It was never advisable to walk the docks of Garretsville at night.

This district had started well outside the city’s limits, a thousand years ago, but as the city had grown it had swallowed the port town. It’d kept its independent spirit thought, which as time went on meant it’d become a favorite for smugglers.

The docks here were for bulk goods, where you’d unload and load the largest shipments, which meant plenty of warehouses. Over time, that also meant it became a place to load and unload contraband hidden among the massive shipments and put in these oversized warehouses.

I was keeping a wary eye out. Pure-blood rank and file had dressed like working people, and while my conversation with the guild master hadn’t given me a general location for them, Lower Litchen might fit that bill. An older neighborhood as well, and those collected inhabitants mistrustful of foreigners and other newcomers to the city.

A hooded cloak and the shadows of night helped some, but anyone taking too close a look would tell what I was. At least I didn’t have wings.

Mind you, I had bigger issues on my mind.

Assuming those Watchmen were right, Versalicci was trading in Angel’s Sorrow, which tied him into the poisonings. Both of the plagues on my doorstep turned out not only to have the same plague but the same source.

Only it made no sense.

Versalicci poisons noble children…for what reason? What did he gain out of it? He’d poison people, but only for something in return. He gained nothing but ire if anyone discovered this, as far as I knew. Influence? Both victims so far belonged to minor houses, although Montague’s records might be of interest. That was a very brittle hold to put someone in, though.

No, maybe not directly involved with the poisonings, but perhaps trading with whoever was supplying the poisons? The poison-maker did not need to be the poisoner and a substance that would kill other Infernals immediately…no. Holy water would do the same trick with less expense or risk, and if he was trading in these substances, he wouldn’t have had Golvar carrying them with no escort.

I disliked Golvar but I couldn't deny that he had been and presumably still was one of Versalicci's most trusted men. Trusted enough that he was the only one Versalicci would have carrying around Angel's Sorrow? Perhaps. By himself? No.

A third possibility then, one I was very uncomfortable with. Someone was trying to make Versalicci a patsy, much like I was. And if they were attempting to cast him as the central villain for a frame-up job, I as the willing accomplice would work. If they knew who I was.

Considering how much larger that list was than I’d thought two days ago, there might be a decent chance of that.

For now, this was all conjecture until I got my hands on any evidence. The Black Flame’s restraint till now was a point in its favor, though, given how the usual response to an exposed scheme was maximum damage and chaos to cover it up. But solid evidence would be the best confirmation.

Unfortunately, I doubted there would be any lying around where my boxes were being stored.

It didn’t take too much walking to reach my destination, only twice meeting with other people along the way and pretending we didn’t see each other.

The warehouse wasn’t much to look at, a shoddily patched wooden rectangle perhaps five hundred feet long, with not a guard in sight. There were padlocks on the main loading doors but just a simple lock on a side entrance, all of them shoddy and rusty.

It might seem silly to be that lax in security, but in a town where there were perhaps hundreds of warehouses like these? Hiding was the best solution, and I doubted anything important would be stocked inside the warehouse.

No lockpicks on me meant a few minutes hammering on it with the butt of my flintlock till the rusted lock fell to the ground in pieces. I went inside, opening up my lantern.

Shelves of boxes formed a miniature maze as I weaved my way through inside. I opened the occasional one only to find cotton clothes, probably due to be shipped out. Nothing of interest, and most importantly, nothing expensive enough to risk robbing, especially with how bulky the cotton garments would be to take.

Cheap iron tools made up the contents of the other boxes. Very cheap indeed, some of the tool-heads barely attached to the wood.

I made a circuitous route going through the warehouse, circling tighter to where my boxes must be.

The bit of metal rotated around the ring as I walked in a circle, pointing to the middle of an empty space.

There’s a hidden storeroom. Of course, there is. This couldn’t just be simple.

“Imp,” I asked out loud. “Is there a spell you know for finding secret entrances? Preferably a fast one?”

Do I look like a spellbook?

“No, you don’t look like anything. You sound like someone bothered by the fact they have to work. My sympathies. Now, is there a diabolist spell for it?”

There are a few you could use laterally. But none you could use right now. Not without making your head pop like a grape underfoot.

“Brilliant. Truly helpful.” I unhooked my lantern, resigning myself to searching the hard way.

Don’t blame me for this. You’re the one who modified your own body to be as hard to channel magic through as possible. You were lucky rotting that one thug’s arm off didn’t burst your own arm open.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I ignored the imp, pacing around and eyeing the section of floor where the tracker told me my box was. The floor looked solid, and I wouldn’t be so lucky for the entrance to be right above it. I’d have to search; even worse, I’d need the lantern to check.

The lantern would be a necessary risk. There hadn’t been a guard posted, and anyone walking by at night should not think much of seeing a light moving about inside. People working at night was common, as was the principle of minding your own business.

Ten minutes in, as I patiently tapped stones and listened to the noise, the Imp spoke up again.

If only to end this tedium, a method comes to mind that shouldn’t damage yourself too much were you to use it.

“I’m listening.”

Send out small pulses of Diabolism and see the patterns they trace. Diabolism seeks the hells, which are below metaphorically if not physically. They will seek the easiest path through.

Hrrm. My knowledge of Diabolism was limited, first because Versalicci wanted that restricted, so bonded me to the imp to handle anything complicated he wanted, and later because tomes on Diabolism were illegal. If I got caught with any, the government would sentence me to death, so I’d considered having any a risk not worth taking.

I focused, gathering power to my fingertips, wincing as pain lanced through each bone in my hand.

“Any specific direction or just release it?”

Are you dense? Just release it. The power by itself will do what you wish.

If I made my tea mixtures a hundredth holy water, perhaps the pain and possible slow poisoning would be worth it.

Gathering power, I pushed my fingers against the ground, letting it leech out even as I willed myself to see.

Something wet welled up in my eyes, blood or tears I couldn’t tell.

As the tiny bits of power let loose, my fingertips split, cuts forming on their ends, and blood dripped down onto the stonework. The best I could have hoped for in terms of backlash from magic flowing through veins designed to hinder it.

I kept bare skin away, not wanting to risk a blemish or worse, the rot.

Someone or something was whispering in my periphery as the bits of magic flowed over the stonework, separating into smaller pieces, each seeking a path. I tuned it out. Even if the Diabolism had accidentally connected to an actual demon or devil, it would fade swiftly.

All Diabolism had risks, but you could count on the smaller efforts to have the least effects.

Loose bits rolled around on the floor, flaring red as they searched for cracks or seams. I followed them and eventually stared at the square they’d outlined on the stone floor before moving through those cracks to the underground.

It took time and a couple of borrowed tools, but I managed to get a hook underneath the hidden trapdoor, forcing it open. Wooden steps descended into a well-lit room no bigger than a study. Shelves flanked a single desk.

I eyed the contents with interest as I pulled my tracking charm out again. The desk itself had papers and books piled on it, and pulling out drawers revealed even more books. There were six shelves in total, each carrying a different set of items.

On the upper right was my box, only one of them, the shelf’s sole occupant.

Damnations. The possibility I’d only find the one was always there. I grabbed it swiftly, opening it up. Picks, the first I’d ever used. Various little trinkets and tokens. There was the first coin I’d pickpocketed. My mother’s wedding ring, which was more preserved for her than I. Versalicci’s token. I put the lid back quickly, moving it to one of the two bags on my back.

Now that was secure, it was time to see what I could rob from my adversaries.

The shelf below contained weapons, mostly an assortment of daggers with inlaid glyphs, but one saber glowing faintly, runes cut into its side. A pair of revolvers as well, a variety of ammunition with the tips in different colors sorted next to them. Alchemical rounds.

The bottom shelf held the preserved corpse of something. It resembled a giant leech, and I cautiously prodded it with the toe of my boot. No reaction, and I scraped the tip of my boot on the wall quickly.

Well, even so, taking a skin sample was probably a step too far in risking it being asleep. I turned to the other shelf.

The top layer was a collection of rocks that drew my eye. I forced myself to see again, but nothing about them appeared magical at all. Strange.

The middle shelf had sets of clothing, each with a bundle of papers on top. Checking them, they were various forms and such for people. Licenses, registrations, other such proofs of identity.

Damnations, I should have used my forged license at St. Lanian!

I dismissed that remembered too-late fact as I moved on to the last shelf.

The last shelf was filled with alchemical vials, a variety of liquids of differing colors. I looked closer at some of the clearer-looking ones. While it obviously wasn’t being produced here, if any of those were Angel’s Sorrow, it would connect this place for certain to the poisoners.

If they wanted to steal from me, then turnabout would be fair play. As many of the papers as I could gather off the desk went into one bag, along with several of the books I could identify as alchemical texts.

I carefully transferred the clearer liquids to my own set of vials, which I kept in a waist pouch, not trusting any of the ones in here. It was difficult to both put a tracker in the glass and also to hide it, but not impossible.

I left the various weapons alone for the same reason. The revolvers and the rune-engraved saber were both tempting, but I didn’t have an easy method to check for tracers on me. My tool for that lay with other belongings I hadn’t even risked being in my apartment. Niche use tools that were illegal but whose use wasn’t universal or needed enough for me to justify keeping under my floorboards.

The books were a large enough risk for my taste.

There was the set of snuffboxes among the fake identities, which I left alone despite the Imp’s urgings. The popularity of drug use among nobles and the amount of narcotics that specifically weren’t banned because of their efforts. That meant anything in those boxes would be powerful enough not to risk exposure.

Instead, I settled for the rocks. Clearly, there was something strange about them, and they’d be the least likely to have tracers. They ended up filling much of the second bag, leaving no space left. I could shove more in at the risk of my mobility, but I fit a pair of tomes on top.

So, burn down what I hadn’t pocketed or leave it be?

Actually, not burning, but some matter of destruction might be called for. No need to risk a fire spreading, especially with the unknown nature of these alchemical substances.

But my box missing would be a sign someone had found their little secret storage spot. And there was a thick stone floor between this place and the warehouse proper.

I grabbed a bundle of papers from the desk and looked them over quickly to ascertain if I should bring them with me. More licenses for trade, an entire stack of them under different names. Who needed this many fake identities?

I lit their corners with my lantern and tossed them on the desk, quickly moving as papers caught alight.

It took only a moment to shut the hidden trapdoor as heat blew out of the burning secret room. I took a moment to breathe, then moved towards my exit.

Only the sound of the door opening interrupted me. I hooded my lantern and crept by one of the shelves, trying to get a look through the empty gaps in the shelving.

“What foul wretch has intruded into my warehouse?

A lone figure entered the warehouse, lantern in hand illuminating the interior. He was tall, slim, red-haired, and freckled. He could not look more Keltish.

Most importantly, he had metal threads in his clothing. Silver in the morning coat, gold in the waistcoat.

Looks like my business here wasn’t done.