Captain Newton’s boots thudded on the cobblestones, still wet from last night’s rain.

It was lunchtime, and Fayters thronged the quayside. Stevedores rolled barrels down gangplanks, heaved wooden crates, argued with harassed revenue officials. Traders haggled, shook hands, tried to fleece one another. Food sellers ducked and weaved among the crowds, hawking greasy paper bags of shellfish, slices of fried octopus, and flagons of grog, and yelling curses at the messenger fairies who whirred through the air, running errands for their masters. Out in the bay, sailors clambered over rigging. Sails were unfurled, anchors weighed, orders bellowed.

If Fayters were the town’s lifeblood, then the harbor was its beating heart.

Newton nodded. It was a beautiful day, all right. Damp air, clear blue sky, and a nice breeze. Just the way he liked it. His own messenger fairy, Slik, fluttered just ahead of him, pale sunshine glinting off his tiny wings.

“Morning, Newt,” called a fisherman.

“Jonas. Fish biting?”

“Aye, plenty.”

Yes. Today was going to be a good day.

As busy as they were, Fayters took care to keep out of his way. Captain Newton was a human but as big as a troll. His head was shaved and scarred, and on his right cheek he wore a blue shark tattoo—the mark of the Demon’s Watch. Protectors of Port Fayt, friends to all honest townsfolk, and enemies to any thief, smuggler, or pirate who crossed their path.

In short, picking a fight with Captain Newton was a seriously bad idea, and it didn’t take a magician to see that.

Newton stopped at a run-down wooden food stall beside a pier and bought a pastry. It was hot and sweet, and he munched it appreciatively. Slik folded away his wings and settled on the edge of the counter, leaning back against a pepper pot and swinging his legs over the side.

“How do you like it, Mr. Newton?” asked the food seller, a young elf, tall and slender and almost as pale as his white apron.

Newton nodded slowly, stuck a finger in his mouth, and picked at his teeth.

“Not bad. Not bad at all.”

“I made it specially for you, see?”

“Hmmmm.” That didn’t seem very likely.

“Special ingredients, Mr. Newton. For a special customer.”

Newton broke off a small piece and handed it to Slik.

“What do you reckon?”

The fairy crammed the pastry into his mouth, chewed it for a few seconds, then spat it out and made a face.

“Horrible. What’s it made of—moldy leather?”

“Excuse my fairy,” said Newton, giving Slik a look. “It’s delicious.”

The elf sniffed and began wiping down the counter meaningfully. Slik took the hint and leaped into the air, hovering and landing lightly on Newton’s shoulder.

“Well, it’d better be, that’s all,” said the food seller. “It’s for the Grand Party tonight, see? Special order from the Cockatrice Company. Gotta make three hundred by this evening. I’m going up in the world, see, Mr. Newton?”

“Congratulations,” said Newton. He brushed pastry crumbs from his lips, fished around in a pocket of his battered blue coat, and laid a half-ducat coin on the counter. “The company’ll be pleased.”

“How about you, Mr. Newton?” said the elf, tucking the coin away in his apron and hunting for change. “Is the Watch busy these days?”

Newton had just opened his mouth to reply when there was an angry shout from the far end of the pier.

“We had a deal, you lazy good-fer-nothing!”

Newton recognized that voice. He grinned at the elf.

“Looks like we’re going to be. Enjoy the party. And keep the change.”

At the end of the pier, a small goblin was shaking with rage and bellowing at a troll captain more than twice his height. Newton had never seen the troll before, but he knew the goblin all right.

Jeb the Snitch.

There was a saying on the harbor front: What the Snitch don’t know ain’t worth knowing. Jeb was always a little vague about how he got his information, but the Demon’s Watch had made enough arrests with his help that Newton was prepared to overlook the details.

After his knowledge of Port Fayt’s criminal underworld, Jeb the Snitch was best known for his outfits. This morning he was dressed in an orange waistcoat and a purple jacket with diamond buttons—both slightly too big for him, as if they’d been made for a human. Gold rings flashed in his pointed ears. Newton didn’t know much about the latest fashions, but he could see that the Snitch looked like a mad parrot.

The troll was grumbling as Newton strolled up.

“Look, a tormenta ain’t exactly my fault, is it? There ain’t no sailing in a flaming magical storm, Jeb. You know that.”

“Oh yeah? Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, knucklehead, the tormenta was last night, and today’s today, if I ain’t mistaken, and you promised you’d get my griffin bile out before the festival, didn’t yer?”

The troll shrugged.

“Ain’t been a tormenta in years, Jeb. And on the eve of the festival and all. Bad omen that is, sure as the sea.”

“Oh, omens, is it? You’ve been listening to too many old wives’ tales. Next you’ll be telling me it means that the Maw is angry and stirring in the depths and blah, blah, blinking, blah. And this from a grown troll.”

Newton came up behind Jeb and laid a hand on his shoulder. The goblin flinched and turned his gray face toward Newton, his small, pale eyes darting around nervously. In Jeb’s line of work, it paid to be a little paranoid.

“Oh, it’s you. Morning, Newt.”

“Jeb.”

The troll took his chance and slipped away.

“What a load o’ walrus dung,” muttered Jeb. “Talk about gullible. Omens!”

“Got any leads for me today, Jeb?”

The goblin licked his lips and made a big show of looking over both shoulders before leaning in.

“Funny you should ask actually, ’cos it just so happens I do. Got something very tasty indeed, if I say so myself.”

“Go on.”

“Whoa, not so fast, mate. Let’s talk price, eh?” He grinned.

“The usual. Plus the usual bonus if we catch someone. Same as always.”

“Come on, Newt. Here’s me, trying to make an honest living …”

Newton raised an eyebrow.

“All right, all right, if that’s the way it is. But we can’t talk here, see? Gotta go somewhere a bit more private.”

Two minutes later, they had found a quiet table in Spottington’s Velvethouse. The sweet smell of velvetbean hung heavy in the air, mingling with the smoke from customers’ pipes. Spottington’s was one of the oldest and most respectable velvethouses in Port Fayt. The tablecloths were clean. The waiters were polite. The customers were few, elderly, and mostly half-asleep. It was a safe place to talk.

They sat, Jeb patting down his coat and rearranging the cuffs. Up close, Newton noticed that the goblin’s diamond buttons were fake and that the earrings he wore weren’t gold after all, but polished brass. The rest of his clothing was still just as alarming though.

“You know you look like a mad parrot?” said Slik, from Newton’s shoulder. For someone so small he had a very loud voice.

“Tell your fairy to keep his gob shut.”

“You heard him, Slik,” said Newton sternly. “Watch it.”

Slik muttered something under his breath, yawned, and fluttered down to the tablecloth for a nap.

A waiter bustled over with two steaming cups of velvetbean.

“How about that tormenta last night, gents?” he said cheerily. “Bad omen, that is, and no mistake.”

The Snitch rolled his eyes.

“So, Jeb,” said Newton, hoping to cut the goblin off before he launched into another rant. “How’s the griffin bile business?”

“Bad,” said Jeb, when he was sure the waiter had gone. “Very bad. Can’t shift it out of the Middle Islands these days. And it ain’t just bile neither. Indigo merchants are going out of business. Zephyrum ingots are as rare as cockatrice teeth. Saw a warehouse yesterday, stuffed to the rafters with sacks of velvetbeans just sitting there, and what ain’t being stolen by fairies is just rotting away. It were a sad sight, Newt, I can tell yer. Trade with the Old World’s drying up, thanks to the League.”

“Hmm.”

“Word is they’ve got their grubby mitts on most of the mainland now, and they don’t want to do business with us Fayters. Anyone who ain’t human is just scum to them.”

“Aye.”

“Worse than scum. Creatures of darkness. Demonspawn. All that bilge. Maw’s teeth, the Old World’s gone crazy, Newt. Almost makes you—”

“Right,” cut in Newton, more gruffly than he’d intended.

Jeb shut up at once.

Newton frowned and massaged the red, blistered marks that ran around his wrists. The League of the Light. It had been twenty years since the League’s men had given him those scars. But the memories were still fresh.

He sipped his drink, wiped away a velvetbean mustache, and changed the subject.

“Let’s have this lead then, eh?”

“Down to business, is it? Right you are.”

The Snitch leaned forward, his eyes scanning around the room, checking that no one was listening.

“Word is, there’s a new smuggler in town. Came in last night with a cargo, something big … right in the middle of the tormenta.”

Newton raised an eyebrow. It was a good lead. Superstition or no superstition, smuggling in the midst of a magical storm was about as safe as playing kiss chase with a shark. That meant this smuggler was either very stupid or very clever indeed.

“Any idea where to find him?”

Jeb grinned, revealing his pointed goblin teeth.

“He’ll be at the Grand Party tonight. Whatever the cargo is, it’s going to be handed over after sundown, belowdecks on the Wraith’s Revenge. You can nab the smuggler and ’is customer at the same time. Kill two dragons with one fireball, see?”

Newton nodded. Smugglers. Always picking the most inconvenient times to do their dirty work. Of course, that was to be expected. But even at the Grand Party, the Demon’s Watch would be ready and waiting.

“All right,” he said. “C’mon, Slik.”

He gave the snoozing fairy a gentle prod.

“Whassammmfff leemealone …”

“Wake up.”

“Mmmff no, no, the blue one … with the lacy bits.”

“I said, wake up.”

Slik sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Oi! I was asleep, you big oaf.”

“Too bad. Round up the Watch and have them meet me here at dusk, armed and ready for the Grand Party. We’ve got a smuggler to catch.”

“What about a bit of sugar then? I haven’t had a granule in three days.”

Newton pulled a chunk from his coat pocket and broke off a piece for the fairy. “Don’t eat it all at once. You remember what happened last time.” The vomit stains still hadn’t washed out.

Grumbling, Slik tucked the tiny sugar lump into a tiny knapsack, flapped his wings, and set off through Spottington’s haze of tobacco and velvetbean. Newton watched him go.

“That fairy,” he muttered. “Cost me eight ducats and gives me nothing but trouble.”

“Ah, he ain’t so bad, Newt. Now, what about my payment, eh?”

Newton replaced the sugar and brought out his money pouch. “One last thing. This smuggler. Has he got a name?”

“Thought you’d never ask. He’s a podgy old soak, with a crazy left eye and not much use for baths. Goes by the name of Clagg. Captain Phineus Clagg.”