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Her own.

The sword was thin and well balanced, a double-edged ribbon of steel with hammered bronze at the hilt. It had been forged in the citadel armory, born of the Guild as she was. There was no insignia, no sigil, no jewels, no carved words. Hardly a treasure. It served her well.

She took it with sure hands, careful not to pull her eyes from the Elder in front of her.

“I have little concern for your well-being, for good or ill,” he said.

With the sword back in her possession, Sorasa felt oddly light. “Is that what you tell all the mortal girls, or just me?”

Something crossed his face, like a shadow or a darkness. “I do not speak to many mortals,” he forced out.

“I can tell.”

The barmaid produced another tankard for each of them, nearly spilling the flat ale. She glanced between the assassin and the immortal, a lamb between wolves. Sorasa waved her off with a silver penny.

He startled at the sight of the coin and drew out his own purse, thunking it on the table. Sorasa snapped to attention, all thoughts of ale and death pushed to the side. Though the purse was small, it burst with gold, winking yellow within the leather. The weak light of the bar played over the coins.

“I want information. I’m willing to pay,” the Elder said sharply, drawing out a piece of hammered gold. The coin was perfectly round, marked with a stag. It was not money of any kingdom Sorasa knew, but gold was gold. “Will these do?”

To her shock, Sorasa heard apprehension in the Elder’s voice. She nearly laughed aloud as realization dawned on her.He has no idea what he’s doing. He’s not an assassin, for Lord Mercury or any other. No matter how strong he might be. This Spindleborn fool is just lucky a street beggar hasn’t swindled him by now.

Opportunity sang in her blood, more familiar than any mother she ever had. With her hands on the table, Sorasa mirrored his posture, leaning forward. She took the coin.

“How can I set a price if I don’t know what you’re asking?” she said.The gold is crude but fine, from a pure vein.Bright yellow. A rare sort.

The Elder did not hesitate. “I’m looking for Corblood mortals, descendants of the old empire. I’m told the Amhara know them, or can find them.”

Her face was a mask as she began counting coins from the purse. He watched but did not stop her as one, two, three coins slid out onto the table. Neither bothered to hide the money. They were the most dangerous things in the taverna—in all the city, perhaps.

The Amhara.Her throat tightened, but her face remained a mask. She bit one of the coins, judging the give of the metal. He wrinkled his nose.

“The sons and daughters of Old Cor are few and far-flung,” she said around the coin. “Even the Amhara are losing track.”

“I seek one in particular.”

Sorasa drew another three coins from the purse.

“A child.”

Another coin.

“The bastard of Prince Cortael and an unknown woman.”

Another.

“He’s no prince of any kingdom in living memory,” she replied.

The name is familiar enough. Another mortal descended from the old empire, from the Spindles and a realm forgotten. A prince in name only, and to very few. Still, there have been contracts taken before. All failed.She eyed the Elder warrior again.And now I see why.

Smirking, she neatly piled the coins. “Mortal living memory, of course.”

A rare anger flared in the Elder. “I care not for your ignorance of the ages. Can you help me or not?”

This time she plunged her hand into the purse, grabbing at coins.

The Elder scowled.

It isn’t the gold he cares about,she thought, watching his face.Something else feeds his anger.