When the tea was ready, the woman joined her at the table, a glass of wine in her hand. Suddenly suspicious, Surreal looked pointedly at the tea, the nutcakes, and the butter.

The woman laughed. “At my age, my dietary requirements preclude such things, unfortunately. But test them if it troubles you. I won’t be offended. Better you should know I mean you no ill. Else, how can we talk honestly?”

Surreal probed the food and found nothing but what should be there. Picking up a nutcake, she broke it neatly in half, buttered it, and began to eat. While she ate, the woman spoke of general things, telling her about the Dark Altars, how there were thirteen of these great dark places of power scattered throughout the Realm.

The wineglass was empty and Surreal sipped her second cup of tea before the woman said, “Now. You want to know about your mother’s people. True?” She stood up and leaned toward Surreal, her hands outstretched to touch Surreal’s face.

Surreal pulled back, long years of caution making her wary.

“Shh,” the woman murmured soothingly, “I just want to look.”

Surreal forced herself to sit quietly as the woman’s hands followed the curves of her face, neck, and shoulders, lifted her long hair, and traced the curve of her ear to its delicate point. When she was done, the woman refilled her wineglass and said nothing for a while, her expression thoughtful, her eyes focused on some other place.

“I can’t be certain, but I could tell you what I think.”

Surreal leaned forward, trying not to appear too eager and yet holding her breath in anticipation.

The woman’s gaze was disconcertingly steady. “There is, however, the matter of the price.” She toyed with her wineglass. “It’s customary that the price be named and agreed upon before help is given. Contracts such as these are never broken because, if they are, the price is then usually paid in blood. Do you understand, Sister?”

Surreal took a slow, steadying breath. “What’s your price?”

“First, I want you to understand that I’m not asking you to endanger yourself. I’m not asking you to take any risks.”

“All right.”

The woman placed the stem of the wineglass between her palms and slowly rolled the glass back and forth. “A Warlord Prince has recently come to Chaillot, either into Beldon Mor or an immediate outlying village. I need to know his precise whereabouts, who he’s serving.”

Surreal itched to call in the stiletto, but she kept her face carefully blank. “Does this Prince have a name?”

“Daemon Sadi.”

“No!” Surreal jumped up and paced the room. “Are you mad? No one toys with the Sadist if they want to stay this side of the grave.” She stopped pacing and gripped the back of the chair so hard it shook from the tension. “I won’t do a contract on Sadi. Forget it.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything but locate him.”

“So you can send someone else to do the job? Forget it. Why don’t you find him yourself?”