Magic Lost, Trouble Found

by Lisa Shearin

Page 10

 

  A good many mages ended up in Mermeia after retirement. It was close to the Isle of Mid, but without the bureaucracy and political backbiting that Mid was notorious for. Garadin’s landlord was one of the most recent to make the move. His shop did a booming business with other mage retirees. Most were scholars and needed paper and ink for recording research or for correspondence. He attracted even more business by offering bindery services for completed works.

  If someone wanted to hire a mage (and had money in hand) Mermeia was the place to come, though it was buyer beware. Believe it or not, some magic users were less than honest about their abilities. I had encountered everything from complete fakes who put on a convincing show, to full-blown mages—like Garadin—who didn’t want to be hired by anyone and played down their abilities to ensure they were left alone. Even if you convinced them to listen to your sales pitch, chances were you didn’t have enough gold to back it up. Garadin jacked his prices up to obscene levels just so he wouldn’t have to be bothered.

  A narrow street between two shops on the edge of the Sorcerers District opened onto the Grand Duke’s Canal—and the Goblin District on the far bank. The buildings there were stone and gleaming marble, both dark and neither encouraging to visitors. The streetlamps glowed a dim blue. The color was flattering to goblins, but it gave any other race the unhealthy skintones of a three-day-old corpse. Around the next bend in the canal was the Mal’Salin family compound, and next to that, the goblin embassy. I didn’t need to see them; I knew they were there. And I certainly didn’t want to get any closer to the canal. Water and I have an agreement—I don’t get too close to it, and it won’t drown me.

  I could just make out the banner flying over the goblin embassy. I didn’t need to get a good look at that, either. The House of Mal’Salin crest was a pair of entwined and battling serpents, both surmounted by a crown. They couldn’t have made a better choice. Its appearance on the banner meant King Sathrik Mal’Salin was in residence—and Sarad Nukpana along with him.

  I stood in the shadows, looking out over the canal, suddenly very tired. Too much had happened tonight, and I understood too little of it. I watched the reflection of the blue lamps on the rippling surface, then looked back at the Mal’Salin banner, curling and turning in the night breeze coming off the lagoon, its movement oddly soothing. I stepped out of the shadows to the water’s edge, still watching. I came back to myself with a start and jumped back. What the hell was I doing?

  I hurried back through the alley to Locke Street and Garadin’s rooms. Garadin should be home, but if he wasn’t, I’d wait and try to find something to eat. Like many bachelors, Garadin didn’t stock a good larder, but I could probably scrape together enough to keep myself from starving. Potions, he could brew. Cooking was an art best left to others. My godfather accepted his lack of talent in that area, and took most of his meals out.

  I wasn’t quite a year old when my mother was killed. As her closest friend, Garadin took me in and found himself faced with the not so small task of raising a little girl. My mother’s brother, his wife, and his family lived in Laerin. It didn’t take Garadin too long to decide they were better suited for the job. Uncle Ryn was in shipping, was a respected businessman, and had done very well for himself. By the time Garadin found out that much of what Uncle Ryn called shipping was called piracy by all seven kingdoms, I was old enough to call Laerin home, and refused to budge. Uncle Ryn may be a pirate, but he ran a surprisingly moral and normal household—or at least my Aunt Dera did. It took Garadin longer to reach that same conclusion.

  All things considered, I don’t think I turned out half bad.

  A narrow wooden stair by the parchment shop’s back entrance led up to Garadin’s door. I stepped over the first two stairs and onto the third. The first two creaked. Anyone Garadin didn’t mind coming to visit knew that. Those that he did mind didn’t know. It served as an early warning system for undesirables. I knocked and waited. No answer. Garadin was a light sleeper, so he must not be at home. I had the keys—both metal and magical—so I could let myself in. Garadin’s wards surpassed anything Nigel could have ever come up with. My godfather didn’t keep anything of value except his privacy, but that he held dear above all else.

  Garadin had a pair of rooms—the smaller one for sleeping, the larger for everything else. Everything else consisted mainly of oddities he had collected over the years. Dried things, dead and stuffed things, things in jars, things in glass-topped cases. Then there were the books and papers. Any flat surface in Garadin’s rooms was fair game. To anyone else, it looked like the place had been ransacked, but Garadin knew where everything was, and there was hell to pay if anything was moved.

  The big leather chairs were overstuffed and had seen better days, but they were comfortable. To Garadin, comfort was all that mattered. I had always loved Garadin’s rooms. When I had spent summers here as a child, I had never lacked for anything interesting to get into. Now all I wanted was to find something to eat and a clear place to sit down. Either was easier said than found.

  After some rummaging, I found some hard cheese and a partial loaf of bread that, like the leather on the chairs, had seen better days. Nothing was growing on any of it, so I deemed it edible. Garadin didn’t keep water around, but I knew where he kept the ale. It wasn’t exactly a meal, but at least it was food.

  A chair and footstool in a corner by the bookshelves gave me an unobstructed view of the door. I carefully moved the papers from the chair to the floor, took off my rapier and leaned it against the chair within reach. The chair creaked as I settled in. Nice to sit down, even better if no one tried to break down the door in the next five minutes.

  I tore off a piece of bread and stuck it in a mug of ale to soak. While I waited for it to soften enough not to break my teeth, I took the amulet out of my shirt and looked at it again. Being a seeker gave me certain advantages when it came to finding out what an object was. What I held was a silver disk, but what it did was another matter. I knew the quickest way to find out, but the quickest way wasn’t often the best or safest. The runes engraved in the silver gleamed in the firelight. It had magic; that much I was sure of. But considering who had last owned it—and who wanted it—it was probably the kind of magic I could do without. Opening my mind to Nigel’s former amulet would be like sticking my arm in a hole in a swamp just to feel around. Not something sane people made a habit of doing. At least not more than once.

  I considered myself sane. I dropped the amulet back inside my shirt. If no one else could tell me what it did—or if I got desperate enough—I could always go poking around later.

  I ate, then located a blanket and tried to relax. Sleep would be better, but I wasn’t counting on it happening. After less than a minute, I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

  A voice spoke my name. Softer and more soothing than a whisper, it nestled into the place between sleep and wake. I saw Garadin’s room from beneath my closed lashes in half-light and shadow. For the first time tonight I felt safe. The voice slipped through the walls and windows, up through the floor and down through the ceiling, enfolding me in warmth and calming my fears. It was a low, velvety voice, a voice of intimate whispers in the secret hours of night. I made a small sound and snuggled deeper into the blanket. My heart slowed to beat in time with the wordless song. My chest grew warm.

  I sat straight up, my heart pounding. I reached for the amulet. It was warm, even through my shirt. I listened. No voice, no song, only the sound of my ragged breathing—and boots on the stairs. They stopped outside the door. The door-knob turned as my blade cleared its scabbard and my feet hit the floor. I stood, but stayed in the shadows.

  Someone pushed the door open, but didn’t step inside. That someone was being cautious. Since Garadin taught me all there was to know about caution, I was hoping it was him at the door.

  “Raine?” The voice was rich and melodious. My godfather’s voice. It wasn’t the voice I had j
ust heard in my waking dream. I recognized that voice—a certain Guardian spellsinger was staying up late on account of me. I didn’t think I should be flattered.

  I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and sheathed my blade. “I let myself in. Hope you don’t mind. ”

  “I never have before. ” Garadin came in and tossed his cloak over a chair. “The city’s a busy place tonight. To which catastrophe do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Can’t I just want to visit?”

  My godfather was tall and distinguished looking, his eyes intense blue, his short hair ginger, and his beard and mustache immaculately trimmed. That was where immaculate ended. His dark homespun robes swept in virtual tatters behind him. Garadin dressed for himself and comfort, and that was all.

  “You could, but not at this hour,” he said. “If you’re out this late, the reason’s usually armed and annoyed with you. ” He paused. “Are they?”

  I chose not to answer that.

  An equally tall and lanky figure came in behind Garadin, and pushed the hood of his cloak back to reveal a familiar mop of dark curls framing a boyishly handsome face that’d be turning female heads in a few years, if it wasn’t already. Piaras. Now that was unsettling. It wasn’t odd that my landlady’s grandson was with Garadin. Piaras Rivalin was also Garadin’s student. But the young elf had just turned seventeen, and Tarsilia had set a strict midnight curfew for him. I didn’t think pub-crawling with my godfather into the wee hours qualified as an approved field trip.

  Piaras was a spellsinger-in-training, so puberty had been interesting at our house. I say ours because when you live in the upstairs apartment, you tend to hear and experience everything that goes on in the house anyway. As a boy, Piaras had shown signs of talent, but once adolescence set in, big feet weren’t the only things tripping him up. And all hell broke loose, magically speaking, when his voice changed. Garadin stepped in at that point and promptly earned the unending gratitude of the entire neighborhood.