The room upstairs had been built for a quieter kind of business than the one going on below it. Thick rugs, low couches, and a wall of glass that looked out over the main street and turned all that noise into something you could watch without having to hear.
Maela Sorrel poured three glasses without asking whether anybody wanted one, which Trafalgar noted as a small, expert piece of rudeness. She was somewhere past forty and had clearly decided that suited her. Deep blue-black hair pinned up loosely, pale gold eyes, faint scales along the backs of both wrists that caught the lamplight whenever she moved her hands.
"Maela Sorrel," she said, handing the first glass across. "I speak for the Canal Houses, which is a long way of saying that when the money in this city has an opinion, it comes out of my mouth."
"Trafalgar du Morgain. This is Rhosyn."
"I know both of those already." She dropped back onto the couch and folded her legs under her. "You landed yesterday, you had breakfast with Corvyn's little observer, Nerith kept you an hour, and you were up at the Ancients' wall this afternoon. Ondrek showed you the water, I assume."
"He did."
Maela turned her glass a slow half turn against her knee. "Now, before we start on anything dreary, let me be a decent host. Would either of you like company sent up? The house is good and I don't make my guests stand in a queue for it."
Rhosyn answered before Trafalgar could work out how he wanted to. "I'm fine, thank you."
"You're sure? I'd hate to guess wrong at you." Maela's tone stayed perfectly light. "Whatever you'd want, I can have it here in five minutes. Which way anyone leans has never mattered to me, and it certainly doesn't in my own building. I've never seen the appeal of narrowing my options."
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