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The man is older and has big, wet eyes. Ergo smiles at him. "You understand how terrible academic funding can be. Any charity would be happily received. I know you're not a historian, doctor Rhoden, but for the homeland–"
"Yes, for Yoldia," the man agrees in Aestian, although his eyes betray a hesitation that Ergo doesn't want there. "But you really ought to go through the proper channels. I'm no longer in the position I once was, so I don't have the prestige to seek funding for myself or anyone else."
"Perhaps then you might lend a hand from your own savings," Ergo says. "No, I couldn't ask for that, Arno– may I call you Arno? – how improper of me."
"I'm not a wealthy man, Mr Tamm," the doctor explains apologetically. "I understand your expedition to study the historical oppression of the Virumaa farmers who migrated to Carelia is admirable but I don't think I can contribute. I don't have the means to."
"Of course not, I should have never asked," Ergo replies, changing tact. So the old man won't open his wallet, that's fine enough. The whole yarn about the academic research was simply something he came up with on the fly when he started small talk with the other Aest about their homeland. But this doctor must be suffering under a delusion, prattling on about some place called Yoldia.
Still, Ergo can't let him go now that he's on the hook. Dr Rhoden got a wistful look in his eyes when he first heard Ergo speak Aestian. Like Ergo had tapped into some previously untouched part of himself, a sudden intimacy. Ergo likes that. He can use that.
"Doctor, Arno," he says, half a step closer, fingers brushing against the thick fabric of Dr Rhoden's coat. "How about we get a drink together? My hotel room has a cold bottle of Vana liquor and two glasses."
He hasn't got a hotel room or any Aestian herbal liqueur, but nevermind that, that can be amended quickly. He doesn't really want to be seducing anyone, and he's in Valga where he just ought to be careful. But he also hasn't got a place to sleep and stealing liquor from Livonians would be fun, like the old times. The old man would probably melt if Ergo even touched him, so it needn't even be a long seduction.
But before Dr Rhoden can answer, a younger man appears by his side, speaking in panicked Slavonian and eyeing Ergo with suspicion. Rhoden replies to him in the same strange language, gesturing toward Ergo.
Ergo smiles disarmingly, and offers a hand.
"This is Alexander Steinberg, my friend and student," Rhoden says politely and then introduces Ergo with his fake name to the red-haired man in another language.
The handshake is furtive, the eyes ablaze. Ergo detects the protectiveness, the hint of possession. Very well, so he's fucking the old man and doesn't want some pretty Aest stepping on his turf.
"Any friend of Dr Rhoden is a friend of mine," Ergo says and winks. Steinberg looks awkward, a hint of blush surrounds his nose.
This is starting to feel like more trouble than it'll be worth. The younger man retreats and says something to Rhoden, who listens attentively. Ergo might be better off finding a Livonian gentleman who trades stocks and carries cash, not try to rob the bone professor and his jealous friend for their slim wallets.
"What a pleasure it was, making your acquaintance, but I ought to get going." He reaches out to touch Rhoden's arm again. Sometimes it's better to leave a mark wanting.
"Likewise," Rhoden says in his gentle Aestian and Ergo looks to Steinberg.
"Ei," the younger man says and Rhoden pales in shock at the rude 'no' that requires no translation.
Ergo just laughs. "You're teaching him well, Dr Rhoden."
The professor's eyes move from Ergo to Steinberg, settling there. Ergo takes three steps back before turning around, taking the next right to a side alley. He doesn't think he will ever meet Dr Rhoden again, or his protective friend, but he still feels a pang of nostalgia.
He never got to ask the doctor if he has visited Unipiha.
Edgar stared blankly at the old man and his bright-eyed, red-haired student. His calendar entry in his assistant Gwendolyn’s precise handwriting read the following in very clear letters: Dr A. Rhoden, on behalf of Yoldia. Where the hell was this Yoldia? Always some unknown tiny nation of meagre cultural importance and even less political importance coming hat in hand to the English for help. But nevermind, he was known to be charitable.
Only there was a problem. The Whigs were on him for fiscal prudence and so it might not do to be handing off money to just about whoever was asking.
The doctor was talking about bones for some reason. “I’m sorry,” Edgar interrupted, gesturing toward the tall male interpreter. “Where is this going? Why is he mentioning bones?”
“Dr Rhoden is explaining his background, Mr High Chancellor,” the interpreter said with some amusement twitching the corners of his mouth. “He studies bones. During his research in Parlevo–”
Edgar traced one of his eyebrows with his pinky, frustrated. “Very well. Could we speed up to the Yoldia bit? And what is Yoldia, anyway? Has some village broken away from Slavonia and are calling themselves independent again? I need a history lesson here, not a discussion about the tibia or the fibula.”
The interpreter frowned, confused, but recovered quickly. “Yoldia is another name for Kure, Mr High Chancellor. A country in the Baltic–”
“Yes, yes, I know the place. Became a republic a few years back, had a corrupt little shit for a king. Could you ask them what Yoldia needs?” He’d have to ask Gwendolyn to write the actual names of places into his calendar in the future, not some strange local variation of it.
The red-haired younger man said something to the older in a language that sounded remarkably like Slavonian, but the interpreter only translated what the older man said. “Dr Rhoden says that Yoldia seeks recognition from the government of England. They are traveling around Europe to petition governments for such recognition.”
“Oh!” Fucking hell, all he had to do was say something in parliament? If only all work was that easy. "Then tell them I am all for recognising the fine people of Yoldia and their independence or democracy or whatever else they might like. That's quite fine. I'll make a statement tomorrow during my other business in parliament."
The interpreter translated this and translated back the visitor's profuse gratitude. Once they were gone, Edgar called Gwendolyn.
"Dearest Mrs Grame, no more meetings with beggars, I beg of you. Redirect them all to the Send Chancellor's office, let her deal with this nonsense."
Gwendolyn cleared her throat. "It's your job, Edgar. Recognition for a new foreign regime befalls to the High Chancellor unless–"
"Unless he gets bored by it." Edgar sighed. "Cancel the next one, too, I'm getting lunch with Lertre."
And with those words he hung up and didn't think of Yoldia or Kure for the rest of the week.