He was young. Thin. Dressed in dark clothes.
His hair was greasy. His smile was oily. He had the look of a man who sold secrets and enjoyed the work.
He looked up at Raven. His smile did not waver.
"What do you want?" he said. He leaned back. He put his feet on the desk. "Information is costly, you see. We do not give charity. We do not give credit. Gold first. Talk later. And if you waste my time, I will have you thrown out. Or worse."
Raven looked at him.
He did not smile.
"I am not here to purchase information," he said. "But rather give it."
The man's smile faltered. His feet came off the desk. He leaned forward.
"Give it?" he said. "You want to give us information? And then we will value it? That is not how this works. We are not a charity. We are not a—"
"I ain't saying this to a cheap rag," Raven said. His voice was flat. Cold. The voice of a man who has killed leeches and broken commanders. "Bring your boss here. Where is Latina?"
The man's face went white.
