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hand, smiling as he regarded the Sheathed Sword’s common room. He looked like a king surveying his domain with indulgent amusement, not a halfling merchant regarded with scorn by half the room. 
    A pity she would have to kill him.
    She didn’t want to do it. But the cold jade bracelet upon her left wrist made it necessary. 
    Mara walked towards his table, staring at the back of the common room as if she had spotted friends there. A small wax sphere, no larger than her knuckle, waited in the fingers of her right hand. The sphere would dissolve when it touched wine in Jager’s goblet, and the tremendously powerful poison within would stop Jager's heart and kill him in short order. 
    Jager glanced to the right, smirking at one of the merchants, and Mara saw her chance. She walked past his table, her hand moving to drop the sphere into his wine goblet…
    “How appalling,” said a deep voice.
    Mara froze and saw Jager staring up at her with a smile that did not touch his amber-colored eyes. 
    “I’m sorry, sir?” said Mara.
    “My manners, of course,” said Jager, getting to his feet with a flourish. It surprised her that such a deep voice could come from such a short man. Though she only overtopped him by a few inches. “To let such a lovely woman pass without offering greetings. I am Jager of Cintarra, merchant of fine and beautiful things, and it pleases me to make your acquaintance.” 
    He bowed over her hand and kissed her fingers.
    Her right hand. Did he know about the poison? Did he know what she really was?
    “Thank you,” said Mara, buying time to think. “I am pleased to meet you as well.”
    Jager laughed.
    “What is so funny?” said Mara.
    “My charm is indeed overpowering,” said Jager, “considering it has made you forget your very name, my dear lady.” 
    Mara considered for a moment. “You can call me Mara, Master Jager.”
    “Mara?” said Jager. “A poor choice of name, I fear.”
    “And why is that, sir?” said Mara. Did he know that she was a part of the Red Family? “Do you often make the custom of criticizing women’s names?”
    “If I recall the lectures of my village’s priest correctly,” said Jager, “the word ‘Mara’ meant ‘bitter’ in the tongue of the ancient Hebrews upon Old Earth. The term hardly seems to suit you.”
    “You do not know me well enough to judge, sir,” said Mara. “Perhaps I am most bitter and miserly.”
    “If you were bitter, you would scowl more,” said Jager.
    “It is rude to scowl at strangers,” said Mara.
    “Ah, but we’re not strangers, are we?” said Jager. “So we may scowl all we wish. Like this. See?” He made a face at her, its appearance so comical that Mara burst out laughing. “Your turn.”
    “Enough, Jager,” said one of the merchants at a neighboring table, a stout, white-haired man in his fifties. “Stop pestering the poor girl. If she wants male companionship, she can find it readily enough.” An ugly smirk came over his face. “And if she does, she will want a real man, not an uppity halfling rat in expensive clothes.”
    She expected Jager to take offense, but instead he grinned. “Is that so, Quintilius? A real man? Meaning a man like you, I expect?” 
    Quintilius leered at Mara, and she did her best not to cringe in disgust. “She would be most satisfied.”
    “And flattened, I expect,” said Jager, and some of the other merchants laughed as Quintilius’s leer turned to a scowl. “You would be the death of the poor woman. Which, I imagine, explains the somewhat pinched expression of your mistresses. Why, they are taking the opportunity to catch a breath before they are smothered again…”
    A chorus of laughter answered him, and Quintilius scowled and turned his attention back to his food and wine. 
    “Now, then,” said Jager, hooking his left arm through Mara’s right and leading her forward, “now that the unpleasantness has been settled, let us return to our business.”
    “We have