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."
