the first time I made mincemeat of the standard propositions establishing a so-called moral science

[bouchonne]

WHO: Byerly Rutyer and Wysteria Poppell
WHAT: She's stuck with him for 3 hours
WHEN: Whenever
WHERE: On the road
NOTES: He's a smutmonger??

[ It's not a terrible trip from Kirkwall to Greencliff. Thirty miles along the coast, and a journey decently worth taking: Greencliff is a striking city, with a high copper content in the mineral cliffs giving them a curious greenish tint. Not particularly built-up, not a center of commerce or of war, but quite nice nevertheless. There are a multiple trips by commercial carriage out there per day. So, logically, the odds of running into someone you don't want to run into are relatively small.

Thank the Maker Wysteria isn't a betting woman, because it's clear enough her luck today is rotten.

Because not only does she end up in a carriage with Byerly, Byerly was running late. So that means that it's when she's well and truly settled, and when the wagon is but a few breaths from departing, that he scrambles in. The door closes behind him as he pants, clearly come off a sprint for it; the driver gives a cry; the horses lurch into motion; there's no time for her to escape.

Perhaps a stroke of good luck for the girl, though. By, for once, is so genuinely overcome with the aftereffects of drink that he doesn't even take the time to investigate his surroundings. Instead, he flops over the bench, and throws his arm across his eyes, and groans, all without ever having seen her. ]

Comments

[bouchonne]

Secrets?

[ He smiles at her wryly. ]

[heirring]

[She arches her eyebrows at him.]

And here my money was on truths. [She begins to draw and must be satisfied with what she finds because:] But I suppose that would be acceptable on the condition you swear not to cheat when it comes time for payment. And that you swearing to it isn't a lie. You can cheat at the cards all you like, but you must be honest about the rest.

[She raises her eyes to him.]

Do you swear it?

[bouchonne]

[ His smile is lightly mocking, his eyes narrowed in amusement. ]

On my name and honor as a Rutyer.

[ Now, the question is whether it's worth trusting something that sounds that facetious. ]

[heirring]

You realize, of course, that means absolutely nothing to me. For all I know, it means the very same to you.

[Nonetheless, she doesn't protest further. What secrets does she even have to bet with? The risk is so remote so as to be nonexistent. --And besides, he hasn't made her swear to be honest.

--Ha. What a ridiculous thought. Trouncing him soundly can be pleasant enough; she doesn't need his honesty on top of it.]

[bouchonne]

What a thing to say to a man. Terrible. Don't know know my family loyalty runs deep?

[ That sounds just as facetious - but, of course, she's agreed. So, since she has agreed, he issues her a bow and begins to play in earnest. With his hand, he's managed to improve his standing considerably - and it gets all the better when he pulls a card so that he has three cards of a matching suit. ]

[heirring]

[Cue one exceptionally skeptical noise as Wysteria draws her card. And pauses.]

Does it? Your parents must be quite pleased, Mr Rutyer. Messere. Serah? I don't know how anyone expects me to use the proper one without a pin in the coat collar or something like it to say how important you are.

[She studies the Angel of Death in her hand with a grim expression and then, very carefully and selectively, tucks it in beside the the rest of her hand. Not yet. She has nothing at all in her hand and she'll be damned rather than lose at the very first draw.]

[bouchonne]

I am utterly and completely unimportant, my dear mademoiselle. But still, best to default to messere with anyone unknown to you. Far less dangerous.

[ He shifts some cards around, then eyes her face. Hm - the way she was looking at that card, the shiftiness of her eyes - He hazards an educated guess: ]

The Angel of Death ends the game as soon as it is drawn. It cannot be retained in your hand.

[heirring]

[It's difficult to say for certain in the dim atmosphere of the carriage, but it certainly seems like she pales at the implication.]

Yes, Messere, you mentioned that already.

[Without thinking, Wysteria runs her thumb over the face of the card and is briefly gratified as it's replaced instantly by another card in the deck - as if the Angel were merely a layer of dust in need of wiping away. But then she is fighting not to frown again - the card that's taken its position is equally useless to her and now there's no telling where in the deck the game ending one might be.

Stupid. She should have been stubborn about keeping it. In sullen retaliation, Wysteria draws another card.]

[bouchonne]

[ Well, she certainly seems to be cheating - though poorly. He's quite certain from her pallor that she did pull the Angel - so what's her intent, then? For the game to go on forever?

Well, best to provoke her, perhaps. So, lying cheerfully: ]

Which is why you should have called me on it when I drew it last hand. Lay down your cards, dear Wysteria, the round is over.

[ If she has it, no doubt she'll squawk in protest when it sounds like he's cheating. ]

[heirring]

[Squawk she does.]

You have not! [Her teeth snap shut. Pale before, her face pinks now. The line of her mouth sets stubbornly.] Show it then.

[bouchonne]

[ A broader grin - ]

Miss Poppell, I respect that you are trying to cheat. But you simply must do it better.

[heirring]

[Pinker and yet more scandalized (he isn't wrong):]

I've done nothing of the sort. [Lie. Obviously.] But your hand must be very terrible if you're resorting to such desperate tactics.

[She surrenders: laying her hand out so he might see it as it is. And indeed, there isn't much to be seen at all and there is certainly no Angel of Death to be found.]

Well? Let's see yours.

[bouchonne]

[ ...huh. He scours her hand, searching for the source of her flustered distress, but - there's nothing there that would account for it. His eyes narrow -

And then, with a debonair smile and a grand flourish (which disguises the motion as he flips an Angel of Death out from his shirtsleeve and into his hand, because a clever man never knows when he'll be drawn into a game of Wicked Grace and simply must be prepared at all times and equipped with the cards necessary to cheat), he lays down his winning hand. ]

Look at that. I believe I am entitled to a secret, now.

[heirring]

[She is quite ready to be entitled to her outrage, however dishonestly she's come by it. Instead her mouth goes very narrow indeed at the sight of the Angel. Could she have passed it to his hand rather than the deck on her knee?

No, he would have said something immediately. Something would have shown in his face. This, she's certain, is not her card. It resolves something extraordinarily cool in her to realize it. Well, he had said cheating was fundamental to the game.

Fine then.

She straightens and sweeps her cards back into the deck.]

When I was thirteen, I returned home from a summer holiday and the first thing I did was to hide my flute in a closet and then pretend I couldn't find it while unpacking and let everyone think it had been stolen or I'd misplaced it while traveling. I didn't have to play for nearly four months and was overjoyed when one of the maids eventually found it. Honestly, I was actually surprised. I'd forgotten entirely about the whole thing.

Now, [she takes his cards and folds them back into the deck. Her shuffling isn't half so flashy, but is workmanlike and perfectly respectful. The cards whirr and hiss between her fingers.] You must give me the opportunity to redeem myself.

[bouchonne]

Hold on.

[ His smile is small and steady. He holds up a hand. ]

That's not the secret I want. Though it is a charming one.

[heirring]

No, I thought it might not be. [This said as she cuts the cards, shuffles them once more and begins to deal.] But I'm afraid we didn't agree to a specific secret, only a very general one. If you'd like to change the requirements of the bet for this hand though, then by all means.

[bouchonne]

Who knew that behind all your amiable chatter there was actually a rather devious mind? As you say, mademoiselle. [ He bows to her, and takes the cards from her. ] On this hand, the victor may ask for a specific secret.

[ He takes the cards she deals him. This hand is middling-to-strong - two pairs. He may not even need to cheat on this one. ]

[heirring]

I'm so glad you noticed, Messere Rutyer.

[A single pair stares back from her hand, but without a warded deck and any persisting inclination toward honesty, that's solved easily enough. It doesn't much matter if he can see through whatever look must come over her face, does it? Not if the cards in her hand when she reveals them are true as the sky is blue. With an idle swipe of the thumb, something like a thoughtful meditative motion of concentration (which it is), Wysteria quietly goes about improving her odds as the more honest game of drawing and discarding proceeds.

If a card displeases her - and good gods, there are quite a few bad draws -, a tap of the thumb sends it back to the deck and replaces it seamlessly with another. It's a very cheap trick, one that wouldn't fly for any distance in Kalvad, but here-- well, here magic is a different thing altogether. Everyone has been quite clear on that front, haven't they?]

[bouchonne]

[ After a bit of drawing and discarding, Byerly draws the Angel. And, with a bit of satisfaction as he looks at his rather strong hand, he announces - ]

I've had a visitation.

[ A flip of his fingers, and he reveals the Angel of Death. Then he lays down his cards, smiling at her smugly, quite certain that with all that twitching and drumming that her hand must be bad indeed. ]

Your cards, young lady.

[heirring]

[Surely her expression must betray her here too - all smug satisfaction as she lays her hand out for inspection. It is, frankly, good to the point of being slightly disgusting and the sound winner of the two by a considerable margin. In retrospect, she may have overdone it slightly but-- well. She'd wanted to be certain.]

Why, I think I've got you this round.

[bouchonne]

[ And in return, she receives what may well be a very sweet gift indeed: Byerly Rutyer, genuinely taken aback. He was not remotely expecting that outcome. And so he stares down at her cards like a man being confronted with advanced mathematics for three full heartbeats.

Then he gathers himself. Lowers his head in a bow. She obviously cheated - obviously, with that smirk - but - how? ]

So you do. Well-played, mademoiselle.

[ And he takes her cards and begins to shuffle the next round. ]

[heirring]

[And what a gift it is. She nearly forgets what's meant to be the prize until he's collecting the cards and beginning in on the next hand.]

--Oh. Right. [What does a man like Byerly Rutyer consider a secret? She has absolutely no idea.] Where were you keeping the Angel? The one from the last hand, I mean.

[bouchonne]

[ Innocently: ]

How do you know I didn't just draw it, dear girl?

[heirring]

[As must surely be expected, she balks. --Then soldiers on, valiantly ignoring the heat at the back of her neck.]

I don't believe that's your secret, Mr Rutyer. Now please, you swore.

[bouchonne]

So I did.

[ Easily, he twists his wrist, and a card pops into his hand. Another twist, and it disappears - a third twist, and it appears again - an effortless bit of perfectly mundane sleight-of-hand. ]