Sathrik wanted his little brother dead. Chigaru had refused to stand still for any of Sathrik’s assassins.

In goblin diplomatic parlance, this was called an impasse.

In the face of such an impasse, Prince Chigaru’s behavior was brazen at best, wantonly suicidal at worst.

Phaelan nudged Mago in the ribs. “Shouldn’t you go out and greet your ‘affluent’ client?”

“I would prefer a bath and a change of clothes first.”

“And see if he makes it to shore in one piece,” I muttered.

“That, too.”

Like elves, goblins were generally tall, sleekly muscled, and lithe with elegantly pointed ears. There, pretty much all resemblance between the two races ended. Sure, some elves had large black eyes, though none had a goblin’s pale gray skin and sharp white fangs, but those weren’t our biggest differences.

I enjoyed intrigue as much as most of my family. But goblins took it to an entirely different level. For goblins, intrigue was a full-time, full-contact sport, played to the death—or to the win—whichever came first. And that funloving nature was multiplied to an absurd degree when goblins got anywhere near the Mal’Salin royal court.

And if a goblin’s last name actually was Mal’Salin . . . well, you get the picture.

Then I noticed something odd, even odder than a goblin prince making himself into a two-legged target.

Chigaru Mal’Salin was standing alone.

There should have been crew swarming all over the ship, preparing it to dock. There were crew working, but they were all careful not to cross in front of the prince.

Too careful.

I drew in a touch of power and focused it on Chigaru, to see him through the eyes of a seeker. The prince was shielded against magic and weapons. The spell protecting him was light and subtle, and completely invisible. I only knew it was there thanks to my Saghred-heightened senses. It was incredibly sophisticated work, like a tightly woven steel web that curved out in front of him like a protective shield.