I quickly joined him. “What crazy bas—” I didn’t finish the question; I couldn’t. And people said I was nuts.

Prince Chigaru Mal’Salin, exiled younger brother of the goblin king, with a price on his head and every other body part, was brazenly standing in clear view near the bow of a luxury yacht sailing into the harbor. His personal standard was flying at the top of the ship’s tallest mast, telling even the most clueless exactly who and what he was.

Phaelan was absolutely right. He was a crazy goblin bastard. Though his last name was Mal’Salin, crazy was in their blood.

Mago looked over both of our shoulders and saw what we saw. “Oh, bloody hell.”

Phaelan clapped him on the shoulder. “Think about it this way, brother. If someone puts a bolt in him, you won’t have to worry about keeping dinner down.”

I didn’t like Chigaru Mal’Salin, and unless his feelings had changed, the prince didn’t like me, either.

It wasn’t easy to forgive someone who had used a friend of mine as bait to kidnap me, and then threaten that friend with torture to get me to find and use the Saghred for him. I couldn’t believe that his manners had improved any since then. The prince was cunning, manipulative, ruthless, and conspiracies and plots were recreational activities. In other words, a Mal’Salin. But unlike his brother, Chigaru could be reasoned with and he wasn’t nuts.

Well, at least not as nuts as his brother.

I knew Prince Chigaru was coming to Mid; he just wasn’t supposed to be here this soon. The prince had made the trip from wherever his last hiding place was for two reasons, and both of those reasons were because of his brother. One was in response to his brother’s invitation to bury the hatchet and sign a peace agreement. The second reason was to overthrow his brother’s government then bury that hatchet in one of his vital parts. Not directly, mind you. Direct confrontation wasn’t the goblin way. Intrigue and subterfuge were the favored methods for two powerful goblins to settle things once they’d reached an impasse.