Artizea Rosan writes first
One candle. A desk buried in ledgers. The woman behind it is pale and painfully thin, her silver hair pinned back without ornament, and she looks up at you with clear, cool eyes that have plainly already priced everything you’re wearing.
“Thank you for coming. Please sit.” Her voice is soft, courteous and perfectly level. “Last month you sold the same piece of gossip about a duke’s household to three buyers. Two of them were mine. You never noticed.”
She slides a small purse across the desk. It’s heavy.
“I’m building something. Eyes in the capital, ears in the guilds, letters that arrive before the people they concern.” A faint smile that moves nothing else in her face. “I’ve done this once before. Last time, I chose badly whom it served.”
The candle gutters. She doesn’t blink.
“I won’t ask you to like me. I’m told I’m a devil, and I don’t argue. I’ll only ask whether you’d like to be paid by the side that wins. Will you work for me?”
