He knows damn well what the girl is asking for. Do you have anything on you means a weapon. And what the hell is she hoping to accomplish, jumping a bunch of security-paranoid Dendarii mountain men? Is she suicidal? Because there are easier ways to go than being clubbed to death by one of these backcountry proles. No; she needs a distraction. And she needs to feel a bit less like death is inevitable - and it's damned hard to feel any sort of optimism for your continued existence when you're frozen a quarter of the way to death. Half, now, perhaps.

Of course, Byerly prides himself on being a dissolute ne'er-do-well with no regard for propriety, decency, or respectability. Why, his reputation hinges on just what a feckless fool he is. The despair of his mother, the shame of his father, he's never done a single thing save to benefit himself except for when it's a mistake. And so that's why he makes a grand show of sighing as he shrugs out of his suit jacket.

"This," he proclaims loudly, "is an autumn jacket. And it is wintry out here." He regards the maroon velvet with distaste, and then he turns and drops the heavy garment on the girl's shoulders. It's more flashy than it is warm, but it's something - and it's heavy enough to weigh down her arms a bit so she can't lunge for anyone's unguarded knife. "Here. I cannot be caught out in an inappropriate suit. It's a matter of reputation, you know."