Silvana reached out to the warp, allowing the merest hint of power to trickle through the walls between dimensions. It wasn’t shaped or directed merely present. The acrid reek of the Immaterium stained the air for a moment and Filiroth, as the cowled man was apparently known, turned his head towards the pair of them, nostrils flaring slightly. There was nothing she could have done, short of creating some sort of illusory mutation, that would have better demonstrated that they were not Imperial Agents. At this level of Imperial society, sanctioned psykers were rare enough to be semi-mythical.

“Looking for some yellodes maybe pretty lady,” he asked, referring to the psychoactive drugs that many minor psykers employed to boost their abilities. They where dangerously addictive and insanely dangerous.

“Maybe we can talk about something a bit more… advanced?” she said, following the hooded man back into a half ruined shop filled with rusted mechanical parts and other assorted junk. Filiroth made a crooning sound.

“Ohhh we don't get much cause for the exotics around here missy, but you have come to the right place, Old Filiroth has the connections you need.” Silvana found it somewhat ironic how often people, and particularly, men were condemned by the need to boast. Making such an admission to two inquisitorial agents was as good as lighting ones own pyre. It might take months or years for the Inquisition to act on the information, but the organisation was as implacable as it was dangerous. Besides, given the involvement of the nobility, it was likely that the Throne’s agents would be calling soon rather than later.

Filiroth let them behind a counter and produced a large metal key from his robes with a gnarled hand. The heavy door he inserted it into quivered as he heaved upon it and pushed it open, swinging inwards with a shower of rust  to reveal a darkened room that smelled of herbs and other strange items. Filiroth reached around and touched something that beeped before turning to give them a grin.

“A surprise for unwanted visitors,” he explained before beckoning them forward. The inner shop was far cleaner than the outer one. Items hung from the wall without rhyme or reason. Some were familiar, black market cybernetics, cheap and questionable juvie drugs, yellodes in cloudy plastic bottles. Others were more exotic, cards from the Emperor’s tarot, some of which had been profaned, texts and dataslates that Silvana suspected their master would order destroyed after they had been catalogued.

“Impressive,” she murmured, running her fingers over the spines of nearby tomes.

“Ever have any dealings with the Nobs?” she asked, nodding towards a family crest embossed on an elegant signet ring.