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She was the one staring at him now. For a long, long minute, she stared. Then she threw her head back and laughed. He waited until she was done and then lifted one eyebrow in silent question.
Dark mirth dripped from her words like poisoned honey. “I find that when people say they want to give you something, what they mean is that they want to tie strings to you and pull you about, but they want it done in such a way that you feel glad to be their puppet.
“If you want to give a person something, there is nothing to stop you. The only reason to tell them of your intent to give is if you wish for something in return. In which case you don’t actually want to give me anything—you want to make a deal.
“I won’t be put in pretty chains and made to dance. So tell me what you want, and I’ll tell you if it’s a price I’m willing to pay.”
He opened his mouth to tell her she was wrong—because she’d already paid a few days ago in an alley—but the words never left his mouth. Because he realized he did want something else. One last thing.
“I want to be there. That’s my price.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Want to be where?”
“Wherever you are when you make your opening gambit.”
“You seem quite certain I have one.”
“Are you telling me you don’t?”
There was a pause before her answer, as if she was weighing what to reveal. “It’s in the planning stages,” she finally said. “And whether I tell you anything more than that depends on what you’re offering.”
“Whatever you want. Money. Introductions. Information.” He grinned at her. “Pick something. First one is truly free. Take it and walk away, and I won’t bother you again.” He expected her to ask for money. Barring that, an introduction would have been the likely second choice. But it told him more about her when she asked for the third and perhaps, in learning that, he decided he wasn’t even giving her the first thing freely, after all.
He suspected she knew it, knew what she was revealing with the answer, because it took her so long to give it. “I want a name,” she said. “I want the name of the best musician the guild has.”
“Best as in the most artistically gifted, or best as in the most popular?”
“Best, as in the most beloved. I want the person every noble has seen perform at least once, the one so comfortable in their position they are certain no one can oust them from it.”
Easy enough. “Estrella Vane.”
“Tell me about her.”
“She’s a singer. She used to play the piano at her performances but now she has someone else do it for her.” She’d been good, once. Before the guild sank its claws into her. The change had been easy enough to see, if one was looking. The way all the creativity went out of her and she began instead churning out the same types of songs over and over, her voice and her charm and her small talent for Songweaving carrying what lacked in the music itself. “I have to tell you—if you plan on rivaling her professionally, it will be a long, thankless, and expensive campaign to even arrive in the same circles as her. You’re talented, but the Musicians Guild runs things a certain way, and they’re exceptionally good at weighting down progress.”
“So I noticed. I met the head of their guild today. And I made her a promise.”
“I’m dying to know what that was.”
The corner of her lip quirked up. “I promised her I would take something important from her.”
“And you think Estrella Vane qualifies?”
“Don’t you?”
“She is Madame Aria’s golden child.” He didn’t feel even the slightest guilt at confirming it. Once, he’d thought Estrella might have been a friend. Once, he’d thought there was a person behind the singer’s pretty face. But if there ever had been, that person had disappeared once she’d run in high circles long enough that she became just like all the rest, and she’d sought to use him in the same way everyone did.
Just once, he wanted someone to see him. Not the mask that so obviously was one that it never should have hidden anything. He thought he’d given up the longing for that when he’d realized that if anyone ever did see through to him, they wouldn’t live very long after. But he was human beneath it all, and dreams died hard.
He shoved the thought down. Apparently, having made the decision that had been haunting him for months, he was now to be subject to all sorts of fun clarity he’d avoided.
“But,” he continued, “she won’t be easy to go after, and I’m afraid I can only give you two days of assistance,” he found himself saying. “I’ll be gone, after that.”
He braced himself for the questions—he wasn’t fooling himself into believing that once she realized he was on the hook, even if he’d put himself on it willingly, she wouldn’t try to keep him wriggling there for as long as possible. He didn’t even blame her. It was in her best interest, and she owed him absolutely nothing.
“I don’t need two days to take her down. I only need one.”
He blinked. “One?”
