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Griff shifted in the plush theater seat, wishing he was anywhere else.

Thieves, thugs, murderers— those he could handle in his sleep.

He’d had over a decade of practice dealing with such criminals, unraveling their lies and ensuring they faced judgment for their crimes.

But the Light save him from politicians…

“Truly remarkable work, Inspector.” High Chancellor Dewani beamed at him from the seat to his right.

The man’s ruddy face and broad cheeks reminded Griff of a drunken rodent, which was fitting considering his general disposition.

Idly, he wondered what the High Chancellor’s aura would look like right now.

He’d donned his aura blockers before he came, grateful for the sleek silver lenses that allowed him to tune out the ambient auras of those around him.

Without them, a public place like the Siren’s Call theater would quickly become overwhelming.

Probably bright and erratic, he guessed, studying the High Chancellor.

Mostly yellows and oranges.

Then again, you never knew just by looking at someone what might lurk underneath.

It made him especially glad for his aura blockers around his current company.

He bowed his head, maintaining the practiced neutral expression he’d mastered during his years working cases.

“Thank you, High Chancellor,” he repeated for the fourth time since his arrival earlier that evening.

“But as I told you before, I was only doing my duty, as any Sanjarkan inspector would.”

“Of course, of course.” The High Chancellor waved a dismissive hand.

“But duty or not, that blackmailing case sounds like a nasty bit of work. To think: a Sanjarkan merchant daring to extort over a dozen minor Khordanite nobles!” He shook his head.

“Solving that case bought us a good deal of good will from Khordan, Inspector. Access to our private booth was the least we could do to show our appreciation. Believe me, I won’t soon forget it.”

From what he’d heard of the High Chancellor’s nighttime penchant for drinking, Griff wasn’t so sure of that.

Still, he gave a polite nod.

A nearby attendant drew the High Chancellor’s attention, and Griff seized the opportunity to excuse himself.

Standing, he wove his way through the small crowd gathered in the theater box.

The massive private balcony was effectively a floor all its own.

It sat in the place of honor, with a direct view down to the stage below.

Griff had to admit that the Siren’s Call was an impressive building.

Long crimson curtains draped the mahogany walls and covered the stage where tonight’s play would soon commence.

He had no idea what it was supposed to be about, nor did he much care.

Plays weren’t really his area of expertise.

Nevertheless, he’d known better than to refuse a direct invitation from the Pentarchy.

When Sanjarka’s ruling council called, you answered.

He passed by High Merchant Teodoro, a shorter mustachioed man who pretended not to notice him.

That suited Griff just fine: one less politician he had to schmooze tonight.

The inquisitive part of him couldn’t help wondering what he’d done to earn the man’s disregard.

Was it simply a matter of his relatively lower status?

Or could the High Merchant have had some sort of stake in the blackmailing scheme Griff had recently unmasked?

It wouldn’t surprise him—not much would after nearly fifteen years on the job.

If he were a betting man, he’d wager a stack of gallants that every single one of the powerful men and women in this booth had tweaked the law a time or two to make it here.

When he spotted a tall man in a familiar uniform approaching, he snapped to attention and pressed his fist to his chest in a crisp salute.

“Sir.”

“At ease, Inspector,” High Commander Pern said.

His voice was gruff, his lined face locked in a perpetual scowl.

Rumors abounded at headquarters of the strict demands he placed on those under his direct command.

So far, Griff’s interactions with him had remained fairly limited.

But after this latest high-profile case, he had a sneaking suspicion that might be about to change.

As if to prove him right, the High Commander’s craggy face split in a fierce grin.

“You did our office proud, son. They’ll be gossiping about this bust of yours in the streets for weeks. Soon, there won’t be a single soul in Derimay who hasn’t heard of Inspector Griff Denton.”

The thought of such notoriety lodged a sliver of discomfort in his chest. “That’s not why I do this, sir. I don’t care about the fame.”

“Of course not,” the High Commander said, even as his raised brow and amused eyes suggested they both knew otherwise.

“Whatever your motivations, keep it up, and I expect I’ll be seeing a lot more of you in the near future.”

A part of Griff recognized that he should probably be milking this opportunity for all it was worth.

Countless other inspectors and protectors he’d worked with in Sanjarka’s capital would’ve leaped at this opportunity to brush shoulders with the city’s elite and advance their careers.

Yet, he’d always despised those sorts of political games.

It was one of the reasons why, even after over a decade of stellar service, it had taken him this long to be noticed.

Bowing his head, he said simply, “I’ll do my best not to let you down, sir.”

“I’m sure you will.” The High Commander’s good humor faded as he glanced past Griff after the High Merchant.

His gaze narrowed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Teodoro and I have business to discuss.”

His curiosity piqued, Griff turned to watch the High Commander stalking toward the High Merchant.

Now, what was that all about?

Some sort of political disagreement, perhaps?

“Ah, Griffin. There you are. Come, join us.”

The familiar voice instantly put Griff on edge.

Setting aside his speculation, he reluctantly turned to find High Judge Septima and High Scholar Vesalain speaking together nearby.

The High Judge was a strict-looking woman who’d forsworn the usual colorful Sanjarkan silks, opting instead for an austere black robe.

He’d known her for most of his life, but she still gave him only the barest hint of a thin smile as he joined them.

His back stiffened. Try as he might, he always struggled not to feel like a young boy again in her presence.

“High Judge. High Scholar.” He greeted them each with a polite bob of his head.

“How may I assist you?”

The High Scholar’s thin face broke into a broad grin below her keen eyes.

“Septima here was just telling me about you, but I’d love to hear from you directly. We didn’t get much of a chance to speak when you arrived.”

That was because Griff had beelined straight for his seat as swiftly as propriety had allowed.

Of course, that was before the overly talkative High Chancellor had claimed the seat beside him.

“I’m afraid I’m not all that interesting,” Griff told the High Scholar.

His gaze briefly flicked to the High Judge’s stern face as he wondered what she’d been saying about him.

“But I’m happy to answer your questions.”

“Not that interesting?” the High Scholar chuckled.

“I find that difficult to believe. Your recent blackmail case is quite the talk of the town. To think that those merchants had been getting away with their scheme for nearly five years. Then, you came along and saw right through it. I must admit, I’m intrigued by this peculiar talent of yours. Is it true that you can tell when someone is lying?”

Griff had grown used to answering such questions, and he smiled politely.

“Sometimes. But a person’s aura is a fickle thing. Everyone’s is unique, with some aspects that rarely change and some that are constantly in flux. A certain hue or quality in one person’s aura might mean something entirely different in another’s. Reading auras helps me intuit information, but more often than not, it’s good old-fashioned detective work that solves a case.”

That had certainly been true of this last one.

It would have been so convenient if his aura-sight had let him unravel the mystery at a glance.

Yet it had taken weeks of stakeouts, piecing together gathered snippets of overheard conversations with recovered documents, to identify and ensnare all the main culprits.

“I see.” The High Scholar peered at his face, leaning in close enough that he felt a twinge of discomfort.

“And if I’m not mistaken, those glasses you’re wearing are of Vantoric design. I’ve never seen their like before. Did you find them here in Derimay?”

It had only been a decade since the artificers of Vantor split from their sister island Astralyn in order to pursue more open trade with Sanjarka.

While Vantoric relics remained rare, a handful of skilled artificers had set up shop here in the city.

A familiar regret twinged Griff’s chest as he thought of one in particular.

“I did.”

High Scholar Vesalain made a contemplative sound.

“From what I can see of the craftsmanship, it looks like exquisite work. Would you mind introducing me to the artificer who made them for you? I’d love to commission my own piece.”

“I can ask. But she’s no longer here in the city. She returned to Vantor four years ago.”

The High Scholar tsked, shaking her head.

“Such a shame! I can’t imagine someone capable of such marvelous creations struggling for want of customers. If she encountered any issues, I’d be happy to work with her to resolve them.”

Griff’s chest constricted further.

“That’s very generous of you, High Scholar. But that won’t be necessary. It wasn’t Derimay that drove her away. She used to be my wife and decided to leave after we separated.”

High Scholar Vesalain blinked, appearing taken aback.

Though whether it was from his words or the matter-of-fact way he said them, he couldn’t tell.

“Ah. I…see. Well, that is truly a shame.”

Griff jerked a tight nod.

“We’re still in contact, though. I can pass along your information to her if you like.”

“Yes, please do.”

“How is poor Amelie doing?” High Judge Septima said, speaking for the first time since he’d arrived.

Her disapproving gaze locked on Griff, making him feel like a naughty schoolboy.

“I always liked her…as did your mother. She had quite the head on her shoulders.”

Griff didn’t quite manage to suppress his wince at the mention of his mother.

“Amelie is fine. From what I hear, her business is booming back in Vantor.”

“It should be booming here,” the High Judge replied.

“Such a shame what happened between the two of you. I always thought you two made the perfect couple.” Her eyes narrowed on the silver badge he wore pinned to his worn leather trench coat.

“But I suppose things change.”

“They do,” he said a touch more brusquely than he’d intended.

Usually, he didn’t let such obvious jabs get under his skin.

He’d heard far worse in his line of work.

He chalked the slip up to his already-frayed nerves from being the center of attention here.

High Judge Septima made a low sound in her throat that sounded like a cross between a growl and a huff.

“I know it’s not my place to speak on such matters, but perhaps she would consider returning if things were different.” Her disapproving gaze roved to his belt, lingering on the Vantoric pistol and pair of pacifier cuffs he kept there.

“It’s been years since your mother died. Isn’t it finally time for you to put away such reckless pursuits and return to your proper career?”

His jaw tightened.

“My mother didn’t die . She was murdered. And this is my career. It’s how I help people.”

High Judge Septima scoffed.

“I’m sure you do. But you could do so much more good as a magister. You had a rare gift for the law, Griffin. And we both know that, had the Light been kinder, your mother would hold this prestigious office today instead of me. Why throw away such a legacy?”

“Because it’s not mine! It never was!”

The people around them quieted at his outburst, studiously looking every way except toward them.

High Judge Septima glared at him.

He met her glare with one of his own.

High Scholar Vesalain, who’d been wise enough to stay out of the argument, glanced between them, then awkwardly cleared her throat.

“You know, Inspector, there will be a gala next week to celebrate our alliance with Vantor. I’ll make sure an invitation is extended to you. After all your hard work, you’ve earned the chance to relax. And who knows?” She winked.

“Perhaps you’ll find a lovely new lady to catch your fancy.”

Griff seriously doubted it.

And even if he did meet an enticing man or woman, he’d warn them to run the other direction as fast as they could.

If he’d learned anything from the disaster his and Amelie’s marriage had become, it’s that he wasn’t cut out for love.

He had his cases—that was enough.

“That is most generous of you,” he said carefully.

He was still searching for a way to graciously decline when furious shouts broke over the general din of conversation.

His hand jerked to the butt of his revolver as he scanned the small crowd for the source of the commotion.

It didn’t take long to spot High Commander Pern and High Merchant Teodoro.

A small space had cleared around the two red-faced men, who appeared on the verge of devolving into a fist fight.

“You would sell your own mother out if it meant another gold gallant in your pocket!” the High Commander roared.

The High Merchant’s fists tightened at his sides, his mustache trembling as his lip quivered with rage.

“And you would lead this nation straight into the meat grinder just to satisfy your own bloodlust! These new trade deals with Nalax will enrich both our nations.”

“The only thing those Nalaxian warlocks understand is violence!” High Commander Pern retorted.

“I don’t crave war. But mark my words, if we don’t seek to prevent it now, it will come for us sooner or later whether we crave it or not!”

From beside Griff, High Scholar Vesalain released a billowing sigh.

She shared a knowing look with High Judge Septima.

“Looks like they’re at it again. If you’ll excuse me, I’d better go run interference. I hope you both enjoy the show.”

With a slight bow, she hurried toward the pair of arguing councilors.

Griff watched her go, not sure whether to laugh or weep that these were the glorious men and women their respective guilds had elected to the Pentarchy to represent the nation.

The Light help us all.

High Scholar Vesalain’s abrupt departure left him standing alone with the High Judge.

Her strict expression softened a hair as she regarded him.

“I spoke with your father the other day. He misses you.”

Griff’s jaw tightened, a complex wave of emotion churning his stomach.

“Then he knows where to find me. Excuse me.”

With a stiff bow, he strode through the crowd, heading toward the exit.

He could feel the High Judge’s stare burning a hole in his back, but he didn’t care.

What happened between him and his father was none of her Light-blinded business.

After more reluctant smiling and bowing to other dignitaries who all wanted to congratulate him or shake his hand, he finally made it to the door that led from the private balcony out into the hall encircling the theater’s upper level.

He puffed out a breath, reaching up to tug at the collar of his shirt that suddenly felt too tight.

He definitely wasn’t cut out for this.

If he hurried, he thought he should still have enough time before the curtains rose to sneak some fresh air.

Maybe that would help him survive the rest of the night unscathed.

Some of the tension bled from him when he saw that it was Sasha standing watch by the door.

The affable protector had been one of the first on the scene after his mother’s murder and had played a key role in bringing the perpetrator to justice.

They’d advanced through the ranks of Derimay’s City Watch together, cooperating on more than one case over the years.

But while Griff had stagnated as an inspector, Sasha had risen to become High Commander Pern’s personal aide.

Sasha greeted him with a slanted grin.

“How’s it feel to be the man of the hour?” Griff grimaced, and Sasha gave a knowing chuckle.

“Aye, that’s about what I expected. Honestly, Griff, you need to learn how to relax. I mean, look around!” He swept a hand out to indicate the intricately carved wood and fine silken banners that filled the extravagant space.

“How often do you get to experience this sort of luxury?”

“I’ve arrested enough of the extravagantly wealthy to know that gallants don’t buy happiness,” Griff said.

“True,” Sasha conceded.

He cast another longing gaze over the assembled members of the city’s elite before winking at Griff.

“Still, it doesn’t hurt, does it?”

Griff gave a noncommittal grunt.

Honestly, he’d never understood what drove some people to commit the kinds of crimes he investigated.

In a way, the murderers made more sense to him than the thieves.

For a moment, he flashed back to a distant night in his mother’s office, and his jaw tightened.

Losing control in the heat of the moment for passion or revenge?

That he could relate to on at least some level, no matter how heinous.

But to risk all for mere greed?

Some people just refused to ever be content.

Griff nodded toward Sasha’s leg.

“How’s the knee?”

Sasha grimaced, reaching down to rub it.

“Better. But it always hurts like the Void when it rains.”

Sasha didn’t like to talk about it, but from what Griff had heard, he’d acquired the wound some years back while fighting overseas in the Razakethi jungles.

That had been before he’d retired his commission and joined the Watch.