Mago leaned his head in close. “You could track him?”
I nodded once.
Mago knew the source of my frustration. Unglamour and I could find a murderer. Unglamoured would also get me a pair of magic-sapping manacles and a trip to watcher headquarters—until I could be transferred to either a citadel containment room or Taltek Balmorlan’s specially built cell.
I glanced down the hall to Rache’s room and stifled a growl. He was gone and I had nothing to show for finally cornering the bastard except a denial and a now-empty room.
I stopped and thought. Maybe that room wasn’t so empty. Rache said he was a jack-of-one-trade. That trade wasn’t dressing in the dark and climbing out a window. I’d be willing to bet he’d left something behind. Something he’d worn, something with his essence that I could use to track him.
I had to get into that room.
There was a ring of fancy golden keys hanging on Madam Camille’s belt. It was the only practical thing about her entire outfit.
“Mago,” I said on the barest breath.
“Um-hmm,” Mago responded without moving his lips.
“I have to get in Rache’s room. Keys are on her belt. Charm your way in?”
The look my cousin gave me said that question wasn’t worth dignifying with an answer.
Mago sauntered over to Camille, and bent his head close to her ear. A question, a nuzzle, and a discreet grope later, Mago walked back over and gave me the keys. I pressed my lips together against a smile. Not everyone in the family used cannons to get what they wanted.
Most of the clothes on the floor in Rache’s room were the girl’s. I guess she figured she could get them later. Rache just wanted to get out; he wasn’t worried about leaving anything behind.
He should have been. I found just what I needed.
A glove.
If I’d been wearing my own skin, I could have determined that it was Rache’s by using my seeker skills, but as it was, I recognized it as Rache by the scent. He still wore the same cologne, and it was on his glove.
At least one thing had gone right tonight.
“I’d like to interrogate—excuse me, I mean interview—any witnesses.”
I froze. Mago froze. And we both looked out Rache’s door and down the hall.
A goblin. Black armored and armed with enough bladed weapons to discourage anyone from asking any questions—and to encourage everyone to give him answers.
Oh crap.
“I’m certain that Masters Peronne and Wiggs would be glad to give you a statement,” Madam Camille told him.
Oh, hell no, we wouldn’t. I shot a glance to the window and thought that a three-story drop wouldn’t be all that bad. A turned ankle would be the worst that could happen, right?
“Recognize them?” Mago whispered.
“Nope. You’re the prince’s personal banker. Fix this,” I hissed.
“I manage the prince’s money, not the murders of the prince’s officials.”
“Money, murder—they’re related.”
The big goblin spotted us and smiled until his fangs showed, and in no way, shape, or form was it friendly. He had good reason to smile. His witnesses were a pair of elven bankers. Easily intimidated, easy pickings. Give him half an hour and he’d have us confessing to murder. I could read it off of him as clearly as if he were saying it. Symon was good at reading people. Nice gift to have. To this goblin we were just two elves who had been in close proximity to a newly dead goblin courtier. We were suspects. I could smell his suspicion from here.
“Gentlemen,” the goblin said, his voice deep and silky soft. “If I might have a few minutes of your time.”
Mago straightened his doublet and strolled down the hall to the goblin. I had no choice but to follow.
“But of course, we’d be glad to help in any way we can,” Mago said. “But first I need to know your name and rank.”
“I will be asking the questions . . . Master Peronne, is it?”
“Yes, it is. But I cannot answer any questions without first knowing to whom I am speaking,” Mago said, his tone cool. “When I report this to Prince Chigaru, I want to be certain that I can correctly recall any names.”
“Report?”
Mago bowed from the waist. “Mago Peronne, personal banker to His Highness Prince Chigaru Mal’Salin. I’ve come from D’Mai at the prince’s express invitation to oversee some pressing financial matters. We were to have our second meeting tomorrow morning. I gather that His Highness is unharmed after the tragedy at the hotel?”
“His Highness is well.” The goblin wasn’t happy with this little turn of events. Not only did he just lose his interrogation fun, now his name would be mentioned directly to the prince.
And to Tam and Imala.
The goblin responded to Mago’s bow with one of his own, though his was stiff and clearly reluctant. “Captain Sokanon at your service, Master Peronne.” When his head came up there was a sparkle in his eye that had nothing to do with being at anyone’s service. “Did you have the misfortune of staying at the Greyhound Hotel as well?”
“We did. A tragedy.”
“They’re going to stay here for the evening,” Madam Camille chimed in, “until they can make other arrangements.”
“I thought as much.” The gleam in his eyes said he knew a pair of bankers couldn’t be here for women. As a puny banker I took great offense at that.
The gleam in the goblin’s eyes turned into a grin on his lips. I knew what was coming. Oh crap, crap, crap.
“Then on behalf of His Royal Highness, Prince Chigaru Mal’Salin, I would like to extend the hospitality of the goblin embassy to you both.”
Crap and dammit.
I knew what this guy wanted, I knew that goblins hated Raine Benares with a passion, and I knew I couldn’t hold this glamour much longer. In fact, I’d never held one for this long. Yes, Tam and Imala were probably at the embassy, but they just as easily could still be at the hotel, or what was left of it. I knew for a fact that the elven embassy had subterranean levels with prison cells where the bureaucrats upstairs wouldn’t be bothered with any unseemly screaming. I let Mago know in no uncertain terms exactly how I felt. I pinched him. Hard. He stifled a yelp.
“I thank you for your generosity, Captain Sokanon, but Master Wiggs and I will be quite content here.”
“We’ll have to close the Grove for the night,” one of the watchers told us. “No overnight guests allowed.”
The big goblin clapped his black leather-gloved hands together in undisguised glee. “The prince would not want you turned out on the streets at this time of the night. Since you have a meeting scheduled with His Highness in the morning, I must insist.”
Yeah, I was sure he must.
The goblin addressed the watchers. “And should you have additional questions for these gentlemen, you will know where to find them.”
The street in front of the Satyr’s Grove was packed with people. I guess a murder dressed like a suicide made an interesting change from the entertainment offered in the district. Some of the finest restaurants in the city happened to be in the red-light district. I guess a man—or woman—could work up one heck of an appetite there.
The goblin captain had left some men behind to investigate and to bring Chatar’s body back to the embassy. The captain and his men would escort us to the embassy. It was obvious which coach we were expected to get into. Black and sleek with matching horses with coats so black that they absorbed the lamplight. I tried not to be obvious about it, but I was looking for some way, any way, any reason to avoid getting into that coach.
I spotted a reason. A reason to dive under the coach.
Taltek Balmorlan and Carnades Silvanus were getting out of a coach at the front door of a restaurant directly across the street. Mago and I were in the company of goblin embassy guards, being treated with exaggerated courtesy, and being helped into a goblin embassy coach.
They saw us.
Oh no.
Mago and I had run out of the Swan Song, never shown up at the tavern for Balmorlan’s Saghred demonstration, and now we appeared to be the goblin embassy guards’ new best friends. An embassy that the alive-and-well Prince Chigaru Mal’Salin controlled.
Our cover wasn’t just blown, it was royally screwed.