on me now as a small-time peddler. Do you know somewhere in this quarter where we could secure a private room and some hot water to wash? I don’t want a landlord who’ll demand a long engagement, since I intend to honor the counsel of my tattoo about not dossing two nights in any one place.”

“Eh?  No shortage of that sort of thing in The Hive.  But now that you mention it, this gray bearded gentleman here that’s been roasting the poor poet alive was bragging, just before you arrived, cursing too I suppose, of a place he boarded with a gith woman who offers very favorable terms, though he seems not to get along very well with her himself.  Apparently the scuttle is the stew’s always gone by the time he makes it home.  It must be in stumbling distance of this place, I’ll warrant.”