Garadin leaned back against the other side of the chair. “The Conclave has many interests, and it’s been a while since I was on Mid. I still have contacts there, some I can trust. Let me ask around. In the meantime, you need to keep that trinket out of sight, and you need to be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

Garadin gave me the look. You know the one.

“Whenever I can,” I added.

“You’re going to have to do better than that. Have you talked to your best client?”

I knew he meant Markus. No need to share that name with Piaras either.

“I sent him a note a few hours ago asking if I could use one of his safehouses as a base for the next couple of days. And after what you told me about Tarsilia’s visitors, I think it’s an even better idea.”

Garadin shook his head. “You may want to consider arranging for more protection than that. I don’t like you wandering around the city alone.”

“I don’t ‘wander’ anywhere,” I told him. “I know the under-belly of this city better than anyone, and you know how I feel about someone playing shadow. I work alone.”

“As long as you’re wearing that, you won’t be lacking for company.”

“No one can sense it when I’m wearing it.” I paused uncomfortably, remembering Mychael Eiliesor—and feeling his presence all too clearly in the past hour. I didn’t doubt for a moment that it was his seductive lullaby Garadin and Piaras’s arrival had interrupted. If he had managed to put me to sleep, then traced me here, who knows where I’d have woken up. “With the exception of my Guardian acquaintance.”

I remembered another reason why I wanted to talk to Garadin. I didn’t want to ask in front of Piaras, but I had no choice. “How much do you know about Gates?”

My godfather was silent before answering. “I have knowledge, but not firsthand experience, though I know some who have both.” His distaste for the subject was apparent. “I don’t count any of them as friends.”

“I think that’s how the Khrynsani got into Nigel’s house tonight,” I told him.

Garadin didn’t say anything, but I could see his jaw tighten. Piaras had gone a shade paler, if that was possible. I didn’t know how much he knew about Gates, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t as much as Garadin or I knew, and I wasn’t going to be the one to expand his education. This was one topic I would tiptoe around. I’m sure Garadin would agree with me.

A Gate is a tear in the fabric of reality. It’s not naturally occurring. Nothing about a Gate is natural—or legal or moral. Stepping through a Gate is like stepping through a doorway, except that doorway can cover miles instead of inches. In theory, I guess any distance is possible. Gates are a convenient way to get around, if you don’t mind what it takes to make one. Magic of the blackest kind, fueled by terror, torture, despair, and death—the more the merrier. It takes a twisted sorcerer to open a Gate. Luckily I hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting anyone quite that sick—at least not until tonight. It sounded like something that’d be right up Sarad Nukpana’s dark alley.

“I had a tracking stone on Quentin, so I saw everything he did. There were no goblins in that house before he opened that box. Quentin swears they just stepped out of thin air. I didn’t want to scare him with my opinion of how that happened. He’s had a bad enough night.”

“Your average goblin shaman wouldn’t get within a mile of an open Gate,” Garadin said, “let alone create and open one.”

I snorted. “I wouldn’t call any of the goblins running around Nigel’s place tonight average. Sarad Nukpana’s certainly qualified to create and open a Gate, and considering the other goblins who took on his temple guards in Nigel’s garden, Nukpana probably felt the need to be onsite to protect his investment.”

Garadin raised an eyebrow. “Other goblins?”

“Expensively armored other goblins. I’m thinking they were all at Nigel’s for the same reason, and I’m wearing it around my neck.”

“Any theories on who they were?”

I shrugged. “Sarad Nukpana works for the new king. The new king has a brother—a brother he just recently exiled. Rumor has it little brother isn’t happy with his new living arrangements and is looking to make as much trouble for big brother as possible. The prince could certainly afford to outfit his allies that well. As to why they all want what I have, I have no idea. Sibling rivalry? Revenge? Who knows?”

“You need to know.”

I sat back and blew my breath out. “Tell me about it. That’s one of the reasons I’m going to see Tam in the morning. He’s had plenty of firsthand experience with goblin court politics.”

Garadin was wearing his concerned look. I didn’t know if the look was because of Tam, goblin court politics, or the mess goblin court politics had gotten me into.

He leaned forward. “I don’t suppose you’d consider staying here?”

I shook my head. “Markus’s safehouses are shielded well enough to resist a Gate. And if the Khrynsani do come knocking, I’ll at least have enough time to get out.”

“I don’t like this.”

“That makes two of us.”

Going home sounded good in theory, but so did a lot of things that ended up getting you killed.

Just because I was going home didn’t mean I was staying there. Quite the opposite. I wanted anyone and everyone who might be following me to see me arrive home and then leave home—with luggage. There were things in my rooms that I needed. Once I had those things, I wouldn’t be going back home until I knew I wouldn’t be bringing trouble with me.

Garadin insisted on walking me and Piaras home. Normally, I would have turned down his offer. This morning I had no problem with the extra company. I had Piaras’s safety to consider, and if anyone with less than honorable intentions decided to follow us, it would be nice to know that I didn’t have to fight off whatever came at me and protect Piaras by myself.

I also had no problem wearing one of Garadin’s old cloaks. It smelled of tobacco smoke, but it covered up the goblin blood on my clothes. For the most part, Mermeian locals are a jaded lot. But dried goblin blood tends to attract attention—especially when worn by an elf. When fresh, it’s the same color as the elven variety. But as it dries it gets brighter, and unless you have a tendency to wear scarlet, there’s no hiding it. I was definitely overdue for a bath. A long soak would be wonderful, but it would have to wait. I didn’t have the time. Not to mention, if the Khrynsani or Guardians caught up with me, I’d rather not be in the tub when they did.

The three of us crossed the Arbor Bridge into the mainly commercial section of the Sorcerers District. The sun was just rising over the lagoon, and the streets were still hidden in shadow. Those who were up and about were either too sleepy or too intent on their own business to notice us.

I’ve lived in Mermeia for ten of my thirty years, and for most of that time, I’ve called the Sorcerers District home. Being an elf, you’d think I’d be more comfortable among my own kind, but to tell you the truth, we don’t have all that much in common. I think my family might have had something to do with that. They’re thieves—whether from the deck of a ship or the back of a horse, it’s the same profession. Highborn elven families have galleries of ancestral portraits. Phaelan has a collection of framed wanted posters, and he’s just as proud of them as if they had been rendered in oil by a fussy, overpriced court artist.

Many of the old blood made their old money much the same way as my uncle’s family, but they’ve swept it under the nearest hand-knotted Nebian rug. My relatives flaunt it. They may be thieves, but at least they’re honest about it. As a result, my family isn’t exactly accepted by most members of polite elven society. But considering what I know about most polite elven society, that arrangement suits me just fine.