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Ratio has met many individuals employed by the IPC. He has found them, without deviation, to be avaricious, power-hungry, or unforgivably naive. Every last one can only be bothered to think when it involves commerce and bestows upon them a clear benefit.
Aventurine is no exception.
And yet, at the same time, there’s something different about him. Ratio does not know him well, so he cannot quite put his finger on what that difference might be. The eyes, of course, mark him as Sigonian. But that is only a signifier of his history, which amounts to nothing more than an incomplete piece of circumstantial evidence.
As if he can hear Ratio’s thoughts, Aventurine breaks the silence.
“You’ve been staring for a while,” he says. “Something on your mind?”
“I am merely taking the measure of a new acquaintance.”
“You’re an interesting guy, doctor.”
“If this is an attempt to lure me into asking for your thoughts, I wouldn’t hold your breath,” Ratio answers, carefully averting his gaze from Aventurine.
Unfortunately, Aventurine needs no input or feedback to continue. He talks, schemes, and pushes forward endlessly. Ratio might admire him for the energy of the habit, if only it weren’t so irritating.
“I did look into you, you know,” Aventurine says. “Even for a member of the Intelligentsia Guild, you have quite the impressive curriculum vitae.”
“Of course, I do,” Ratio responds, although he should know better than to rise to such obvious bait. “Did you expect anything less?”
“Not at all,” Aventurine answers. “It merely confirmed my previous suspicion that you would make a valuable ally.”
“Make an official request with the IPC if you’re searching for support against the Family.”
“Always ready with an answer. It makes me wonder if there’s anything you don’t know.”
When Ratio raises his gaze from his book, he finds Aventurine’s remarkable eyes on him. Aventurine looks at him less like he might at a competing player—and more like one might assess the value of the pot in the middle of the table before making their bet.
“Have you considered my offer?”
Aventurine grazes the leather palm of his over the bare expanse of Ratio’s wrist until it catches at the bend of Ratio’s elbow. Ratio can feel every hair along both his arms and the nape of his neck stand at attention, sensitized to Aventurine’s caress. How long has it been since anyone touched him like this?
“You cannot hope I will play into your hands with such a pathetic overture,” Ratio says after a beat. There is an unusual scrape in his voice, raw as it hits the small space of air between them. Aventurine’s hand still rests on his arm.
“I don’t wait to see how the dice fall.”
But Aventurine does. He is—and Ratio has been watching long enough to recognize it. Why else would he be here, waiting to see whether Ratio will align with his cause? What else could it be, if not the breathless anticipation for the outcome of a high-stakes bet?
It is also a simple fact that any gambler rolling the dice does nothing to earn his results. There are a dozen elements to how his luck might fall—the weight and balance of the dice, the friction of the board, the pull of gravity as a die tilts tilts tilts until it settles. But regardless of the numbers that show at the end, the gambler exerts no more effort in rolling snake eyes compared to a natural seven.
When Ratio looks back up, Aventurine’s eyes are still fixed on him.
“Tell me,” Ratio says, even though he hadn’t meant to say anything, “if you were to try to sway me to accepting, what would you do to ‘sweeten the pot,’ so to speak?”
Aventurine’s sly mouth curls at the corners. “Oh, doctor, I thought you’d never ask.”
Perhaps that is what sets him apart, Ratio thinks. He is selfish and hungry and proud to a fault—but he casts himself into the game with a lack of self-consciousness that borders on destructive, influencing those around him by the sheer momentum he causes. The only surprising thing is that Ratio is not above letting himself get swept up in that inertia.