Wild Card

by Lisa Shearin

  My dark blue gown was of simple cut and covered what I didn’t want stared at. I couldn’t do anything about my hair and skin. My hair was red gold, and my skin pale—visible even in the darkest shadows.

  “I hate to break it to you,” Phaelan said, “but you’ll stand out because you don’t stand out.”

  I swung my cloak around my shoulders. “I don’t display what’s not available.”

  “That’s not all you’re covering up. I saw Will Brenkman this afternoon.”

  Crap. I let out a little sigh. Will was one of the city’s best fences, and a friend. I’d been upfront with him about what I was looking for, who had taken it, and why. I couldn’t blame Will for leaking the identity of our mark to Phaelan. My cousin was like an inquisitor when he wanted to know something. And as one of the most profitable pirates in the seven kingdoms, Phaelan was one of Will’s best customers. The fence was simply being a smart businessman by not pissing off the man responsible for a large chunk of his income.

  “I knew how you’d react,” I said, “so I opted to omit some things until I got you face-to-face.”

  “Well, here’s my face. You know how I feel about mages.”

  Mages? Not one of Mermeia’s most notorious nachtmagi? I bit back a smile. I owed Will. Like me, he’d told Phaelan the truth, but not the whole truth. Thankfully. If Phaelan knew everything about Sethis Mortsani, even the joy of potentially fleecing a fellow thief might not have convinced him to help—or pried him out from underneath the bed in his cabin.

  My cousin didn’t like mages. Magic gave him a raging case of the creeps. Yes, I was a magic user, but my magic didn’t include what Phaelan called “spooky shit.”

  Lord Sethis Mortsani was the walking and talking personification of “spooky shit.”

  Since if everything went according to plan tonight, my cousin would be sitting at the same card table with the goblin nachtmagus, it was time for me to put my own cards on the table. Lord Mortsani wasn’t one of those nachtmagi who had runes stitched into their robe, not just to protect themselves from the dark forces they were foolishly messing with, but to broadcast how magically badass they were. But to the truly adept and dangerous, like Lord Mortsani, all wearing a flashy robe meant was “I’m going to die young and leave a big smear.”

  I told Phaelan everything.

  To my surprise, when I’d finished, he didn’t turn around and run out the way he’d walked in. On the other hand, he didn’t appear to be breathing all that well, either.

  Eventually, he spoke. “A nachtmagus.”

  “For our purposes, he’s just a husband who’s stolen all of his wife’s jewelry.”

  “A nachtmagus.”

  “Who’s taken the last piece of jewelry she has—a ring that belonged to her grandmother.”

  No change in expression.

  I blew out my breath. “Where’s your chivalry?”

  “Hiding behind my survival instinct.”

  I did not have time for this. At this rate, by the time we got to Sirens, Mortsani would have gambled away the ring.

  “Are you going to help me or not?” I asked.

  “If not?”

  “I’ll do it myself.”

  Phaelan snorted. “Raine, I’ve played cards with you. For your own financial preservation, you shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a table.”

  “I’m not that bad.”

  “Yes. Yes, you are.”

  “Then I won’t play cards. I’ll confront him. I’m good at confrontation.”

  “With a nachtmagus.”

  “I’m not scared of him.”

  “I’m not scared of him, either.”

  “That’s not what it sounds like to me.”

  “Having good sense and being scared are two entirely different things.”

  “If you say so. Oh, and by the way, while you’re keeping Lord Mortsani occupied at the card table, his wife will be burglarizing his private office.”

  “For what?”

  “To expose what he does for a living.”

  “Being a nachtmagus is legal.”

  “Not the way he does it.”

  Silence.

  I knew I had him on the hook, or at least eyeing the bait with interest. My cousin had many weaknesses, and two of them were curiosity and a delight in scandal.

  “Her Ladyship says that he keeps meticulous records,” I continued casually. “The arrogant bastards usually do. Kind of like taking trophies.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Our boy’s into raising the dead for profit.”

  That last word was one of Phaelan’s favorites. I’d also said dead; but for my cousin, profit trumped dead things.

  “Profit?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh. Relatives want a chance for one last chat with the dearly departed, usually when a will’s being contested or there’s a stash of valuables hidden in the family palazzo.”

  “If they wrote them out of the will or didn’t tell them where the family jewels were hidden, why would being brought back from the dead change their minds? I’d think they’d be pissed off at being called back.”

  “Usually it wouldn’t change their minds,” I said. “But spirits that get pulled back into a body are confused and easily manipulated. Sethis Mortsani and nachtmagi like him are offered a cut of the inheritance for compelling them to sign a will predated to just before their deaths. The parchment is bespelled, so everything’s nice and legal. Immoral as hell, but legal.”

  “I steal from people, but I’m honest enough to do it to their faces, and while they’re alive. Taking advantage of dead people. . . that’s just. . .”

  “Wrong,” I said helpfully.

  “In any and every way. And this Lord Mortsani cons dead people out of all their money for a living? Then he loses that at the card tables and has been stealing his wife’s jewelry?”

  “You got it.”

  “And his wife is getting the evidence of his cons while he’s at Sirens?”

  I nodded. “I’ll help her get those documents into the hands of the right people, and Lord Mortsani will be out of business and in prison—and the names of the scumbags who swindled their dead relatives will be public. And when the legal system is finished with them, I imagine more than a few will find their personal liberty severely limited as well.”

  “Being the one responsible for all that doesn’t make Her Ladyship the least bit nervous? Not only would her husband want payback, but so would all those scumbag relatives. Being locked up doesn’t stop people from getting revenge.”

  Especially spooky-shit nachtmagi. Phaelan didn’t say it, but I knew that was what he was thinking.

  I shrugged. “If she’s afraid—and it didn’t sound like it to me—she’s more pissed off. Plus, she seems like a lady who knows how to take care of herself.”

  Phaelan didn’t say anything, and I kept my mouth shut. I knew what my cousin wanted to do—ruin Sethis Mortsani’s night and life—and the only thing stronger than his survival instinct was his greed. I was counting on greed to edge out survival. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time my cousin had done something crazy for fun and profit.

  Phaelan squared his shoulders, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “This Lord Mortsani deserves to get screwed out of his money—while he’s alive and knows what’s happening to him.” He opened the door and turned back toward me. “What are you waiting for? We don’t want him to lose everything before I’m there to take it.”

  *

  While we were on our way to Sirens, I fessed up about the rest of what I knew about Lord Sethis Mortsani.

  He was just as good a card player as—if not better than—Phaelan. For the sake of his ego, I left out the “better than” part. My cousin would find that out himself soon enough; it’d be up to his ego to accept that enlightenment when it happened.

  Phaelan was predictably unimpressed.

  He shrugged. “I could always cheat.”

  I snorted. “You could always try, and get your ass to
ssed in the canal out back. If Nathrach’s boys are feeling generous, you might even be conscious when you hit the water so you don’t drown. I heard that as of last week, oracle crystals have been installed at his high-stakes tables.”

  “Shit.”

  Oracle crystals kept magic—any magic—from being used. Even a simple questing spell would set them off. Questings were usually used to see how much power a magic user was packing; however, they could also indicate whether an opponent’s heart rate was up, or if they were sweating more than normal—basically whether they were bluffing or not.

  It was my turn to shrug. “The man’s trying to run an honest game.”

  “There’s two words that should never be used together.”

  “What?”

  “Honest and game. It’s just not right.”

  “It’s plenty right. That’s why you have a problem with it. On the upside, what keeps you from getting creative also keeps the mages from enhancing their odds with magic. Keeps cards what they should be—a game of skill and chance.”

  “Part of my skill is cheating.”

  I smiled. “Then that’s a chance you’ll have to take.”

  *

  Tamnais Nathrach’s arrival in Mermeia three months ago had turned the city upside down.

  It took a lot for the citizens of a city like Mermeia to notice you. Suffice it to say that as the former chief mage of the goblin queen, duke of the royal family, and supposedly grieving husband of a recently and mysteriously murdered noble wife, Tamnais Nathrach more than filled the bill.

  There were all kinds of rumors flying around concerning why he’d left his position as what was basically Queen Glicara Mal’Salin’s magical enforcer. It was said that his departure from the goblin court and his wife’s murder were connected.

  Whatever his reasons for leaving Regor, when he arrived in town, he had plenty of money and was ready to spend it. He purchased the palazzo of an old but impoverished Mermeian family and transformed it into Sirens—the most notorious nightclub and gambling parlor in the city. Some people said he bought the palazzo; others said he won it in a card game with the family’s foolish young heir. A few whispered that he’d all but stolen it using blackmail or black magic.

  Those last two words, at least, were true. Tamnais Nathrach was a dark mage, a practitioner of black magic. I knew only too well what that meant. Black magic and the power it gave was an addiction, like a drug. The more power a mage got, the more they wanted—and the more they were willing to do to get it.

  To give you a comparison, Sethis Mortsani’s depredations were child’s play compared to what a dark mage of Tamnais Nathrach’s reputed power was capable of. He’d managed to stay at his queen’s right hand for five years. In the deadly world of goblin court politics, where surviving past lunch was a daily accomplishment, five years was an eternity.

  Sirens consisted of a nightclub on the ground floor and a casino on the second. Tamnais Nathrach was reputed to have a lavish apartment on the top floor. He employed all of the races that called Mermeia home, including elves. In fact, his casino floor manager was an elf by the name of Lorcan Karst, who had been the manager of what had been the top casino in the city before Sirens opened. Nathrach must have made the elf one hell of an offer. Karst was also a mage, and rarely did anything happen in a casino where he worked that he couldn’t control—one way or another.

  Tamnais Nathrach had restored the crumbling palazzo to its luxurious glory, its stonework gleaming, and its windows filled with the finest glass the master artisans of Laerin could produce, transforming Sirens into the jewel at the heart of the city’s entertainment district.

  Once we were inside, Phaelan stopped at the cashier’s booth to get chips. The stunning human woman favored him with a dazzling smile, the kind that said she either knew what he looked like naked, or wanted to find out. I stifled a snort. My cousin had that effect on some women, regardless of race and occasionally even species.

  He crossed the floor to where I waited, casually tossing in his hand the silk pouch in which Sirens issued its chips. I turned toward the wooden doors leading upstairs to the casino and stopped dead in my tracks.

  Oh my.

  Phaelan chuckled at my reaction. “The artist is a local. I’ve been tempted to commission a panel or two for my cabin. Get some fine art to add a little class to the place.”

  While what was depicted on the doors was well-crafted enough to be called “fine,” “art” was in the eye of the beholder, and only Phaelan would think it was classy. The two massive wood doors were covered in panels carved with people engaged in. . . uh, activities of the adult kind. Closer inspection expanded the heck out of my sexual horizons. I didn’t know how some of those positions were possible.

  Phaelan and I went through the doors, up the stairs, and into the casino, which was light enough to see the tables, dim enough to keep goblins comfortable. Most casinos liked to keep their clientele in the dark—literally and figuratively. By not being able to see the sky, gamblers wouldn’t know when the sun was up or down. The better casinos, like Sirens, made sure that their guests were pampered enough that they wouldn’t care what the sun was doing. Naturally the level of pampering depended on the amount you were known to be able to bet.

  Phaelan and I started across the casino floor toward the cordoned-off area with the high-stakes card tables. Some casinos put their card tables in a separate room. Nathrach had the business savvy to merely block off the area with velvet ropes and beefy uniformed staff to ensure that players only were allowed past the ropes. Not only did Sirens make money from the card players themselves, but people loved to watch rich people lose money—and occasionally win money. The entertainment value of fortunes won and lost at the turn of a single card was irresistible. And while they waited for the games to get exciting, they gambled and drank. More money for the house.

  As we got closer, I sensed them—wards, both ocular and aural. Tamnais Nathrach had been a busy boy. I discreetly gripped Phaelan’s arm and guided him to the nearest bar. He waved to the hobgoblin bartender for a pair of ales.

  “I presume you have a reason for this,” he said, putting his head close to mine so we could at least hear our own conversation over the din of voices.

  “I thought you should know that Nathrach’s added a few tricks to his card area. You know about the oracle crystals to keep magic from being used; now he’s added wards.”

  “Wards?”

  “Ocular and aural. He’s taking extra precautions to ensure that the players stay honest and that any watchers keep their opinions and verbal cues to themselves, or at least from the players. The velvet ropes are a physical barrier for people out here, the ocular and aural wards keep the players from getting any help from either signals or verbal cues.”

  “So no partner-to-player cheating.”

  “Right.”

  “This Nathrach guy’s determined to suck the fun right out of gambling.”

  “It also means that you won’t be able to see or hear anything going on out here, including me,” I told him. “And while I’ll be able to see you, I won’t be getting any sound.”

  Phaelan took a long pull on his ale. “So if one of my fellow players decides to kill me, screaming won’t do me a damn bit of good.”

  “Pretty much. Though I think I’d get the general idea from the visuals.”

  “Good to know.”

  I turned toward the card table area just enough to able to see the players. “Another good thing to know is that our quarry is here.”

  Phaelan didn’t turn and look. “Describe.”

  “Easy. At the moment, he’s the only male goblin at the table. There’s a female, and judging from the pile of chips in front of her, she’s doing well. The other three are all men: two elves and a human. I can’t tell through the wards, but they’re dressed like mages out for a night on the town.”

  My cousin groaned into his ale. “Of course they are.”

  Phaelan had no magic of his own, bu
t he somehow managed to know a mage on sight, or at least his skin did. The more it crawled, the more powerful the mage. My cousin turned and coolly took in the five mages at the table; the table he’d be joining as soon as they finished the hand they were playing now.

  His smile never wavered, and his lips never moved when he said, “You owe me.”

  I pretended to take a sip of my ale. “Your ‘can’t lose’ scheme last month damn near got me disemboweled. And have I mentioned Ocnus Rancil’s visit to my office this morning?”

  Phaelan winced. “No, you haven’t. But I have a good idea what might have happened. You’re a good sport, cousin.”

  “Damn right, I am. Believe me, we’re even.”

  As Phaelan strolled over to the pair of uniformed goblins standing guard by the ropes, two of the five mages glanced up and looked downright happy to see my cousin. They must not know Phaelan. Maybe that he had money and he was a mundane was enough for them. They thought their ship had come in. They’d be finding out soon enough that it carried a pirate.

  The hand finished, and two seats were still available at the table—one next to Lord Mortsani, the other two chairs over.

  Phaelan took the seat right next to the goblin nachtmagus.

  I stifled a grin. When my cousin decided to man up, he didn’t fool around.

  Judging from the stack of chips at his left elbow, Lord Mortsani had money; not a lot, but enough to cover a night of fun unless he got reckless. Phaelan’s job was to goad him into doing just that.

  As I watched, I was reminded that my cousin would have made a fine actor. He was at a table with five mages, and he looked as cool as water flowing off a Myloran iceberg. And it wasn’t limited only to appearance; Phaelan had pushed down any and all fear he normally would have had being in the same room with mages, let alone sitting at the same table with them. Though in a profession where you could be outgunned, outmaneuvered, or outnumbered any day at any time, you learned to bluff and bluster with the best of them. It won and kept the admiration and confidence of a crew, and the earned fear of targets and competition.