Master Harwick sat across from me like a plum about to burst, his gold rings clicking against the table as he drummed his fingers in anticipation. The package he had brought — a bottle of imported wine, from the shape of it — sat unopened between us, a token offering from a merchant who hoped to leave with more gold than he arrived with.
I folded my hands on the table. Smiled.
"Master Harwick, may I propose something to you?"
"Anything, my lord! Anything at all!" He leaned forward, his belly pressing against the table's edge, his small eyes bright with the gleam of a man who smelled profit the way a hound smells blood.
"I have heard," I said, letting each word fall with the measured weight of a man who had done his research, "that you have two daughters. Eighteen years of age. Both."
