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]

[ 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. ]

[heirring]

[She laughs, a sharp sound of nearly childish surprise as she settles back to accept her new hand.]

Oh! Very smoothly done. When we tire of cards, you'll have to show me how it's done.

[bouchonne]

Hm. Perhaps an equal exchange,

[ One last flick, and the card goes back into his sleeve. ]

You show me how you cheat, I'll teach you how I do.

[heirring]

[It occurs to her very abruptly and for the first time that she does have a secret she's meant to be keeping after all. Or rather, that she's only just now made one for herself and where when they'd first agreed to this bet, she hadn't been able to think of anything so pressing that she might care to keep from him.

If she loses now, he will ask her what she's done. Which she might lie about, but there is no argument she might make that would be convincing. --And now she has paused for too long to suggest her win was luck and she thinks, all at once, that there are lots of people she wouldn't mind telling about her Talents even despite every warning she'd been given during her orientation in the Gallows. But that Byerly Rutyer, who is under all the things that aren't familiar a very recognizable breed indeed, isn't one of them.

Everything is already so very complicated.]

If there's time, maybe. [Arch attitude somewhat deflated, Wysteria collects her cards. She's resolved to win this hand as well. As they play:]

Did I already ask what your plans are when you reach Greencliff?

[bouchonne]

Take in the sunshine. Enjoy charming company. Live the louche life.

[ He uses his fingernail to push a tiny mark in the edge of one of the cards before he discards it, the motion so subtle that it's imperceptible. His smile is unflagging. ]

I think I've earned a bit of pleasure.

[heirring]

Working hard, have you?

[Excuse the skepticism that creeps unbidden into her voice there. She's focused on gently re-working her hand as she draws and discards normally. It hadn'tbeen bad to begin with, really, and had she put her mind to it and luck been on her side she might have even played it honestly. But--

Well. But nothing.]

[bouchonne]

[ As he watches her from under his eyelashes, he realizes - she's a mage. Not one whose magic he recognizes, but - a mage. That's how she's doing it. He can't be entirely certain of it, not yet, but Byerly knows cheating of many different kinds, and that's almost certainly enhanced cheating. ]

Oh, very hard. I'm in diplomacy, you know. Diplomacy is a dreadfully intricate art.

[heirring]

[Hardly raising her attention from her hand--]

Diplomacy. How long have you been with the Inquisition, Messere? Are we certain you're not what's driven the Anders into Orlais?

[Ha, there's the card she needs. And quickly done at that. Best to make arrangements to draw the Angel next.]

[bouchonne]

What, dear girl, you think they're fighting their way through the thick of it because they're desperate to meet me? I suppose it's not impossible.

[ His hand is mediocre. And he doesn't bother to cheat it better. Frankly, with her twitching and tapping, there's no way he can pull a better hand. ]

[heirring]

No, that's not-- oh, here's the Angel.

[She lays it and her hand promptly out. There's really no pleasure in it, is there?]

I'm afraid I may have you beat again.

[bouchonne]

So you have.

[ He lays out his own hand. He doesn't look at her cards, or at his: instead, he just meets her eyes, and smiles a small and knowing smile. Yes, he can't beat her in cards. But - a fussy child like her - he can let her twist herself up into knots. ]