"Bet they based him on Lambert Letterford," Xiomara says, the name half-groaned and clearly not affectionate. "Being Orlesian is the only thing that could make him worse, that fucker—"

—is a prelude to a story she will tell in greater detail, somewhere along this journey, about a Lord of Fortune from twenty, thirty years ago, who lied to paying clientele about the contents of the tombs and caves and dungeons he scouted on their behalves, only to find out he was double-dealing as some academic's assistant and sending all the really good stuff to her, and the years it took the Guild to recover from the damage that did to their reputation—

but not now. Now she only caps it off with, "Ugh," and circles back to answer, "We drum up anything. Evelyn and Fivera—I don't know if you met Fivera before she scurried off—they're more into the history and mystery of it all, and I'm there to handle whatever's been living in the ruins since they got ruined. But sometimes what we find is pretty great. This sword," she says, and pauses her progress toward soaking her own scarf to twist and display her calf, where a sword with a broken blade is tattooed in fading black ink, "it was from Arlathan or something, and when you held it you could hear them. Or someone. Lot of elven whispering."