Caught despite herself, Emma moved closer. She tasted secrets. “Like what?”
“I am sent by one far more powerful than I. Perform for them the smallest favor, and the rewards will be great. What do you say?”
It was what she had been looking for. What Saskia and Nancyhad not been able to tell her, and what none of these books had contained. A way to earn more than a fox maiden could. To be free of her debt. To go home. She was about to open her mouth, when she heard the Sister’s voice, and her warning:City dwellers do not give, as a rule. Almost always, a gift they offer will be a bargain in disguise.
Emma’s lips drew back from her teeth in a fox snarl. “No, thank you. Unless you care to name your terms. I won’t be taken in by your gift.”
The messenger gave a delighted laugh. “Oh, I’m half in love with you already. Right you are, my lady. Business it is. I tell you what my sender wants of you—”
“And who is this sender, messenger?”
“Robin.”
“What?”
“Messenger Robin.” He swept a deep bow, eyes twinkling. “My lady.”
“That’s not an answer to my question.”
“No fact escapes your cunning eye, lady fox. My sender does not wish to be known.” Robin sighed, tapping the tree on his tunic. “And as a lowly City messenger, I obey. But I assure you, they are more than generous.”
Emma made a noncommittal sound. She had always liked to know all the facts before making a decision. To lay out her data and analyze before giving her conclusions. She mistrusted simple tasks with anonymous instigators.
“So what do they want from me?”
“Share all you know of the Turnbulls, and there will be a nice little reward for you. Enough to pay off—oh, perhaps two hundred years of your service?”
That was double what any of her sisters owed to the House of Foxes, for information she would have given gladly. It would be a relief to talk about the Turnbulls, to release the gall choking her insides. She wanted to know why so much would be offered for so little. But she had learned enough of the Night City not to show her hand. “Of course. No one else could tell you, because—because there’s never been anyone like me in the Night City before.” She tried not to sound as though she were guessing. If the mystery patron thought she had value, she would act like it. “Someone connected to the Turnbulls.”
“Certainly nobody close enough to have useful information. Your coming stirred the hornet’s nest of the Court. How many newcomers to the City do you think are called to a full trial in the great chamber, with the Judge himself?”
“Not many, I hope,” said Emma, rubbing the tender spots on her arms where the Boars had bruised her.
“Which gives your knowledge great worth. You were even with them during a sacrifice.”
“Iwasthe sacrifice,” she reminded him drily. “So tell me more about this generous bargain. What are your terms?”
“Our terms, O Gorgon of suspicion, are these: You tell me all you remember of the Turnbulls. Even details you might think unimportant—on this matter, no corner of your knowledge should remain unshared.”
“And if any part of the bargain is not met?”
“A little transformation. Frog’s legs for twenty years. Webbing and all,” Robin said promptly.
Emma nodded as though thinking it through. In reality, she was remembering the tailor at the Court. The trick in her words.Emma had sworn to match cunning with cunning. To turn the Night City’s game to her own ends. And she had just seen her first opportunity.
She tried to sound casual. But she held every word in her mouth before saying it aloud. She had to get it right. “So this is our bargain. Your sender wishes to know all about the Turnbulls: We will share complete confidence on this matter. Everything there is to know. You and I swear this bargain now, and I will receive a reward at the end. If the terms of the bargain aren’t met, that means twenty years with frog’s legs. We agree?”
“It’s a bargain.” Robin shook her offered hand.
Emma kept her face smooth to hide the unholy glee within. She kept her end of the bargain. She told Robin every last vicious, rage-filled detail about the Turnbulls. It felt like soaring, letting her vitriol flow free. She particularly enjoyed describing Piers Popwell as a bloated weasel intestine. Robin blinked, but wrote it down. At last, with a sheaf of scribbled notes, he stood to leave.
“Oh no, Messenger Robin,” Emma told him. “Not yet. Time for your part of the bargain.”
Robin turned, eyes wary. “Lady?”
“I believe we just agreed to share full confidence, on the matter of your sender wishing to know about the Turnbulls? Such full sharing between us, I believe, would include the identity of your sender.” She paused, enjoying herself immensely. “Would it not?”
His face went comically blank. Then he broke into a roar of laughter. “Oh, you are magnificent. You have tricked me. Me!”
