It takes a second to settle all the pieces mentally into place. Lefty Emerson. I’ve heard Daddy talk about him before. Emerson went to Furia on his orders. He’s been the unofficial emissary between the Empire and the Reach for a long time now. It’s not hard to hear it in his half-faded accent. He’s even adopted some of the quickness and fire of Ashlord speech. Daddy’s never spoken ill of the man, but there’s one other detail that stands out above all else.

He is not one of the ten faces Antonio showed me in that wine cellar.

I do not know his favorite food.

Which means he is not to be trusted.

“Well, I pulled a few strings to be in this crowd,” Emerson says. “The first time in twelve years that a Longhand rides in the Races? I was thrilled. I’m sure everyone at home…I couldn’t resist coming over to buy you a drink. The Ashlords will hate me for it, naturally….”

As he talks, my eyes drift briefly over his left shoulder. People are laughing loudly, crossing the room, offering toasts. The woman’s stillness sets her apart. She’s a waitress. Her back is set against the wall right near the kitchen entrance. Her eyes are on us.

And unlike Emerson, she’s one of Antonio’s trusted ten.

Elizabeth. Her favorite food is smoked granola. When she’s dead certain that she’s caught my eye, she gives the slightest shake of her head, picks up her tray, and moves away.

My eyes lock back on Emerson. He’s still talking.

“…and that’s the way it always is with their kind, isn’t it?”

His half-heard question hangs in the air. I’m saved from answering by a tray that crashes to the floor. Elizabeth stands over the mess, looking properly embarrassed. It’s the kind of clatter that briefly draws every eye in the room. Emerson turns long enough to inspect things, and I move faster than a slickback snake. It’s a trade. My drink for his. She gave me just enough time to pull it off. I hide the movement by raising his glass into the air and by the time he turns back around, the sight of the drink in my hand brings out a smile.

“I do love when anything they touch falls short of perfection,” he whispers. “Anyway. A Longhand in the Races! Some things are worth celebrating, no? What should we toast to?”