by Lisa Shearin
Mago said he had some things to take care of. I knew that meant finding another way to tighten the screws on Taltek Balmorlan, so I was all in favor of Mago’s continued clandestine activities. My job was to neutralize two assassins. Mago’s job was to neutralize two crooked elves. I wasn’t sure whose job was the most impossible, or at least improbable, but mine would get me deader quicker.
Though right now, I had something almost as challenging as getting an assassin’s name out of Rache Kai—getting the scowl off of Vegard’s face. Though with the dandy beard he still sported from his turn as Marc the Waiter, Vegard’s scowls had lost a lot of their impact. I had no intention of mentioning the beard. No doubt some of his Guardian brothers had done it, and Vegard had no doubt made them regret it.
“It couldn’t be helped,” I told him for what felt like the umpteenth time.
“I know it couldn’t, ma’am, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“I know, I know. You were worried sick.”
“And awake. I haven’t slept in two bloody days.”
“If you’re going with me, you’ll be awake for at least one more.”
“As long as I get to do something besides look for you all over the city, I’ll take it.”
“The way my luck’s been running, that’s guaranteed.”
“Will you be going out as that banker fellow?”
I chuckled and shook my head. “I think I’ve gotten the real Symon Wiggs in enough trouble. I have to find Rache, and I don’t have time to screw up.”
“Meaning?”
I grinned. “Have you ever met Rache Kai in person?”
“No, ma’am.”
My grin got bigger. “You’re about to. For an assassin, the best way to find your quarry is to think exactly like them. The same works for seeking. I know Rache.”
“Reportedly very well.”
“Yeah, that’s something I like to forget; but for now, it’s a good thing. Not only do I know him, but while glamoured as him, I’ll be able to pick up nuances I wouldn’t normally get, such as where the real Rache is. Like calls to like. Combine all of that with his glove—and my determination to find the bastard—how can I fail?”
What I didn’t tell Vegard was what safer way to repel every lowlife on Mid than to glamour myself as one of the world’s best assassins? Of course I’d have to hide my face most of the time. The last thing I needed was to get arrested for being someone else. I could get locked up just fine by being myself.
Vegard had come to the goblin embassy with Mychael wearing his Guardian uniform. He wouldn’t be leaving that way. When Imala came to Mid, she had brought plenty of her agents with her. And with secret service agents came disguises. A table in my room was covered in just about anything Vegard might need to go from upstanding Guardian to a disreputable thug about town. I’d originally thought to go with the deadly look, but we didn’t want to get ourselves arrested before we even got to do anything to deserve it. That would more than suck.
My Saghred-fueled glamours were correct in every way—including some of their thoughts. I just needed a solid image in my head to do one. Rache Kai had been my first lover. I literally knew every square inch of him.
Within moments, all of those square inches were looking back at me out of the mirror—and yes, it was a specially warded mirror. Guaranteed not to spew demons. I resisted the urge to smash it to bits anyway.
Vegard stepped up behind me. “So this is him.”
“Yep.”
I could see Vegard’s reflection in the mirror. Tan leather, embroidered linen, and with a fur mantle thrown in for good measure. Just your typical Myloran raider looking for a good time. I shook my head and smiled. “You look good being bad.”
He gave me a roguish smile. “That’s what the ladies tell me, ma’am.”
“Once I get clear of the embassy wards, I’ll need to find a quiet place to zero in on Rache,” I said. “When we have it, do you have a man to send to Mychael with our location?”
“He’s standing by.”
“Good. When a Benares is about to do something definitely stupid and possibly fatal, it’s smart to let someone know where to collect your body.”
Vegard just stared at me. “That’s a joke, right?”
“Let’s hope so.”
Tam took us out through a tunnel that ran under the embassy, under the building behind it, opening out onto a small side street, conveniently empty. Vegard may not have been in a Guardian uniform, but he was packing his favorite Guardian weapon—his double-headed battle axe. It was in its sling over his shoulder, the leather-wrapped grip within easy reach over his left shoulder.
“This is as good a place as any for you to locate the bastard,” Tam said.
“Bastard? I thought you said you never met Rache.”
“I haven’t. He hurt you, he’s hunting Chigaru, therefore he’s a bastard. The goblin language has much more accurate terms, but that one will do for now.”
“Do you mean jak’aprit?” Vegard asked helpfully.
Tam inhaled with intense satisfaction. “The very word. Well done, Vegard.”
The big Guardian grinned. “I believe in knowing how to insult a man in every language.”
“A fine talent to have.”
Tam went back into the embassy, though not of his own choice. I was still borderline exhausted, so maintaining Rache’s glamour was enough of a challenge, but add a seeking to that and the least magical interference I got, the better. Tam knew how critical it was to get to my destination, get that name, then get the hell out. All quickly.
Vegard was standing farther back in the tunnel to ensure that his magic didn’t interfere, either. I leaned against the wall at the tunnel entrance, pulled on Rache’s glove, and put all of my focus on the leather encasing my hand. The leather was soft and supple with a snug fit for each finger, especially Rache’s trigger finger. Sewn into the leather at the knuckles was a nice layer of metal. I made a fist and the metal pressed against my knuckles in a perfect fit. Oh yeah, I liked that.
I didn’t force the contact, but rather let it come to me. Concentrating too hard would just make me even more tired than I already was. I was willing to sacrifice a few minutes for that.
The connection came in clear and strong. Rache wasn’t that far away. He was standing at a bar with two glasses in front of him: one empty, one halfway there. That was more than a little concerning. Rache didn’t drink while working. Sorrows to drown? Or his competition? In that case those drinks might be celebratory.
Only one way to find out. Go and ask the man.
* * *
Finding Rache was easy. It was like he wanted me to find him.
Sometimes easy wasn’t good. I’d learned through experience to be wary of easy.
Now that Rache was less than a dozen feet away from me, keeping my hands from around his throat was going to be a challenge, if not damned near impossible.
He was sitting on a stool at the far end of the bar. There was a door at his back, probably a storage room. Rache wouldn’t be sitting next to a doorway unless it led quickly to the outside and a dark alley. You’d think assassins would prefer to sit in a shadowy booth. Many might, but Rache had never been one of the many. If anyone was to walk through the front door of that bar with violent intentions, Rache liked to have plenty of room to play. He wasn’t shy about making a scene—or a mess. A little bag of gold tossed on the bar went a long way toward mollifying any barkeep’s annoyance at having to mop blood off the floor, or toss a body out his back door.
I pulled the brim of my hat a little lower over my eyes and stepped inside. There were six other men in the small bar. It was connected by an open double doorway to a tavern that wasn’t rowdy yet, but sounded like it would be soon. Here in the little bar, one of the men was facedown on a table, muttering to himself. The smell and empty bottle in front of him testament that this wasn’t his first stop of the evening, just the place where he happened to pass out. Three men were huddled
over drinks in the aforementioned shadowy booth. Four empty bottles shared the space with them. They were armed, but with that much liquor in them, the worst trouble they’d cause would be falling over their own feet trying to stand up. And the fact that the bottles were still there said that customer service wasn’t the barkeep’s strong suit. He was human, thick-armed, with hard eyes. He gave me a terse nod, and I returned the gesture. The two others sitting at the other end of the bar were more interesting. They sat perched on the edges of their stools so that their swords hung loosely from their belts, no obstacles to making a quick and clean draw. Foam-topped tankards of ale sat in front of them. These boys didn’t appear to be thirsty. Either that or they were disciplined. In a place like this, both could mean trouble waiting for the signal to happen. They turned their heads when I came in, sized me up, and turned back to their ales and quiet talk, sitting up a little straighter than before.
Great.
Just great.
I went to the bar and sat down two stools away from Rache.
“What’ll it be?” The barkeep’s voice was gravelly, and his sleeves were rolled up to expose scarred forearms. Knife fighter and good at it. His scars didn’t tell me that—that he was still upright and breathing did. No one came away clean in a knife fight. Winners got scars; losers got dead.
“Whiskey, neat,” I told the barkeep. It wasn’t my voice; it was an exact copy of Rache’s.
Rache’s own drink paused halfway to his lips. He finished the movement, took a swallow, and set the glass back on the bar as one hand dropped to his side where he’d always kept a stiletto. It was small enough to hide, large enough to get the job done. I didn’t know if he still carried it there, but I think I was about to find out.
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, and I pushed back the brim of my hat just enough to give him a good look.
“We meet again,” I said.
The corner of Rache’s lips twitched in a grin. “Get tired of the banker?”
I shrugged. “He wasn’t my type.”
My voice carried, and the barkeep stopped wiping glasses, frozen in place, his eyebrows raised. All conversation in the bar had ceased, even the muttering drunk in the corner.
Rache chuckled. “You’re ruining my reputation again.”
“I’m not here to ruin anyone’s reputation, just to finish the talk we started last night.”
“That would be the talk that you started. I had other things I’d much rather have been doing. I don’t want to talk about it here.” He waved the barkeep over. “Tom, can I use your office?”
The man tossed him a ring of keys and Rache nimbly snatched them out of the air.
“I like it here just fine,” I told him. “I like company.”
Rache shrugged and tossed the keys back to the barkeep. The man caught them without even looking.
Rache half turned to face me. “All right. What do you want to know?”
“Your competition. I need his name.”
“So you and Eiliesor can take him down.”
“Something like that.”
Rache snorted and raised his glass in a half salute. “I wish you luck.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said—good luck if you think you’re going to catch that one flat-footed.”
“I’m good.”
“He’s better.”
“Tell me why, give me his name, and let me be the judge of that.”
“And in return, I get . . .”
“We get rid of your competition for you.”
“And as soon as I leave here, the men with you are going to try to get rid of me.”
“What makes you think I didn’t come alone?”
“Eiliesor and that goblin friend of yours, Nathrach.”
I raised my own glass. “Well played.”
Rache didn’t move, but his eyes took in the men around us in various stages of consciousness. “If all of these fine gentlemen hadn’t been here when I arrived, I’d think that one of them was the paladin.” He lifted his glass and took a sip. “The two down the bar have been entertaining themselves for the past half hour watching me drink.”
“Who are they?”
Rache shrugged. “The gut on the short one tells me they aren’t Guardians. Could be watchers. Could be something else.”
The last thing I needed was something else.
I knew I was wasting my breath, but I told him about Sathrik’s plans after baby brother Chigaru was dearly departed—murder, invade, and enslave elves. Rache wasn’t a patriot unless he was paid to be, but there was a first time for everything. Then for good measure, I told him what Taltek Balmorlan had planned.
For me.
When I finished, Rache didn’t say anything, but just because he wasn’t talking didn’t mean he hadn’t been listening. He’d heard every word I said, and now he was measuring what he’d been paid to do with what the son of a bitch who was lining his pockets would be paying mages to do to me.
I hoped the scales in Rache’s head wouldn’t call that deal even. Yes, I broke up with him. Yes, I’d hurt him. He’d hurt me, so I called that even.
“You want to take out a hit on Balmorlan?” Rache asked.
“I wouldn’t shed any tears if he washed up at low tide tomorrow morning.”
Rache laughed, low and soft. “You’re asking me to do him for free?” He, like Mago, was a firm believer in the power of currency.
“I’m saying you might want to be more selective who you take money from.”
Rache met that statement with silence. I’d just as much as said that Balmorlan had been the man who’d hired him. Rache knew that in addition to his competition’s name, I wanted confirmation on Balmorlan being his latest client.
“Quite a few of my clients have deserved killing more than the target they were paying me for,” Rache said quietly.
That was as close as I was going to get to a confirmation. I’d take it.
I set my drink on the bar. “You give me your word, your blood oath not to kill Chigaru Mal’Salin, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure your competition takes the fall for you.”
“And just how do you propose to do that?”
“I’m a Benares, Rache. We can set people up in our sleep.”
“You can say that again. It’s not like I’m going to forget what happened in Laerin anytime soon.”
“That wasn’t my fault and you know it.” I leaned toward him. “Rache, we were no good for each other; you know that, too. I hurt your pride; you broke my heart. I’d call us even.”
He arched an eyebrow in surprise. “I broke your heart?”
“I cried at least twice.”
“Impressive.”
“Believe it.”
Rache ran his finger idly through the ring his glass had made on the bar. “My client was going to pay me a bonus if I took out the prince within four days.”
“Let the prince live and you’ll get your bonus,” I said.
“From you?”
“An interested party.”
“Interested in what?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“Let me decide that.”
“Not a part of the deal.”
Rache shrugged. “Very well. If you can find the bastard, all the better for me. He’s a goblin by the name of Nisral Hesai.”
“Never heard of him.”
“You just don’t run in the right circles.”
“Meaning hired killers.”
“He’s young, not much experience, but by all accounts shows extreme promise.”
“Apparently he’s good enough that Sathrik has hired him to kill his baby brother.”
“He’s not an assassin,” Rache said, “though he does it when the money’s right. Nisral Hesai’s a thief. The best. He’s a decent enough assassin, but you don’t need much skill when you can get close enough to touch your target. Anybody could kill like that.”
I think I mig
ht have stopped breathing. “A thief?”
Rache nodded. “The bastard can change back and forth right before your eyes. And if he can study his target for a while, their own mother couldn’t tell the difference. An exact copy even down to the voice and mannerisms. That trick alone makes him the best damned thief in the kingdoms. Better than some of your family even. They don’t call him the Chameleon for nothing.”
The goblin wasn’t stalking Mychael to kill him. He was memorizing Mychael. Sarad Nukpana didn’t send him only to kill Chigaru.
He was here to steal the Saghred.
And glamoured as Paladin Mychael Eiliesor, he could walk in to the citadel and take it.
Chapter 17
I had to warn Mychael.
I had to find that goblin before he became Mychael and stole the Saghred. Or before he killed me, and converted his pencil sketch into a memorial painting.
“From the look on your face, I’d say the Chameleon has his silvery fingers in more than one pie,” Rache noted.
“And on a couple of poison strawberries,” I muttered.
“Pardon?”
“Doesn’t matter; I’m not going to be eating either one.” I looked him in the eye. “I know this probably goes against your professional ethics, but you wouldn’t consider lending a hand to find this Chameleon, would you?”
“Old time’s sake and all that?”
I shrugged. “If that’s what you’d do it for. I was going to give you money, but if you want to—”
Rache’s grin reached his eyes. “What old times?”
“How does goblin gold to catch a goblin work for you?”
“If the gold’s goblin, it works just fine.”
“It would be,” I said.
“Then I would be interested. I take it the prince will be paying?”
“Not if you try to kill him again.”
“I suppose you want assurances of some sort.”
“A plain old promise would work for me.”
I actually got to see surprise on Rache’s face.
“You’d take my word?” he asked.
