As she sat, he took her in calmly, concentrating almost as much on her appearance as on the juices running down the quailbone he was focused on picking clean.

There were little things amiss. Extraordinarily little, really. It was good work, almost great. But the cloth on her blouse did not always seem to move in perfect tandem with her movement. The skirt would go right when the breeze went left. At least, sometimes. But barely perceptible. No, it was good work. And her face looked exactly as it did when he saw it earlier, so either the illusion did not extend that far or she was an exceptional talent.

It's also possible, he thought, caution reminding him not to get ahead of himself, that every single mistake in this presentation is designed to make you think she's less expert than she is. Fastening his lips around the chunk of meat on a small wing, he sucked it off, and dismissed the thought. If the Moontae clan was truly going to cause him problems, they had the entire length of Raiaera to strike at him, and many of his campsites were much less secure than this inn. Doing it now wouldn't make sense.

"It's a good question," he finally said. "I can't say as I rightly know. Except I saw you at the gates, and you...reminded me of someone." He paused, considering, and began rummaging through the pages of a thick journal that had been set on the side of the table. It seemed to contain a mixture of both printed matter and handwritten notations, and it was bulging all over with scraps of paper and collected bits of errata stuffed into it all kinds of angles. As he searched, he continued speaking, slowly but deliberately.

"And then, of course, I noticed you following me. It's been ages since I was followed! A bit flattering, honestly, makes me feel good to think someone might still think an old warrior retired into mysticism and oblivion is worth setting a tail on. I figured, though, that if you were actually working for someone, it would be good to let you know that I was onto you. And if you weren't, well, I have to say...I was curious. Curious enough to spend a bit of coin, and see what you wanted. Ah, here it is..."

He produced a small drawing, about the size of a hand. He pulled it almost reverently from where he found it, tucked into a small, mostly handwritten section of the book that appeared to have water stains in a few places. But the drawing itself was on paper even older than the writing in the book, and appeared to have been done once in pencil, another time perhaps in charcoal, and then finally gone over with a fine ink to render the effect permanent. He placed it on the table between them.

"Please look, but don't touch. It's...the only drawing I have left."

The drawing was of the upper body of a woman, apparently young but with something ageless about the eyes. She was naked, but her hair fell about her breasts in a fashion that managed to both preserve her modesty and enhance her beauty. The drawing was, for all its sensuality, seemingly drawn in a chaste way, as though the artist's hand sought not to titillate or excite, but to elaborate, and articulate. Her mood seemed pensive, withdrawn, but smoldering like embers waiting for a breath of life to burst them into fire again.

And it looked ever so much like Flick. Not quite. But enough. The frame of the figure, after all, was a set of wings that managed to add a deadliness to the beauty of Natamrael Nito, fallen queen of the Moontae Succubi. The kind of wings one could imagine beating around the head of an enemy in one hour, and caressing the skin of a lover the next.

"Before you get any ideas, no, this isn't an old flame." He shook his head, a laugh lurking at the corner of his eyes, as if the thought was uproarious to him.

"Rather, an old friend. One of the oldest, and one of the first I lost. I made this drawing maybe a year before she died, and it was another year before I heard that terrible news. I drew this on the night she told me that she was bearing twins, the children of another old friend."

He paused, tapping the drawing for a moment, considering.

"Look, I can tell...you have powers. Of a sort." He gestured to her clothes. He smiled, but his eyes were cautious, not for himself, but for her.

"Be careful with illusions in Raiaera, friend Flick. Illusion is an art that has long been thought perilously close to Enarlin, the forbidden School. I know better, as do an increasing number of bards. Old Endaralindalë has been a much-maligned school of art, and hardly necromantic in the slightest, as the legends so inaccurately seem to tell. But there are those in the city who still hold to the old superstitions, and would call you a necromancer or worse if they knew you were cloaking yourself in glamours."

He leaned in close, his potatoes and quail forgotten.

"But you're here. You bear a striking resemblance to a dead woman, someone I loved in my own way, someone I miss, and someone whose death remains unavenged. You also have a remarkable talent, one that could be useful. And so I thought I might invite you here to consider a job.

"I could use the help of a ghost, you see, in putting the haunt to an old rival, and you seem to have the skills I need."

He gestured at the drawing one last time. "It's your choice, of course. I am not hurting for coin, and you do not need to feel a shred of obligation to me for your room and board. It's already bought and paid for, for at least a week given the value of gold these days, and no one will record your presence or ask about you while you're here. So you're always free to say no. And you can, of course, hear out more of what I have in mind, and say no then, too. My business is not so secret, at least not yet, that I would feel the need to put any more pressure on you than need be. But I also can't wait forever; I need to set things in motion, at least over the next few days. We can talk more now, or later. What do you say, Flick? Will you at least hear me out?"