He raises his eyebrows at her guess, gives an impressed whistle.

"Maker's balls, you're a cynic." It's said too warmly to be an insult. "All right, you're ten, I'm eight. And if the count goes over or under, it's a wash. Let's say we play for--well, boasting rights, 'course. That's a given. Mental anguish, another given. And..." He taps his finger on his chin. "Let's call it six Sovereigns?"