by Lisa Shearin
“Then what the hell’s he waiting for?”
“Him.” I indicated the upstairs gallery. A tall, thin figure carrying a single lamp proceeded at a stately pace down the length of the second floor gallery, putting out lamps and candles as he went.
“Nigel’s steward,” I clarified. “His reputation is almost as nasty as his master’s. I did some asking around. It’s the same routine every night. He puts out all the lights before going to bed. Nigel won’t be back until just before daybreak. He’s out making housecalls. For some reason, his clients seem to think séances have to be done at night. Since Quentin’s the cautious type, he’ll wait until the steward gets to the servant’s quarters before he makes his move.”
Phaelan’s expression indicated I was in dire need of a life. I wasn’t entirely sure I disagreed with him.
“How long have you been staking this place out?” he asked.
“Just once. The rest came from a few well-placed bribes. If Nigel doesn’t want his people to gossip, he should pay them better.”
“Any idea what Quentin’s after?”
“Not a clue. But if Nigel holds it near and dear, you can bet it’s a short list of people who want it—or want to be anywhere near it.”
“So that explains your sudden maternal urges.”
“I’m just here to make sure Quentin doesn’t get in too far over his head.”
“I’d say he’s there already. You planning to follow him in?”
“Not unless something jumps out and starts killing him.”
“Then how are you…?” Phaelan began. Then understanding dawned. “How did you get him to take a tracking stone?”
“Who says I asked him?” I shrugged deeper into my cloak. “Better safe than sensed. And as an added bonus, Quentin gets to go inside where it’s nice and warm, and we get to stay here where it’s nice and smelly.”
Phaelan looked up at the now dark gallery windows. “I don’t think anything in there is nice.” He took a not-so-delicate sniff and looked down at his boots in disgust. “Or out here.”
I followed his gaze, and took a whiff of my own. I had really been trying to ignore my boots. Though I’d rather be in a stinking alley than a necromancer’s house. Especially this necromancer. I’d once heard Nigel’s place described as forbidding. Just plain spooky worked for me. I think he had both in mind when he had it built. Not many people would want to live in a place that looked like a mausoleum, but then Nigel wasn’t most people.
My back was starting to cramp, and I shifted my weight, trying to get comfortable. The more I squirmed, the worse it got. I hated stakeouts. My body didn’t respond well to sitting or standing around for long periods of time. Then there was the boredom. I was almost hoping Nigel’s steward would wake up, go looking for a nighttime snack, and find Quentin. At least I’d get to do something.
Just because I didn’t really expect any violence tonight, didn’t mean I wasn’t prepared for it. I’m not exactly what you’d call physically intimidating. Thanks to my elven blood, I’m tall enough, but my small bones and slender build are designed more for running than fighting. For those times when speed or spells didn’t discourage someone, I kept all sorts of interesting weapons, mostly the bladed variety, tucked here and there.
Quentin was even smaller than I was, and wiry—and could locate trouble faster than a lodestone could find true north. Though considering the section of the city we were in, I’d more than likely have to call on my alternate arsenal.
I’m a magic user of respectable ability, though most sorcerers would look down their noses and call what I do parlor tricks. In addition to my seeking skills, I can move small objects with my mind, maintain an image of myself in a place I’ve just left, and my shields are right up there with the best. Not the most powerful sorcery by a long shot, but in my opinion, power’s overrated—plus I know how to fight dirty, magically and otherwise. It’s always been enough to keep me alive. Singed around the edges doesn’t count.
What I can’t do is manipulate the wills of others, affect the weather, communicate with or raise the dead, turn base metal into gold, see into the future, or any of the other skills other sorcerers turn into a way to make a living. Not that I haven’t tried a few. I think the words “young” and “stupid” went a long way toward explaining those efforts. I even tried pyromancy once, but I almost set fire to my cat. It was at least six months before he didn’t run every time I struck a match.
I couldn’t see Quentin anymore, but it didn’t mean I didn’t know exactly where he was.
“He’s inside,” I told Phaelan. “And he didn’t set off any wards.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing.”
“It’s not good. Quentin’s employer either had Nigel’s wards disabled ahead of time, or Quentin has a ghencharm.”
Phaelan didn’t exactly look enlightened. “Which is?”
“A talisman that disables wards. Quentin could walk straight through every ward in that house and not make a sound. Problem is you have to know ahead of time what wards are being used. Whoever keyed it would need inside information.”
Phaelan shrugged. “So someone bribed one of Nigel’s servants. So did you.”
“I just got the household routine. Quentin apparently got the house. Someone in there really doesn’t like their boss. Nigel’s not going to be happy.”
“So he’s not the lovable type. I’d imagine not many necromancers are. Can you track him?”
I nodded absently. I was seeing more than just Phaelan.
Quentin was in the main part of the house now. A tracking stone only lets you know the carrier’s location, usually without any details as to what they see. There could be occasional flashes of image, but that only happened with magically sensitive carriers, or those you knew very well. Quentin wasn’t the sensitive type, magically or otherwise. Apparently I knew him well enough, because I got a hazy vision from his viewpoint of stairs leading to the second floor. No wards. No lurking stewards. Looked like Quentin had a good ghencharm. Phaelan and I might not have to charge in to the rescue after all. But I still had every intention of sitting down with Quentin for a very long talk when this was over, and if I needed extra muscle to hold him down while we chatted, so be it.
Quentin went straight to what looked to be a formal reception area on the ground floor. He crossed the room to a wall, pushed on something I couldn’t see, and exposed a hidden staircase. Interesting. Quentin activated a tiny lightglobe on the interior wall, illuminating steep and polished wooden stairs. A plush carpet of deep crimson ran up the center. It was all a little much for Nigel’s taste. Maybe select noble clients saw this part of the house as well. At the top of the stairs was a door with a screened panel that was just large enough to look through. Quentin looked inside, and so did I. An ornately carved bed dominated the room. I found myself grinning.
“What?” Phaelan asked.
“Just a fun fact to know and share. Conjuring up the dead relatives of Caesolian courtiers must only pay so much. It looks like Nigel supplements his income with a little blackmail.”
Quentin was searching Nigel’s room, and doing a very efficient and professional job of it for a reformed thief. Someone had been staying in practice. He’d just discovered a compartment in the headboard of the bed containing a jumble of small boxes and papers. He took out a white stone box. The entire thing fit in the palm of his hand. It had been sealed with black wax, but the seal had been broken. Quentin opened the box.
The world exploded. Or at least my corner of it.
I found myself on all fours like I’d taken a giant fist to the gut. If there was any air in the alley, I couldn’t find it. My vision swam, and pain stabbed behind my eyes. I heard someone whimper. I think it was me. I pitched forward, my forehead landing in something I didn’t want to identify, its stench the only thing keeping me from passing out. I dimly felt Phaelan’s hands on my shoulders, lifting my face out of the muck. I was dizzy, nauseous, and had an urge to make my own contrib
ution to the pile of scraps next to me.
“Stop,” I managed.
Phaelan stopped lifting, but didn’t let go. I was grateful. I don’t think I could have stayed upright on my own. I raised my head slowly until my eyes were level with the street. I resisted the impulse to gulp air into my lungs. I took a few steady breaths. My vision began to clear.
“Raine?” He sounded worried. That made two of us.
I tried to answer, but my mouth was too busy breathing.
“Are you all right?”
I thought about nodding, but decided against it. “Think so.”
“What happened?”
“I think Quentin just found what he was looking for.”
Unfortunately, I was right. Sometimes I hate it when that happens. Quentin showed no signs of putting the whatever-it-was back in the box, and my head hurt too much to maintain contact with him until he did. Fine. I broke contact. He was on his own. I assumed he had done everything he came to do, and would be coming out soon. I sat back against the wall of the alley, watched the door where he had gone in, and concentrated on breathing. Breathing was good.
No alarms went off, no lamps were lit in the servants’ quarters or anywhere else in the house. The street was quiet. The few people who passed the alley with magical talent enough to see past my shields probably thought I was either drunk or had just been mugged. Either way, no one stopped to ask.
“What’s keeping him?” Phaelan asked.
Glass shattered. A lot of it. It sounded like it came from the back of Nigel’s house. This was followed by shouting. I recognized Quentin’s voice. It sounded like he had found his good friend Trouble, and they had made their own exit from Nigel’s bedroom. Phaelan helped me to my feet and then sprinted toward the back of the house. I ditched my cloak and followed as best I could. Considering how I felt, my idea of running more resembled a loping jog. No use worrying about waking the neighbors now.
Not surprisingly, Phaelan was the first to reach the back wall. He hoisted himself smoothly to the top and stopped, something my cousin rarely did. Phaelan only acknowledged one direction, and that was forward.
“Goblin shamans,” he said.
That was unexpected. I heaved myself up beside him. As far as I was concerned, there were two types of goblin shamans—one good and one bad. These particular ones wore black robes lined in silver. Khrynsani. Quentin’s new acquaintances were the bad kind. Why wasn’t I surprised?
The Khrynsani were an ancient goblin secret society and military order, with even more outdated political ideas. The Khrynsanic credo was simple. Goblins were meant to rule, and if anyone disagreed, they weren’t meant to live. Those who disagreed included every other race. Unfortunately, the minds behind the Khrynsani weren’t simple, or without influence. Some of the most powerful families of the goblin aristocracy were secret Khrynsani members. The new goblin king was a Khrynsani and proud of it. So it wouldn’t be long before the rest of the old blood nobility traded in their secret membership for openly fashionable affiliation.
Nigel hated all goblins, good or bad, so it was safe to say that these four weren’t invited houseguests. Then again, neither was Quentin. But there they all were on Nigel’s bedroom balcony. Quentin did the only thing a nonsorcerer and a human could do in his situation: he jumped. It wasn’t a bad distance. Not a good one, either. But it was survivable, and his chances were better than staying where he was. Fortunately, Nigel was fond of bushes. It gave Quentin something to flatten beside himself when he landed.
The shamans didn’t follow him, but four impeccably armed and armored goblins did. They effortlessly vaulted the railing and landed catlike on the ground below, missing the bushes entirely, covering the distance to the middle of the garden in about half the time as Quentin. The quartet obviously weren’t street thugs, and they had made no effort to conceal their uniforms. Khrynsani temple guards. When Quentin found trouble, he didn’t fool around.
Quentin was running toward the back wall, and us. He looked glad to see us. No surprise there. But the four goblins were gaining on him, and Quentin would never make it to the wall before they caught him. I swore and scrambled over the top, making a wobbly landing on the lawn below. Phaelan was right behind me. Quentin turned his back to us, leaving himself ample room to maneuver and drew a pair of long daggers.
The four goblins were larger and faster than I would have liked. But opponents, like family, were something you didn’t get the luxury of picking for yourself. Realizing that Quentin’s intention was to fight rather than escape, the goblins slowed, each leisurely drawing a scythelike saber. They saw Phaelan and me, but it didn’t seem to have a negative effect on their morale.
Goblins were generally tall, long limbed, and leanly muscled, like elves. This quartet was no exception. Their features were angular, their large eyes dark, and their upswept ears slightly more pronounced at the tip than elven ears. Their pale gray skin set off their most distinguishing feature—a pair of fangs that weren’t for decorative use only. Just because a goblin smiled at you didn’t mean he wanted to be friends. The danger didn’t detract from the race’s appeal—some would say it fueled it. I guess all that sinuous grace and exotic beauty can make you overlook a lot, and there were plenty of half-breed children running around to prove it. Some said that elves and goblins came from a common ancestor; a theory hotly denied by the old blood of both races.
The full moon provided more than ample light to fight by. I’m sure the goblins would try to maneuver us into the shadows of Nigel’s orchard. They could try, but the only place I was going was back over the wall when this was over. Not that I couldn’t see well in the dark, but goblins could see better. What looked pitch dark to an elf or human was as bright as day to a goblin, which of course meant the perfect time to cross blades with a goblin was high noon in full sun. I didn’t think the goblin who broke off from the group and was moving toward me would be willing to reschedule. Pity.
They fanned out to surround us. Two of the temple guards centered their attentions on Phaelan. Apparently they saw him as more of a threat. I don’t think he was flattered. The one who had chosen me for a dance partner grinned, exposing an alarmingly sharp pair of fangs. His face, framed by long, black hair, bore several scars. That told me he’d made mistakes in the past. Good. Hopefully I could help him make at least one more.
He circled off and feinted a quick, stabbing attack. He wasn’t serious yet, and I didn’t take the bait. They didn’t intend to kill us quickly. As long as things stayed quiet, and their work uninterrupted, they would want to play first. I agreed with the silence, but I had no intention of being anyone’s evening entertainment. This toy had teeth.
The goblins wore tooled leather covered with a combination of blued-steel plate and scale armor. The single serpent of the Khrynsani insignia gleamed in vivid, red enamel over the heart. The etching in the steel made the armor look delicate, but I knew better. There were a few vulnerable points, but those were next to impossible to reach without getting yourself carved up in the process. Care and patience was called for here. Unfortunately, I wasn’t well known for either quality. I let my breath out slowly and willed myself to relax. Let the goblin make the first move.
The first cut came at my left side, near the ribs. It was meant to annoy and test my defenses, not inflict serious damage. I parried it with my dagger, but wasn’t lured into riposting. Not yet. The goblin was just out of my range, and I would have to completely turn my back on one of the two others circling Phaelan. I didn’t want to find out the hard way that goblins were willing to share.
The goblin’s grin dimmed. He lunged at my legs, but at the last instant flicked the blade’s point up toward my abdomen. I leapt back and managed to deflect the blade, but just barely. The goblin’s grin returned. He was playing again, but I wasn’t.
I attacked, something he obviously didn’t expect. The temple guard retreated, but not fast enough. My rapier darted out, giving me just the reach I needed. Only the top inch of
the blade penetrated, but it was enough. I struck where his armor buckled at the top of the leg near the groin. The goblin’s face blanched in pain and surprise, and a low hiss escaped from between his clenched teeth. His blade slashed down. He was aiming for my sword arm, but instead took a sizeable chunk out of one of Nigel’s prized rose bushes. I grabbed the falling branch in my gloved left hand, and lashed out with it. The hooked thorns raked furrows in the goblin’s unprotected face, and I was treated to language you wouldn’t expect he learned in the temple.
I jumped back as the goblin’s blade sliced through the space I had just vacated. Pain and the sudden absence of his target threw him off balance, and I slipped the tip of my rapier under the section of armored scales connecting his chest and back plates. His forward momentum pushed the blade on through. A tug and a sharp twist of my wrist extracted my blade as the dead goblin slid to the ground.
Quentin was leaning against an apple tree, dark blond hair hanging in his eyes, his normally tanned face blanched pale. I didn’t see any blood on him, which was more than I could say for his opponent. The goblin was sprawled on the grass, one of Quentin’s throwing daggers protruding from his throat.
Phaelan still had one goblin to contend with, and this one was showing more caution than his dead comrade. My cousin was armed with only a dagger, his rapier sticking out of a dead goblin’s chest, probably caught on a rib. I was debating tossing him one of my blades when the remaining goblin attacked, moving faster than I thought any mortal creature had a right to. Phaelan dodged the first swing, and dove for the dead goblin’s saber lying in the grass. He rolled as he hit the ground, the goblin’s scythelike blade whistling past where my cousin’s head had been an instant before. Phaelan grabbed the saber and brought it up, slicing into the creature’s unarmored hip. It wasn’t a killing blow, but it bought him some time.
My opponent had been scarred before I got hold of him. Phaelan’s attacker had the high cheekbones and handsome, angled features of the old blood. There were no scars, and no doubt the goblin was proud of his face. That’s where Phaelan struck. The goblin parried, but it wasn’t a clean deflection. Phaelan’s saber sliced through the creature’s exposed ear. My cousin then followed the goblin’s scream with a solid knee to the nethers.
