Quentin looked doubtful. “You’ll give it back?”

“Yes, I’ll give it back.” Eventually. Once I found out what it was. And if I found I needed to hold onto it to keep it out of Sarad Nukpana’s hands, I’d pay Quentin the rest of his fee. Or Markus Sevelien would. For the elven duke, thirty gold tenari was pocket change. I couldn’t say the same for myself. Information was a professional courtesy Markus and I had extended to each other over the years. If I happened across something that Markus might be interested in, I let him know, and the elven duke did the same for me.

I knew Markus would be interested in anything that interested Sarad Nukpana.

Quentin pulled the chain over his head and handed it and the amulet to me. I hesitated before actually touching it. Caution had never been a bad thing for me. I took it from Quentin by the chain, and the silver disk spun slowly at the end. There were carvings on the front and back, but I couldn’t make out any details. The amulet gleamed when I touched the chain. Just a reflection of the streetlamps—and the hum that I heard was just a figment of my imagination. Metal didn’t make noise unless you struck it. And even if it could hum, that hum wouldn’t sound smug.

“Do you hear anything?” I asked Phaelan, never taking my eyes off the amulet.

He gave me an odd look, then glanced behind us for signs of pursuit. There were none, but he knew that. “No, do you?”

“Never mind. Just my imagination.”

I slipped the chain over my head, and when the amulet didn’t try to burn a hole through my jerkin, I slipped it and the chain inside my shirt. The metal was warm against my skin. I told myself the heat was left over from Quentin’s body. Perhaps if I kept telling myself that, I’d begin to believe it.

The front entrance to Simon Stocken’s warehouse was usually guarded by at least two men. Things usually went better if they knew you. I recognized the first guard, but not the other on duty with him. Both acknowledged Quentin, and the one I didn’t know opened the door for him. Stocken’s guards were reliable men as long as he kept their purses full; and with business as good as it was, there was ample coin to pay for good help. Quentin went inside. We stayed outside and out of sight.

A minute or so passed. Quentin must have been halfway through the warehouse by now. Simon Stocken’s office was in the far corner. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, and adjusted my baldric on my shoulder. Then I shifted my weight back. I was suddenly uncomfortable in my own skin. I looked down at my hands. One of them actually twitched. I looked back to the warehouse. The guards were no longer by the door.

“Phaelan?”

His dark eyes were staring intently at the door. “I see it. They just went inside.”

“That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not.”

That wasn’t the only thing that was less than ideal. It wasn’t the guards’ absence that was making my skin crawl. It was something big and ugly and waiting inside that warehouse—magic, and not the good kind. Quentin was walking into trouble for the second time tonight. I knew it as sure as if it were me walking into that trap. Curious. I had a knack for sensing certain things, but big bad magical traps had never been one of them.

“Does Stocken’s warehouse have a back door?” I asked.

“Of course. And two side doors and a trap door over the water.” Phaelan said before dashing across the street. I was right behind him.

My cousin drew his rapier as he neared a narrow space between two stacks of crates that opened into the alley beyond. He looked through. I glanced over his shoulder, a pair of long daggers in my own hands. It was all clear to the waterfront.

“Take a right at the end of the alley,” he told me. “It’s the first door on the right.”

“There’s something waiting inside.”

“Not a new shipment of Caesolian red, is it?”

“Hardly.”

“One could hope.”

There were no guards posted by the small side door. Things were looking up. The hinges were well oiled and opened without a sound. Even better. The warehouse’s vast interior was dimly lit by lightglobes spaced at regular intervals along the walls. Only some of them were activated, throwing large sections of the warehouse into shadow. What we could see was only about a quarter full of crates, cases, and casks, which wouldn’t be a sign of a healthy business in many parts of the city; but Simon Stocken based his success on the quality of the goods traded, not the quantity.

Quentin was nearing the door of Stocken’s small office in the back of the warehouse. I resisted the urge to call out to him. Whatever the trap was, he had already tripped it. Getting caught with him wouldn’t do any of us any good.

Quentin was completely oblivious to what he had just walked into. “Simon, I want another twenty tenari and four bottles of Caesolian red, not a drop less.”

Simon Stocken didn’t answer. We soon found out why.

A shadow swung across one of the lightglobes, blocking it, revealing it, and blocking it again. Along with it came a creaking sound I instantly recognized. Quentin looked up. We all did.

Simon Stocken hung from a rafter outside his office, a halter of woven hemp tight about his abnormally lengthened neck, hooked beneath the chin. His hands were tied behind his back. He was quite dead.

Quentin had his daggers half drawn when the goblins stepped from the shadows, completely surrounding him. Half of them were robed, the other half were armored—all of them were familiar.

Khrynsani shamans and temple guards.

Phaelan leaned close, his lips next to my ear. “Didn’t we just leave this party?”

Some of the goblins opened lanterns and set them on crates, further illuminating Simon Stocken—something I could have done without. When they had finished, a figure robed in rich, black silk moved out of the shadows between two of the guards and into the ring of light. So much for the reason behind all my twitching and skin crawling. I still didn’t understand how I had sensed it, but at least I knew why.

I also knew who the fancy robe wearer was. I’d had ample descriptions from Markus’s agents.

The hood on Sarad Nukpana’s robe was back and I could clearly see his face. He was only slightly taller than me, slender and compact beneath his robes. His gleaming black hair fell nearly to his waist and was held back from his face with the narrow silver circlet of his office. His features were elegant without appearing weak, beautiful without sacrificing one bit of masculinity. The reality of the goblin grand shaman didn’t match the stories and nightmares I’d heard from others. But then the most beautiful serpents were the most poisonous.

There were ten Khrynsani with him that I could see, and I was certain there were more.

“Sit tight,” Phaelan whispered. “I’ll get some help. Tanik Ozal and his crew are two blocks over at the Rude Parrot. They live for this sort of thing.”

I nodded. I agreed with him, to a point. The goblins with Sarad Nukpana were professional killers; Tanik’s crew just did it for fun. There was a difference. Whether Phaelan could get back in time with Tanik and his merry band of cutthroats was one thing, whether they would be able to keep Quentin from being killed or worse was quite another.

“You took your time joining us, Master Rand,” Nukpana told Quentin. His dark eyes regarded the dead broker gently swaying from the beam overhead. “Apparently the late Master Stocken tired of waiting for you.”

“So you killed him,” Quentin said flatly.

Nukpana smiled as if he knew the punchline to a private joke. “Master Stocken was already dancing on air when I arrived.”

“To do what?”

“Inquire about a box you recently acquired from a certain nachtmagus.”

Quentin didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Considering the difficulty you had stealing it, I wouldn’t think you would have forgotten so soon. My guards remember you”—Nukpana’s smile vanished—“and your friends. If you need help jogging your memory, a few hours staked out on the edge of the Daith Swamp should suffice. I do have a little time at my disposal this evening. I’m certain the bog beetles would appreciate dining on something besides dead fish.”