“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.

My back was starting to cramp, and I shifted my weight, trying to get comfortable. The more I squirmed, the worse it got. I hated stakeouts. My body didn’t respond well to sitting or standing around for long periods of time. Then there was the boredom. I was almost hoping Nigel’s steward would wake up, go looking for a nighttime snack, and find Quentin. At least I’d get to do something.

Just because I didn’t really expect any violence tonight, didn’t mean I wasn’t prepared for it. I’m not exactly what you’d call physically intimidating. Thanks to my elven blood, I’m tall enough, but my small bones and slender build are designed more for running than fighting. For those times when speed or spells didn’t discourage someone, I kept all sorts of interesting weapons, mostly the bladed variety, tucked here and there.

Quentin was even smaller than I was, and wiry—and could locate trouble faster than a lodestone could find true north. Though considering the section of the city we were in, I’d more than likely have to call on my alternate arsenal.

I’m a magic user of respectable ability, though most sorcerers would look down their noses and call what I do parlor tricks. In addition to my seeking skills, I can move small objects with my mind, maintain an image of myself in a place I’ve just left, and my shields are right up there with the best. Not the most powerful sorcery by a long shot, but in my opinion, power’s overrated—plus I know how to fight dirty, magically and otherwise. It’s always been enough to keep me alive. Singed around the edges doesn’t count.

What I can’t do is manipulate the wills of others, affect the weather, communicate with or raise the dead, turn base metal into gold, see into the future, or any of the other skills other sorcerers turn into a way to make a living. Not that I haven’t tried a few. I think the words “young” and “stupid” went a long way toward explaining those efforts. I even tried pyromancy once, but I almost set fire to my cat. It was at least six months before he didn’t run every time I struck a match.

I couldn’t see Quentin anymore, but it didn’t mean I didn’t know exactly where he was.

“He’s inside,” I told Phaelan. “And he didn’t set off any wards.”

“You make it sound like a bad thing.”

“It’s not good. Quentin’s employer either had Nigel’s wards disabled ahead of time, or Quentin has a ghencharm.”

Phaelan didn’t exactly look enlightened. “Which is?”

“A talisman that disables wards. Quentin could walk straight through every ward in that house and not make a sound. Problem is you have to know ahead of time what wards are being used. Whoever keyed it would need inside information.”

Phaelan shrugged. “So someone bribed one of Nigel’s servants. So did you.”

“I just got the household routine. Quentin apparently got the house. Someone in there really doesn’t like their boss. Nigel’s not going to be happy.”

“So he’s not the lovable type. I’d imagine not many necromancers are. Can you track him?”

I nodded absently. I was seeing more than just Phaelan.

Quentin was in the main part of the house now. A tracking stone only lets you know the carrier’s location, usually without any details as to what they see. There could be occasional flashes of image, but that only happened with magically sensitive carriers, or those you knew very well. Quentin wasn’t the sensitive type, magically or otherwise. Apparently I knew him well enough, because I got a hazy vision from his viewpoint of stairs leading to the second floor. No wards. No lurking stewards. Looked like Quentin had a good ghencharm. Phaelan and I might not have to charge in to the rescue after all. But I still had every intention of sitting down with Quentin for a very long talk when this was over, and if I needed extra muscle to hold him down while we chatted, so be it.

Quentin went straight to what looked to be a formal reception area on the ground floor. He crossed the room to a wall, pushed on something I couldn’t see, and exposed a hidden staircase. Interesting. Quentin activated a tiny lightglobe on the interior wall, illuminating steep and polished wooden stairs. A plush carpet of deep crimson ran up the center. It was all a little much for Nigel’s taste. Maybe select noble clients saw this part of the house as well. At the top of the stairs was a door with a screened panel that was just large enough to look through. Quentin looked inside, and so did I. An ornately carved bed dominated the room. I found myself grinning.