I wasn’t sure which was more dangerous anymore, me or the rock.

“How do you think Dad and I control those mangy, homicidal maniacs we call our crews?” Phaelan was saying. “There’s always one or two that step out of line. We simply turn them into a well-publicized example, and the rest behave themselves.”

I just looked at him. “How about they’re just mangy, money-grubbing, homicidal maniacs who put up with your crap to get a cut of the gold a Benares ship brings in?”

Phaelan flashed a crooked grin. “There’s that, too.”

At least Phaelan knew who’d be planting daggers between his shoulder blades. I had no freaking clue. Don’t get me wrong; I knew the names and faces of most of the mages or bureaucrats who wanted me dead or snatched. But I also knew that they’d never dream of getting my blood on their lily-pure hands. They’d hire someone else to do it for them.

Generally the rich and powerful were tighter than a banker’s fist on their purse strings, but if they wanted something done badly enough, they’d be willing to cough up the coin. They also did their homework before they hired help to ensure they’d be getting their money’s worth. So chances were any assassin or kidnapper they sent after me would be pros who knew their business. Phaelan knew the cream of the crop by name and on sight. I knew a couple of them myself-some a little too well.

Phaelan had men staking out the docks who knew whom to look for, and runners who would bring news of any sightings to his flagship, the Fortune. So if a pro stepped off of a ship, boat, or dinghy, Phaelan and I would have his or her name within minutes, but that didn’t stop the space between my shoulder blades from itching.

I had Phaelan and Vegard with me and four uniformed Guardians around them. They were close, but not too close. Other Guardians in plain clothes mingled with the crowds. Most women go shopping with their girlfriends; I go with an armed escort.