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[ And Byerly makes a great show of thinking that over. ]

You know, Mademoiselle, normally young ladies offer payment to their guides. They do not demand payment of them. I presume that in accordance with these conditions you're laying into place, you will be giving me something of value in return, no?

[ With a curled half-smile - ]

After all, there's nothing improper about hiring a fellow to escort you about. But giving him your arm free of charge - well. That implies something else altogether.

[She colors. She scoffs. She re-arranges her skirts in the bottom of the boat where he has dripped enough to catch her hem. She eventually recovers into condescension:]

Seeing as I've recently saved both your life and your dignity, I would have thought the matter of payment preemptively settled. But you're right of course that I'd never accept your offer otherwise, even conditionally. Though I understand a man of your abundant charms must have plenty to do this afternoon. If you'd rather pay off your debt to me in some other way, I'm sure that can be arranged. Do you have any skills other than swimming? [And self-satisfaction.] With a bow, maybe. I've been watching archers practice in the yard and learning seems very approachable.

[ Cheerily: ]

I'm a dreadful combatant, dear heart. And - sorry, what's this about me owing you a debt? I never agreed to those terms.

[Of course he is. How utterly useless.]

I believe the terms were implied by the situation.

[She sets her jaw, an unconscious and utterly transparent obstinance.]

And I believe differently. Ah, I suppose this is the trouble caused by you being from beyond the Fade, isn't it...Don't even understand contract law. But - I shall compromise, as I am magnanimous. I shall require only a small payment for my services. And I'll throw in something a little bit nice for you in return.

[Contract law. As if there is anything to it but decency and good behavior. As if she hasn't been the absolute picture of good grace and hospitable to him, ridiculous as he is. Honestly! She can feel the color rising up the back of her neck again now, irritation warm. But she lifts her chin, resuming the task of pinning back the misaligned piece of her hair with a decisive pin thrust.

She is very determined to be all sweetness to him now, absolutely revoltingly so if necessary. The better with which to shield her embarrassment utterly.

Or poorly. Whatever. She's not the one dripping at the bottom of a boat, so who really has the upper hand?, she thinks viciously.]

In that case, I'm afraid I really must refuse your services after all. That's the trouble with being beyond the Fade, you see. One must be very strict about their purse strings and I simply can't afford you.

Purse strings?

[ He blinks up at her, the image of innocent puzzlement. ]

Who said anything about monetary payment?

[Wysteria denies herself the pleasure of stepping accidentally on some inconsequential part of him. She smiles at him brightly.]

Forgive me, that's usually how payments are made beyond the Fade. Did you have something else in mind?

I do.

[ He lowers his long, long eyelashes, and lets his dark eyes meet hers, and he purrs: ]

Tell me a story. Tell me of the land beyond the fade.

[She's already poised to snap back something terribly smart, devastatingly witty, beautifully elegant, and downright the picture of a wit. Instead she laughs, sharp and loud, then clicks her teeth shut hard around it. Wysteria swallows what's left.]

Really? That's all?

That is all.

[ With a smile - ]

And as I said. For this price, I'll give you the tour, and something else quite nice.

[A more savvy young woman might pause here to interrogate hum further. But she finds herself relieved enough to be forgetful of caution right along with how she was just deciding to hate him, so instead Wysteria enthusiastically thrusts out her hand to shake on it.]

You have a deal, Messere Rutyer.

[Nevermind that she'd rather been looking forward to poking around the city on her own.]

[ By, in return, extends his foot for her to shake. ]

Agreed.

[She slaps it away with a wet thwap. Stop that.]

[ He extends the other foot. ???? ]

[Not that one either. She's on the verge of saying as much when the disaffected ferryman lets out a curt whistle, which draws the eye up (still not looking at all the man's near nudity sprawled out before her, thank you) and to the docks where a boy is waiting to tend lines, to catch and secure them there.

Wysteria brightens like the sun. She checks her skirt pockets for her things, the belt at her hip (strange), and once more touches her hair. He's lost all interest to her as they bear down on the city.]

Let's agree to meet at the Inquisition's stables an hour from now. That should give you plenty of time to see yourself fit for the day and me to make a new acquaintance or two. Is that agreeable?

As you wish, my lady.

[ He finally - finally - sits up, moving easily in the boat, hardly upsetting it at all. He grabs her hand quickly, presses a kiss to her wrist, and then hops easily from boat to dock. And then he strolls off, hands in pockets, whistling very obnoxiously. ]

[Nevermind, there's that burgeoning dislike again.

She keeps it in her proverbial pocket for the next hour, determined to recall it when next she sees Mister Rutyer. It's all well and good to be reminded of your especially silly cousins when you're far away from home, but it's another matter entirely to let a perfect stranger potentially take advantage of what is a very small sliver of comfort. After two weeks of being trapped in the Gallows being told at every opportunity that anything and everything is likely to kill her or try, it would be prudent to exercise just a little caution.

Which is why she makes quick friends with a boy in the Inquisition stables, exclaiming with delight and surprise at every strange animal inside, and also why she promises out loud to be back in the evening with a treat for her new favorite horse, and why she is very specific about introductions when her guide eventually shows his face. After all, if you're going to be murdered the best revenge is making sure someone knows who ought to hang for it.

With that taken care of, she feels perfectly free about having herself a pleasant time forcing Byerly Rutyer to come along with her to all manner of stinking Lowtown squares and cramped, depressing Hightown gardens and - finally - to the walled garden where Kirkwall's chantry once stood.

The guards are the gate are a disappointment. She squints at the guarded entrance from under the eaves of a shop across the courtyard and for the sixth time today makes an effort to push her hair back behind her ears.]

It's a shame the walls are so high. But I suppose that says something about the whole place all on its own, hm?

[She wrinkles her nose, gives the guards across the square a last dirty look, and turns finally to ask Byerly for his no doubt very important opinion.]

Well, I suppose the rest of my list can wait for now.

[ It was a charming amusement at first, admittedly. Mademoiselle Poppell has an endearing sort of freshness about her, an ingenuousness that's quite bracing; even with his temples pulsing with the last remnants of his hangover, it had begun quite delightfully. But then he'd been altogether unable to tempt her away from her (frankly bizarre) list of tourist sites, and he had ended up being force-marched around the city in truth. And the charm had begun to wear quite thin by the time she stops.

He almost can't believe his ears. The rest of the list? Can wait? What, but surely - surely - the sewers need inspecting? Or doesn't she want to look over three hundred years' of archived maps of the city...? But he suppresses his sharp comment in favor of a smooth: ]

If you're quite certain, I am a bit parched. And I believe you owe me something. Shall we find a tavern?

[It's probably for the best he not mention any word of maps, particularly three hundred year old ones. In her present mood, she might find it a compelling argument.]

That sounds lovely. These shoes have really begun to out wear their welcome, I'm afraid. We passed a public house two streets back, if I'm not mistaken.

[Really, he's grown into much more tolerable company as the afternoon's worn on.]

Not that one.

[ He toys with telling a salacious lie - got kicked out for a barfight, or in some public disgrace - but instead settles on a factual: ]

They water down their ale. There's a better one this way.

[ And with a tilt of his head, he leads a block on, to a fine establishment - well, fine-ish. It's less decorated and flashy than the one they'd passed back there, but it's far cleaner, rather quieter, and with fans stirring the air, ensuring that a breeze keeps the place fresh. By looks at the girl and guesses - ]

Wine?

That would be perfectly fine. --Oh, but a bottle of something less sweet if you don't mind. It's too warm for anything with much honey or plum.

[It is nice to be off her feet. She'd meant to see to the matter of new ones right off, but the matter of winding through Kirkwall's twisting, labyrinthine squares and streets had distracted her enough that only now is she regretting not being more direct. But the little tavern's chairs are more than adequate and the shadow of it tucked back from the direct sunlight is cool, if not the air. Give her an hour and she's confident she'll be fully recovered.

(A drink will help though.)]

[ He returns with a fine bottle - a crisp white from green grapes, something a bit fizzy on the tongue. He pours her a glass; immediately, it fogs with the chill. It looks quite enticing indeed. He pours himself an equal glass, and scoops it up, and takes the first drink. Just to assuage any nerves. ]

Now. You owe me.

[The hours she's spent dragging Byerly up and down innumerable staircases and through narrow side streets seems to have quieted her perfectly sensible paranoia somewhat. She isn't far behind him when it comes to sipping the wine.]

That's right. Though first it really must be said, Messere Rutyer - that I had my doubts about your qualifications as a guide to begin with. Nothing to do with your character of course and everything to do with the fact that you aren't from Kirkwall. But you've been very helpful actually, so thank you for that.

[Keep on like this and she'll be well on her way to having no regrets about having him fished out of the harbor. Not that he's pleasant company, but he's a very familiar kind and she's finding after the absolute inundation of newness recently that something she knows the workings of is a welcome distraction.]

What kind of story would you like to hear? A true one, I assume.

Not necessarily.

[ He smiles, and lifts the glass to her, and takes a very very small sip. He is masterful at nursing his drinks over very long periods of time. ]

Tell me one that's important to you.

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