Infiltration was drudgery. It was cautious and methodical and therefore clashed with Falfarrin’s creatively bombastic approach to problem-solving – it was ever his preference to leave a lasting impression. But he’d grudgingly agreed, just this once, to forgo his usual panache and snoop into Blacksail dealings without potentially tipping them off that someone had a vested interest in their affairs. Not only would that throw the overarching scheme into jeopardy, it would be forfeiture, tantamount to admitting incapacity in front of that damnable redhead. What was her name again? Leahn? Leshi?
Fal had approached the cove, if not in disguise, then dressed down to the point where his irrepressable vanity rendered any such distinction entirely academic. Shabby leathers, a battered hat and scruffy hair; another Blacksail corsair. No-one would question his presence here, but neither would he have ready access to any secrets tucked away in Captain Tavers’ cabin. If the worst came to the worst – as it so often did – he could forgo the mirror’s magic and carry the mission through sheer blustering force of improvisation. The illusion simply provided expediency – It opened doors, without frantic scrabbling in the dirt for for either keys or excuses.