The coin is lighter in her hand than she thought it would be. Colder, too. She watches, enraptured, as the swirling dust inside floats around in a helpless, endless circle. Her finger traces the surface of the containment ring, but even the sensation of touch betrays the secret of the power hidden inside it. Her skin touches its smooth, almost slick, vaguely oily surface before it slips off and brushes against the many tiny bumps and ridges that make the etchings on the coin instead. She sniffs the air but it's tainted with the thick and acrid stench of the cigar with only slight traces of some sort of sweet peony and a tiny bit of silver tang underneath it. There is nothing to suggest the kind of power that's held inside of it. Nothing she can find with any of the senses she was so proud of. And yet.

This is a place of miracles. It must be. Miracles beyond the scope of even Empire, if somebody as low as Thist commanded this much so freely. 

XIII stiffens as she sets the coin back on the desk. Her cheeks burn as her tail bristles with obvious discomfort. Shame. Her muscles twitch. Shame. Her ears droop low. Shame. Inadequacy. Shame. Her fingers reach into the purse and pull out an empty containment ring. This one is even less remarkable to look at and touch than the filled one. Still, she squeezes her eyelid shut over her Auspex and observes the daric through a permanent wink. 

Her fingers tremble as she brings them closer and closer. She feels pressure build against her fingertip where her talon touches the surface. Her lips part uneasily, showing the clench of her sharp and perfect teeth. She squeezes her eyes shut, and feels rather than sees her hand drag across it. Her claws and her talons tears deep grooves into the surface of Thist's desk. She opens her eyes again and lifts her hand to find the ring has split into three neat pieces along the lines she left. XIII lets out of a breath deep enough to make her shoulders sink in relief.

"Gave you my name," she hisses, "Never. Call me Reacher. Again."

She stands still for a long second. Lighting strikes of embarrassment strike her brain like spears while her skin crawls with hot pinpricks up and down her arms and legs as her heart seems to drop into her stomach at the same time. She breathes, and the air is danger. She snatches the purse up with one hand while the other nervously tries to smooth out the gashes she's left in Thist's desk. She doesn't even feel her legs backpedal toward the couch; she simply retreats backwards without thought and the next thing she's aware of she's sitting there with her hands folded demurely in her lap. 

"Don't 'Zeus and the Path' me, either. I'm not stupid. Lie to yourself. Not to me. My ship's worth more than this bag and you're pocketing the rest. You promise me riches if I sit here and ask nice. But I won't see a tenth of what you wind up with, if it even works. And your Shah or whoever will reap all the benefits of raking the Order over the coals. None of this is for me."

XIII smiles with the sort of plastic precision she hasn't needed since her childhood when she had to charm potential owners. She forces her body into a maid's prim and rigid posture, and then a moment later flops over with the drama of a dozen fake and imagined injuries.

"That's fine. I'll allow it. Grift me as much as you want, I'll play along. I'll be the quietest and sweetest guest of the Azure Skies, just for you. Because you're going to help me, aren't you? That's why Apollo brought me to you. You're going to find out where the person I'm looking for has gone. And you're going to get me on a ship that'll take me where I need to go. Aren't you?"

She winces with the pain of sitting up again, bringing her hand up to gingerly brace her ribs. Her tail swishes merrily behind her.

"And while you're at it, you're going to tell me what this place does for wine."