Athessa catches up to Loxley some day, back in Kirkwall or about the Gallows, jogging until she can fall in stride beside him and very casually flash him a smile at the same moment she tries - and it is an attempt, never successful - to tuck her hair behind her ear. ]
[ He's walking near and around the Gallows docks, tall enough by human (and elf) standards and nevertheless oddly shaped for someone with silver skin and curling horns. Hand on sword hilt, dressed in tall boots and long coat, he is watching the passage of ships in the bay as Athessa presents herself as a more interesting prospect to behold. ]
Let me rephrase: would you consider a conversation around Rifters, diplomacy, and so on? A real one. If so, perhaps we can take it to a quiet corner in a tavern, have a drink, and discuss the particulars.
Perhaps. But dear fellow - I do not mean to throw my weight around; you really must forgive me for the indelicacy of it. It turns my stomach a little. But you are aware that I am the head of the Diplomacy division, yes?
This is official business, is it not? You approached me in the office, after all. Was I mistaken? - If indeed I was mistaken, and you were simply approaching me as Byerly, then I must apologize most humbly, as your conduct would have been perfectly appropriate. However, approaching the head of the division requires a rather different level of deference. Do you comprehend?
That's what I did the first go, and look where that got me.
[ Probably yet another mark against him: he allows a little contempt to enter his tone. ]
I reported to you, I was respectful of your time, I offered my ideas about what work could be done in your division. I was met with ridicule, for no reason. You weren't an Ambassador, you were Byerly. You can't expect me to behave one way while you do whatever you like.
Friend, Byerly Rutyer would meet with a man like you and share a drink with him. Cozy up. On the contrary: Byerly would have been quite pleasant. Ambassador Rutyer, on the other hand, is rather obligated to test all comers, as Flint would test their sword arm, the Provost would test their memory and eye, and the Scoutmaster would test their courage and subtlety. Shall I detail my tasks, and your performance on the ones you actually completed before giving up?
How many do you suppose came in claiming that he had the ability to befriend every enemy that had ever been set before him? And how many do you suppose came in pretending at power? I needed you to demonstrate that you weren't simply some prideful little fop who'd skated by all his life on moderate charm, who'd extracted himself from a few fights using his long eyelashes and his pretty pout and a few well-placed words, and who'd allowed his pride to convince him that this made him ready to be a diplomat. Not just a diplomat, a leader in our ranks.
So I asked you to prove your skills. I asked you to bend. You have proven yourself, so far, incapable.
Before I dismissed the whole thing as a waste of my time and yours, the whole conversation felt like a trap. You know very well that friendships are not magical things, summoned from nothing, and what a figurative phrase is.
[ For gods' sake. ]
With that in mind, to try to dance for you as you seemed to request seemed like the failure. A weakness of character. Walking out, not so much, but apparently I misread your clever test. I propose our philosophies are very different.
To convey desperation, to take insult, to perform for some nebulous approval. I may not be the politician you prefer, but I know that if it were not me but some other Rifter negotiating on my behalf, I'd prefer they did not debase themselves, and instill in the other party the idea that we'll do anything for their favour.
And if they did, it'd best be for a good fucking reason.
[ There's no venom in his voice, but his tone is careless. ]
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