Eris stared up at the man who held her. The rest of the patrons had moved away from him the moment he caught her, as if his personal space was a tangible force field.
He wore the low, circular black broad brimmed hat of a mercenary and blue robes edged with black silk tied tightly across his chest and flaring out to his feet. Those robes hid a multitude of sins, Eris was sure of that. His hands were wrapped in synthetic leather coverings designed to protect a clenched fist. Of all the people she could have run into, this was the worst. Mercenaries ranked somewhere below slave traders in the hierarchy of scum.
Behind her, the trader came pushing through the crowd. Eris was gratified to see his nose bloodied where the flying table had hit it. It was the very least he deserved.
“That is mine,” the trader said, pointing at her. “That little bitch.”
The brim of the hat lifted as the mercenary looked at the merchant. Eris saw his face then, strong chin and jaw, hard, high cheekbones, dark eyes set in an angular way which gave him a perpetual squinting appearance.