“Varek knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

“I trust Varek, but I don’t feel the same way about his new barkeep. Quentin hasn’t done anything illegal tonight.”

Phaelan laughed, his voice low. “Night ain’t over yet.”

He was right, but I didn’t have to admit it. If certain members of the watch knew where he was, they’d jump to conclusions, and then they’d jump Quentin.

Phaelan’s ship had arrived in port late that afternoon, and the plan had been to meet for an early dinner. Early, because I knew he had plans later—plans that had everything to do with a woman, but nothing to do with a lady. My cousin had a strict threefold agenda on his first night in any port—get fed, get laid, and get drunk, in that order. Occasionally he would skip the food, but never the other two. When in Mermeia, my cousin could either be found in one of the city’s less reputable gambling parlors, or enjoying the comforts offered at Madame Natasha’s Joy Garden, and probably the attentions of Madame Natasha herself. This evening, Phaelan was positively resplendent in a doublet of scarlet buckskin, with matching breeches topped with high, black leather boots. At his side was the swept-hilt rapier he favored when out on the town. And unless my nose deceived me, his white linen shirt was as well scrubbed as Phaelan himself. An earring set with a single ruby gleamed in the lobe of one elegantly pointed ear. I knew all the fuss wasn’t on account of me.

“You took a bath,” I said. “And shaved. I’m impressed.”

“Just fancying myself up for you, darlin’.”

“I’m sure Madame Natasha and her girls will also appreciate your consideration.”

He grinned in a flash of white teeth. It was the kind of grin that could get him anything he wanted at Madame Natasha’s—or anywhere else in Mermeia—for free. He nodded toward where Quentin still waited by Nigel’s side door. “So what’s he doing here?”

“Asking for more trouble than he can handle.”

The grin broadened. “From Nigel or you?”

“Both.”

“Then walk across the street and stop him. The Crown’s still holding a table for us.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?”

“Being here wasn’t his idea.”

“So someone paid him well. Wouldn’t be the first time. Let’s go and let the man earn his money.”

I didn’t budge. “How much would it take for you to break into Nigel’s at night?”

To his credit, Phaelan didn’t have to think long. “More money than most in this city can lay hands to.”

“Exactly. And Quentin’s terrified of necromancers. There’s more involved here than money, meaning whoever hired Quentin scares him more than Nigel does. Quentin’s been trying to keep his nose clean and someone won’t let him—and I don’t like it.”

“So ask him who it is.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Quentin bought a new set of picklocks last week and started keeping to himself. I started asking him questions. He started avoiding me.” I indicated the assortment of armaments and dark leather that made up my evening ensemble—all topped by a ridiculously large and hooded cloak to keep Quentin from recognizing me had he spotted me. As an added precaution, my hair was contained in a long braid and hidden under the cloak. “Hence the cloak-and-dagger routine.”

“So if he won’t tell you what he’s up to, you’re just going to follow him while he does it.”

I nodded. “Exactly. And pull his backside out of the fire if need be. Afterward, we’re going to have a little chat.” I glanced back at the alley entrance. Phaelan hadn’t brought any of his crew with him. That was surprising.

“You alone?”

“My men only want to end up in an alley after they’ve been drinking all night—or if they’re waiting for someone. Even if they knew they’d be sharing that alley with you, I’d have a mutiny in the making.”

I didn’t have a response for that. I’d have mutinied, too. We settled back and waited.

A chat with Quentin was a given, but I hoped pulling his backside out of the fire wasn’t going to be a part of my evening. Though with Quentin’s current track record, both were probably in my immediate future.

Two months ago, Quentin had been hired to steal an emerald necklace being delivered to a local duke. The jeweler reported the theft to the duke. His Grace wasn’t home, but his wife was. Unfortunately for everyone concerned, the duchess despised emeralds—but they were the favorite gem of the woman she suspected of being her husband’s mistress. Bad went to worse for both the duke and Quentin. The duke simply retreated to his country estate. Quentin had to hide in the Daith Swamp for three weeks. He emerged a changed man. I guess three weeks of eating nothing but silt slugs will do that to you.

I found out about all this after the fact. When Quentin got around to admitting his career relapse to me, he also admitted that the job could have gone better. My friends on the city watch thought Quentin’s flair for understatement was exceeded only by his bad luck—or stupidity—depending on who you asked.

Yet here he was tonight, about to break into the house of the nastiest necromancer Mermeia had to offer. Some people were slow learners. But I would say that if Quentin was looking for a fate worse than eating silt slugs in a swamp, he’d come to the right place.

About ten minutes passed, and Quentin hadn’t so much as flinched. I couldn’t say the same for Phaelan. Three months at sea had taken its toll. There was something he desperately wanted to be doing right now, and standing in a stinking alley listening to himself breathe wasn’t it.

“Go on, Phaelan. Nothing’s going to happen here that I can’t handle.”

“Not a chance. Nigel isn’t known for being understanding of trespassers.”

“I’m not trespassing; Quentin is.” I flashed Phaelan a grin of my own. “Besides, Nigel’s not home. If he were, I wouldn’t let Quentin within three blocks of here.”

“Then what the hell’s he waiting for?”

“Him.” I indicated the upstairs gallery. A tall, thin figure carrying a single lamp proceeded at a stately pace down the length of the second floor gallery, putting out lamps and candles as he went.

“Nigel’s steward,” I clarified. “His reputation is almost as nasty as his master’s. I did some asking around. It’s the same routine every night. He puts out all the lights before going to bed. Nigel won’t be back until just before daybreak. He’s out making housecalls. For some reason, his clients seem to think séances have to be done at night. Since Quentin’s the cautious type, he’ll wait until the steward gets to the servant’s quarters before he makes his move.”

Phaelan’s expression indicated I was in dire need of a life. I wasn’t entirely sure I disagreed with him.

“How long have you been staking this place out?” he asked.

“Just once. The rest came from a few well-placed bribes. If Nigel doesn’t want his people to gossip, he should pay them better.”

“Any idea what Quentin’s after?”

“Not a clue. But if Nigel holds it near and dear, you can bet it’s a short list of people who want it—or want to be anywhere near it.”

“So that explains your sudden maternal urges.”

“I’m just here to make sure Quentin doesn’t get in too far over his head.”

“I’d say he’s there already. You planning to follow him in?”

“Not unless something jumps out and starts killing him.”

“Then how are you…?” Phaelan began. Then understanding dawned. “How did you get him to take a tracking stone?”

“Who says I asked him?” I shrugged deeper into my cloak. “Better safe than sensed. And as an added bonus, Quentin gets to go inside where it’s nice and warm, and we get to stay here where it’s nice and smelly.”

Phaelan looked up at the now dark gallery windows. “I don’t think anything in there is nice.” He took a not-so-delicate sniff and looked down at his boots in disgust. “Or out here.”

I followed his gaze, and took a whiff of my own. I had really been trying to ignore my boots. Though I’d rather be in a stinking alley than a necromancer’s house. Especially this necromancer. I’d once heard Nigel’s place described as forbidding. Just plain spooky worked for me. I think he had both in mind when he had it built. Not many people would want to live in a place that looked like a mausoleum, but then Nigel wasn’t most people.