Draegra, seeing everyon there (and waiting for everyone to arrive so as not to knock too early), raps on the door. "Don't expect friendliness, but I was apprenticed to him as a historian for a few months."

An old, balding, Varisian man steps out, a cat by his legs. He adjusts his spectacles. "Hrmph," he says wordlessly, looking at the seven armed (or at least obviously capable) people arrayed about, including his old apprentice and that annoying scholar Norton he's managed to avoid thus far.

"Well, Draegra, what is it? This have to do with the muders, no doubt?"

Draegra doesn't answer the latter, but holds up a drawn version of the seven-pointed star. "We were looking for insight into this."

"Well, my fee is 10 gp for a week, or any portion of it, for a single, simple answer. More if other expenses and effort are involved. You accept those terms?"

Draegra opens his own purse and puts 10 gp in his hand.

Brodert looks around, quietly judging each of you (and from the looks of it, not for the better). "Alright, you only check on me once a day. Never before 10 in the morning, never later than 6 in the evening. You don't ask searching questions, and I don't entertain you with stories. When I have the answer, I give it, and we're done. Acceptable?"

In this last, he doesn't seem to be talking or even asking Draegra, who was the one to foot the bill, but seems to recognize that the rest of you are in some way vested in his "client's" query.