Phaelan had come with me to Mid to protect me; Uncle Ryn followed the two of us to Mid to eliminate the need for protection. My uncle, who was Phaelan’s father, had dropped anchor in the harbor to motivate the Conclave’s mages to find a way to separate me from the Saghred. He said his anchors were going to stay right where they were and grow barnacles until that happened.

We were on the Red Hawk, Uncle Ryn’s flagship. Mychael and Markus were with Uncle Ryn in his cabin. I’d join them in a few minutes, but there was something I needed to do first.

Calm down.

The trip from the hole in the ground that used to be Markus’s house to the Red Hawk had been quiet, not only because we didn’t want anyone out and about at four bells to see or hear us, but because I didn’t trust myself within choking distance of Markus Sevelien quite yet. After a slight detour to collect the goblin gold, we headed straight for the harbor. Mychael was a wise man; he’d kept himself between me and Markus the entire way here. I was exhausted, I was scared, and I was pissed at more people than I had names for. But most of all, I was confused. Too much had happened and I hadn’t had enough time to sort through any of it. That was bad enough, but I knew it was going to get worse before it got any better. That was if I lived long enough to see it get better. Anything Markus Sevelien was involved in was guaranteed to be intricate, not like a seaman’s knot, but brilliantly intricate, like a finely woven web—and just as dangerous. I’d played chess with Markus on occasion. I’d always lost. Though I’d never stood a chance of beating a man who could think at least ten moves in advance.

If I was in the middle of whatever game Markus was playing now, losing would cost me more than my life. It could cost the lives of my family and friends, and probably anyone who just had the piss-poor luck of knowing me.

I gave Phaelan the condensed version of my evening.

“So let me get this straight,” he said once I’d finished. “Carnades and Balmorlan framed Tam for that elf general’s murder and got him locked up. Two weeks ago he had Piaras kidnapped, and he’s been trying to get his hands on you since the day you got here. And you and Mychael just saved this bastard’s boss? I’m not sure which is worse, saving him or bringing him here.”

“I want answers from him, Phaelan. What better place to bring him?”

Phaelan pursed his lips as he considered the implications. “Some of Dad’s crew are rather gifted when it comes to convincing people they want to talk. And if Markus’s people think he’s dead anyway . . .”

“That’s not what I want.”

“But that’s what might be necessary. If he’s the one that’s been pulling Balmorlan’s strings, the only way he’s leaving this ship is over the side hugging a rock.”

“It would hardly be the first time an underling didn’t tell his boss what he was up to,” I heard myself say. I couldn’t believe I was defending him. I guess doubt would do that to you.

“You said Markus knows what all of his people are up to.”

“Yes.”

“Considering how high the stakes are here, I hardly think Markus picked now to stick his head in the sand.”

I blew out my breath. “And even if he was acting under orders from his superiors, he still acted.”

Phaelan nodded. “He takes orders and obeys them, just the same as every man who has to answer to another man. And if they’re using him, maybe it’s because he’s letting them. How well do you really know him?”

“I thought well enough.”

Phaelan was silent as he looked out through the porthole. The water in the harbor was that glassy calm that came only with the predawn. Phaelan keeping his mouth shut meant he was about to open it and say something he knew I didn’t want to hear.

“Raine, you might have thought wrong,” my cousin said quietly.

He knew I didn’t like being wrong, but I despised being used, taken advantage of, or duped. All of the above made me feel stupid, and right now being stupid would get me and the people I loved a couple of steps closer to being dead. And one of those people was standing next to me. Any mess I’d found myself in, Phaelan had been right there with me in the muck. He claimed he didn’t want me having all the fun; truth was he was determined to protect me every step of the way even though one of those steps might be his last.

Markus had never told anyone in the agency that I worked for him. I was always paid under the table. But he could have been ordered to reveal his connection—or he could have volunteered it himself. Hell, Taltek Balmorlan knew; who else was running around with that information?

“A better question is how much do you trust him?” Phaelan asked in that same subdued tone.

I didn’t answer, because I didn’t know the answer.

“The number of people you can trust, believe in, and stake your life on, you can count on these.” Phaelan held up his hand with five spread fingers. “And if Lady Luck is really smiling down on you, maybe one or two more. But beyond that, everyone has a price for selling you out. And it doesn’t have to be money. It’s not always what you’re paid, but what you’re not willing to pay. You have to consider the possibility that the bastards in the agency’s big offices found Markus Sevelien’s price.”

That was what I was afraid of.

Chapter 15

I smelled the food before Phaelan and I got to Uncle Ryn’s cabin, and my stomach rumbled in appreciative anticipation. Uncle Ryn knew me well. I was pissed and he knew I needed to be levelheaded and reasonable. Get me fed and I could be reasoned with. I guess Uncle Ryn didn’t want to risk having to clean Markus Sevelien’s blood out of his carpets.

I knocked.

“Come,” Uncle Ryn boomed.

I opened the door and the scent of a heavenly dinner was nearly overwhelming.

The captain’s quarters on the Red Hawk were spacious, but contained only the things Uncle Ryn needed: bed, table with six chairs, fold-down sideboard, desk, and a cabinet where he kept his liquor. He didn’t want anything fancy or needless cluttering up his cabin. He liked his space. And Uncle Ryn didn’t take kindly to invasions of his personal space. He had a favorite response to someone stepping in on him. He’d reach out, grab you by the throat, lift you off your feet, and replace those feet at a respectful distance. This response was a warning; if you tried it again, it would be your last time stepping in on anybody. Uncle Ryn didn’t tolerate rudeness.

Most elves were tall and leanly muscled. Uncle Ryn was just big. He wore his dark hair short, his beard trimmed, and had a booming voice that’d carry clear up to a crow’s nest. He had a booming laugh to go with it and a sense of humor to match. He was somewhere around fifty, but he didn’t look it or act it. I was a firm believer in being happy doing your chosen work. If you were going to make a living at something, you should enjoy doing it. Ryn Benares was still in his prime and basking in the benefits of his chosen calling—the most feared pirate in any body of water larger than a bathtub.

Judging from the three used dishes on the sideboard, Uncle Ryn, Mychael, and Markus had already eaten.

“I hear you’ve had yourself a rough evening, Spitfire,” Uncle Ryn rumbled softly. “Come get yourself something to eat.”

Mychael arched a brow in amusement. “Spitfire?”

“His pet name for me,” I told him.

“Also an ill-tempered breed of small dragon.”

“She knows I’ve always meant it as a compliment,” Uncle Ryn said. “But like Raine, those little buggers get even more ill-tempered when they’re hungry.” He nodded toward the sideboard. “Fix yourself a plate before it gets cold.”

For once I did as told, no objections.

Uncle Ryn got out of his chair with his empty glass and went over to the liquor cabinet. “You want a drink?” he asked me.