Where did that come from. It's like he turned around and the kid's an entirely different person again. Part of him is tempted to shake him until a more agreeable personality comes out. Part of him is proud. "You think I should feel guilty about trading one man to save a city?"

Theron hesitates, but his voice is quiet and steady when he answers. "Maybe not. But if you don't—if trading me away doesn't cost you anything, not even guilt—then it means you've already decided I'm not a person. Just something useful. Something convenient." He pauses, searching Kirill's face carefully. "I don't know if that's supposed to make me feel better, or you."

"If the Judge wants to say I'm a monster she's surely got plenty of ammunition." Kirill drains his glass. "I still think a woman'd do you good. You want someone to be nice to you, tell you you're lovely and special and wonderful. I know you said this isn't about comfort, but - not much it doesn't help with."

Theron studies Kirill silently for a long moment, a slow, rueful smile forming despite himself. "I appreciate the thought," he says quietly, pushing away a tangle of conflicting emotions. "But if someone does tell me those things, I'd rather it be because they believe it—not because you paid them."

He picks up his glass, turning it thoughtfully between his fingers. "Besides, comfort isn't what I need right now. What I need is to figure out how to protect myself. Even if you're willing to trade me, that doesn't mean I have to make it easy."

He glances up again, meeting Kirill's gaze steadily. "I have to find out what choices I actually have. And I think it's about time I start looking."

"You're doing the thing again."

"What thing?"

"The - grandiosity. Making your sentences into speeches. Also when you finish them you kind of - your eyes glaze over -"

Theron freezes, suddenly self-conscious. He drops his gaze, embarrassment evident in the tightening of his shoulders. "I didn't realize I was doing that," he murmurs, voice softer, less certain. "It just—comes out that way."

He takes a careful breath, visibly struggling with something uncomfortable. "I think—I think when I'm not answering questions directly, it's like my thoughts don't quite stay together. So I...I turn them into speeches, because it makes them feel clearer. Realer."

"What do you do when I'm not in the room, just stare at the wall?"

Theron looks away, embarrassment giving way to genuine discomfort. "Sometimes," he admits softly. "Or I'll go through notes, over and over. When you're not here to ask questions—when nobody's here—it's like I don't even know how to start thinking."

"Well, all right, what we should do is get you a dog, train it to jog you out of it. I know a guy might have a Dwellersund he'd sell me."

Theron looks back at Kirill uncertainly, clearly torn between embarrassment and curiosity. "A dog," he repeats quietly, turning the idea over. "You think it'd really help—just having something else alive around?"

"It's not like I've treated a fae curse before. But I notice - it seems like it might be crafted to keep you - docile? You always answer questions. You're always very focused, when i'm asking them. You don't walk away, even when you're angry, and when no one's around, you're just ....waiting."

Theron stays quiet for a moment, absorbing Kirill’s words. A fae curse—Kirill had called it that before, but Theron hadn't fully understood, hadn't believed it. Now the description fits uncomfortably well. Always answering. Always waiting. Docile.

"I didn't really understand what you meant before," he says, voice low. "But you're right. When someone asks a question, I can't refuse to answer. It's not even a choice. And when I'm alone, it's worse. I'm just waiting, like a tool put aside until it's needed."

He meets Kirill's eyes, embarrassment and determination mixing in his expression. "If a dog can help—if something else alive could break that waiting—then let's try it. Curse or not, I can't live like this."

"Well now I'm curious what happens if you try not answering a question. But if you don't want to try that we can go get a dog. ...I will go get a dog. We don't want Razmir's spies to see you."

Theron tenses visibly at the thought, his expression cautious. "I don't think I could refuse even if I tried," he admits. "But—I'm curious too. Maybe once we have the dog. If it goes badly, at least someone else will be around. 

And Kirill—thank you. For helping me with this."

Rhonthe has never once been ashamed of selling out; most men would have sold out for less. He prevented an assassination of the King once where the idiot man was paid three weeks' wages to try it. The insult was worse than the injury, really.

Rhonthe held out until Razmir's servants took his wife and children hostage and promised to release one for every month he spent in Razmir's service. And put him in touch with someone else he'd done this to, who'd gotten half of them back, in the end. Really, at that point, no man would stay pledged to a hopeless cause. 

He is not among those who were informed what Kirill's expensive secret project was, but he can guess. And he has every excuse to stop Kirill in the halls mid-afternoon, when the man's returning from uptown with a herding dog for some reason, and say, 'I don't suppose you got anywhere with those letters'.

"King's business," says Kirill. 

But they've known each other a long time, and Rhonthe can tell the difference. He returns to his office to compose a letter - not in that cipher, obviously - which a scry by the mid-afternoon light might read. After he feels the scry, he gives them a minute and burns it. 

It's not like it'll be so terrible to have Razmir rule the place, anyway.

"Right," says Kirill. "Here we've got him. Answers to Hagfish, apparently, but a dwellersund'll answer to anything with about two days' training. You know how to train a dog? ....tell me how to train a dog, you do know it."

Theron hesitates, unsure, but the dog's already sniffing curiously at his shoes. "I...think so?" he says, more tentative than he wants to sound. "Basic commands, reward good behavior. Reinforce what you want him to do. Repetition, consistency."

Hagfish wags his tail, pressing his broad head insistently against Theron's leg until Theron gives in and scratches him behind the ears. "It should be simple enough," Theron says softly, gaining confidence as he speaks. "Reward him when he pays attention to me. Prompt him to interact—ask him questions, even if he can't answer. Maybe just talking to him will help."

He glances up at Kirill, thoughtful. "It can't be harder than training myself."

"Dog training works if you're smart and the dog's smart, or if you're smart and the dog's an idiot, or if you're an idiot and the dog's smart. Doesn't usually take if you and the dog are both idiots. Hagfish, are you an idiot?"

The dog stands at attention.

"- so, see, you'll be fine." Kirill pours himself another glass of whiskey. 

Theron snorts softly and crouches down, eye-level with Hagfish. He grabs the dog's face gently in both hands, squishing the floppy jowls. "Well, Hagfish," he says dryly, "one of us had better be a genius."

The dog blinks slowly, then slobbers across Theron's palm with great dignity.

"Why don't you make sure he's got all his basic commands down - sit, stay, heel, kill - and see if you think of anything else you're good at like you're good at ciphers."

Theron eyes Kirill sideways. "Kill?" he echoes, skeptical.