He was, she decided quickly, the very essence of a gesith. Old enough to have wet his blade with enemy blood, but young enough to wish to prove himself still. Arrogant in his youth and skill, but not without reason to be. Cian would not have taken the chair either, despite its tactical position, but that made him seem ill at ease, edgy, wary. A fool, when there was no threat.

But Lintlaf, old and sour, would have taken the seat and thought nothing of it, thought nothing of her except as a maid who might pour him some wine. Lintlaf was a horribly stupid gesith.

"I know him as long as I am here," Hild said, giving him truth but a vague measure of it. "A little less."

She leaned forward over the counter, propping her chin up in one hand, her eyes never leaving him.

"He does not tell me of you."