I moved the candle closer to Athel’s sodden possessions. I’d searched his things earlier, but not especially well. I had been counting on the questioning to give me the answers I wanted. Now, though, with nothing more than a name and a dead smuggler getting cold

…

I started with the clothes, wringing them out and checking for hidden pockets, lined seams, or false soles on the shoes. Nothing. The purse held a few coins-three copper owls and a silver hawk-and a scarred lead lozenge. I recognized it as an old pilgrim’s token from my grandfather’s time. It was triple-stamped with the three symbols of the emperor, one for each of his recurring incarnations. Whoever had originally owned this had completed the imperial pilgrimage route-no small feat, given it had stretched nearly a thousand miles. A series of border wars and an imperial decree had shifted the route since then, making these tokens a rare thing. I put the coins back in the purse for Shatters’s men to find, and pocketed the token.

The contents of Athel’s shoulder satchel hadn’t changed, either: a pipe, two thin candles (broken), a leather smoker’s packet, and a wedge of moldy cheese. Feeling the need to be thorough, I broke apart the pipe, crumbled the cheese in my hands, and upended the small packet onto the crate. The pipe held nothing but char; the cheese smelled dry and old; and the packet contained some finely shredded tobacco and three long, narrow scraps of paper twisted lengthwise to form simple pipe tapers.

I turned the shoulder satchel inside out, checking the lining and cutting open the seams for good measure.

Nothing.

Hell.

I leaned against the crate and stared into the darkness of the warehouse. Back behind me, I could hear Shatters’s men cursing as they moved something unwieldy-likely Athel’s body. I also heard someone call my name.