The sniff Richard gets in reply is the definition of derisive, twice underlined by the pre-existing heavy shadow of the man's brow and the wrinkles of a frown. It would be easy (natural, even) to misconstrue the meaning as 'Ah the Black Chantry, blasphemers and heretics to the one.'

Only—

"Not reading those you won't. No,"—is a revision made on the move as he steps past the boundary of the would-be barricade and moves closer to the stack in question. Bending, he extracts a particularly dusty volume from it—"This one, Tavoularis, might have a thing or two worth saying. The rest of these are rubbish. Especially these."

Tap, tap, tap, he drums his fingers across a series of gilt spines, one fingertip allocated per Orlesian bookbinder stamp.

One of the Orlesian texts is removed from the stack. Laurent straightens back to his full height rather than rifle through the pages while bent.

"Hylan," he says, cracking the book. "A Fereldan historian. His Study of a Shaded Throne is imperfect, and the best book on the subject they keep here. Sister Medill's writing may also serve."

Here. The open book is reversed. He patiently taps a point on the inside bookplate, indicating a sunburst pattern in the corners, before the text is passed down.

"Avoid these. The press responsible is"—popular and prolific—"fanatical."

Thanks and Take what you need are both sentiments answered easily enough with a curt little nod. Think nothing of it, the gesture says. Or maybe, And thank you in return. It's a thoughtless and automatic sort of courtesy as Laurent goes fishing through the Chantry stack—the Southern one—after the Griswold.

"You're one of the Rifters, I expect."

Obviously. It's hardly a question.

It wouldn't be a lie to say That's right, and be done with it. He has his book—the Griswold is a far denser volume than he one he'd substituted it with—, and may be politely on his way given a few polite overtures and by stepping back across the barricade of stacked reading. But when has Laurentius Vesperus ever been able to ignore the scratch of curiosity?

"In the strictest sense," he says, tucking the heavy book under his arm. In this shaded corner, he cuts a long and gloomy figure. "Southern Thedas is something of a novelty."

In the way paying two coppers to see a rabid Fade-touched raccoon is a novelty.

"If you get through the Hylan and Sister Medill and want further reading, I might have something I could lend."

They do. The hand that is produced is as long and bony as the rest of its owner. His handshake, despite being possessed of a kind of perfunctory brevity and notably lacking in any callouses save where a pen might rest, is firm.

"Laurentius Vesperus," is a mouthful which he makes no effort to amend. "And likely of little use to you otherwise. I'm only a guest here."

Indeed, a great number of Riftwatch's members wear a small pin somewhere on their person in order to identify their place and division within the Gallows. No such accessory shows anywhere on Laurentius' collar or shoulder.

"That's true."

They'd spent a long time in Ambassador Rutyer's offices when they'd first arrived, delicately navigating exactly what it is they wanted and what would be expected from them in return. The results of those hours had not been—

Entirely unsatisfying, once he and Lalla had recovered from the shock and disappointment of finding an entirely different set of circumstances here in the Gallows than the ones they'd thought they would.

"My wife and I have offered to assist Riftwatch's diplomatic efforts in exchange for being temporarily safeguarded while I finish my work."

Guilty as charged, says both the tip of his head and the brief quirk hidden at the corner of his mouth. Ease of the puzzle aside, he's neither immune to a bit of cleverness or his own internal flash of pride that comes from being recognizable.

(Particularly not that second one, historically inconvenient though it may be.)

"A bit of translation work." Laurent briefly bends with all the angles of a folding canopy and raps his knuckles on the stack of books dedicated to the Imperial Chantry. "Proven to be slightly unpopular in certain circles, I'm afraid."

"It's a temporary arrangement."

This has the ready, pre-tailored air of a thing he has had practice saying. It comes to him more smoothly than anything else he's said so far, and it's hardly as if Laurent's been stumbling over himself thus far.

At the same time, the point of his attention flicks round the assembly of books and Richard's place at the center of it—seeking out some other trajectory toward which to turn. Lalla has begun to give him a particular look when he delivers this very rehearsed line; consequently, there is a natural impulse toward avoiding the semantics of the claim.

"And you're either of the opinion that yours is going to be slightly more permanent, or shockingly bored. I think they have rules about that, you know. Not torturing the people who land here. You might petition for early release on the basis of it being an act of ethical mercy."

"It sounds like your brother and my wife might have a few things in common." It's a throwaway sort of statement, one in a great dictionary of things which people commonly say and mean absolutely nothing by. Only—

From under the gloomy line of his heavy brow, the point of Laurent's attention moves fleetingly about the books scattered about them, across Richard's hand punctured by the anchor's glow, and then back to meeting his eye. It's a very brief assessment as if mentally confirming something rather than arriving at any new thought.

"I can't offer much in the way of a scenery change, but If you and your brother get tired of books and scaling the battlements, I'm fairly confident Lalla and I could pretend at hosting guests."

(Nicomedes Laurentius Vesperus, don't volunteer your wife to arrange a social hour.)