by Lisa Shearin
“I need you to send this message to his house,” I told Bertran. “I don’t need a meeting this time, just a favor.”
Bertran didn’t reach for the bell that would summon his assistant.
Patience had never been one of my more sterling virtues, and what little I did have had been tested to its limits this evening. I was wearing torn and blood-stained clothes. I was tired, I was sore, I was more than a little afraid, and I wasn’t in the mood for any political game Bertran might be playing.
I just looked at him. “You’re not moving. May I ask why?”
“His Grace requested that he not be disturbed through midday tomorrow unless it was of the utmost urgency.”
I gritted my teeth against what I really wanted to say. “I can safely say what I have to tell him will more than meet his definition of urgent.”
Bertran hesitated a moment more, his inner struggle apparent. He was a bureaucrat at heart, but I tried not to hold it against him. He was only using standard operating procedure, or at least trying. I never made it easy for him. Bertran hesitated a moment more, then spoke.
“Will delivery first thing in the morning be sufficient?”
That was about five hours away. What I needed from Markus could wait that long. I gave Bertran as much of a smile as I was capable of given the hour and the circumstances. Always be nice to those in a position to help you. “That would be more than sufficient, Bertran. Thank you. By the way, my friend needs a healer. Could you see if one is available?”
Bertran nodded, and rang the bell. My message to Markus and request for a healer would be relayed to Bertran’s assistant. From there it would go to one of the messengers the agency employed for such purposes. Markus’s messengers were good, and were paid accordingly. Some were even paid more than agents themselves.
I had some time to kill before the healer arrived, so I decided to try to get some sleep.
Unlike Phaelan, who could sleep anywhere at anytime, I didn’t have much luck with a nap. I pulled up a chair against the far wall to keep watch over Quentin and settled for trying to rest. I’d never been able to sleep in a safehouse. Go figure. I don’t think it was the house; it was the events that compelled you to be there. Being in a safehouse meant you weren’t safe. That certainly applied to me right now, and to a lesser extent to Quentin.
One question kept running through my mind. Why me? I knew self-pity wasn’t productive, but I felt entitled to indulge myself. All I wanted to do was help a friend, and look where it got me. Then there was what I did to free Quentin. Not one of my glowing moments. But we were safe, for an hour or two, or three, if we were lucky. Both Nukpana and the Guardian knew I had the amulet. They wanted the amulet, and that meant they wanted me. I sighed and ran my hand over my face. Then there was the question I really wanted an answer to—how did Sarad Nukpana know my name?
The healer came, did her usual exceptional work, and left. Quentin had two cracked ribs, probably from being tossed into that crate. Phaelan woke up soon after the healer had gone, pulled up a chair next to mine, and used the time to clean his sword. My cousin’s domestic habits would shame a pig, but he kept his weapons immaculate.
I’ve always found it prudent to be well out of reach when someone regained consciousness. Even if I counted that someone a friend. Especially if that friend lost consciousness in less than congenial circumstances. Considering that Quentin’s last conscious thoughts included threat of torture, almost having his throat slashed, and being slammed into a crate—all my rules applied.
Quentin began to stir. This was unfortunately timed with Phaelan’s use of a whetstone against a particularly stubborn knick. I didn’t know how Quentin would react to awakening to the sound of a sword being sharpened, but I knew what it’d do to me.
“Phaelan?”
He never slowed or looked up. “Yes?”
“Could you stop that for a moment?”
“What?”
“Quentin’s waking up. That’s not exactly a soothing noise.”
“What? Oh.” He grinned. “You don’t want to scrape Quentin off the ceiling?”
“Not really.”
Quentin had stopped moving, but he hadn’t opened his eyes. He was trying to keep his breathing regular, but I could see the pulse racing in his neck. Quentin had been many things, and was good at some of them, but he wasn’t much of an actor. I tried to muffle a smile, and failed. Quentin was awake, but he didn’t want to advertise it. I would have done the same myself. When you’ve lost consciousness in one place and find yourself waking up in another—usually the longer you can keep that information to yourself, the better.
“Quentin, it’s us. No one is going to kill you. And I can’t wait all night for you to open your eyes.”
Quentin squinted in the direction of my voice. I had to admit it was a little bright in here. Maybe I shouldn’t have lit so many lamps. I extinguished the one closest to the cot where Quentin lay.
He didn’t need to look to know that he had been stripped to his shirt and trousers. He tried to sit up, and groaned. I put a restraining hand on his shoulder, and eased him back on the cot.
“Don’t even think about it,” I told him. “You had two cracked ribs, and they need another hour or so to finish setting. I’m sure the healer would appreciate it if you didn’t ruin her work. Behave yourself, and you should be good as new by tomorrow night.”
Quentin lay back with a ragged breath, looking a little green around the gills. “I don’t feel so good.”
“More than likely leftovers from Sarad Nukpana’s work. Probably feels like the worst hangover you’ve ever had, but the dizziness should go away within the hour.”
“Actually, only the second worst.” His expression went from pained to puzzled. “Who’s Sarad Nukpana?”
“The goblin who tried to slit your throat.” I kept it simple for him. The less Quentin knew about Nukpana, the better. I admit my reasons were selfish. I was getting a splitting headache and I really didn’t want to listen to Quentin scream.
He seemed satisfied with my answer. Ignorance was a state in which Quentin was content to exist. “What about the amulet?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve still got it.” I made a face. “For what it’s worth.”
Quentin made a face of his own. “It’s not worth anything now. At least not to me.”
“The goblins seem to think it’s worth your life,” Phaelan said, resuming his whetstone work.
Quentin’s hand went to the bandage at his throat. “Don’t remind me.”
“They’re not the only ones,” I pointed out. “And none of them were in the least bit shy about being seen in uniform.”
“The goblins didn’t mean to leave any survivors, maybe the Guardians were thinking along the same lines,” Phaelan suggested.
We all thought about that for a moment.
“How could you not know who you were working for?” I asked, leaving Sarad Nukpana’s name out of it.
“In my old line of work, I almost never dealt directly with the person whose gold was paying for the job,” Quentin said. “They don’t want to get their hands dirty. Makes for a lucrative business for someone like Simon. Well, made for a lucrative business.”
I pulled the silver disk out of my shirt for a closer look. It still didn’t look like much. “Even for this?”
“Depends on what it does,” Quentin said. “Any ideas?”
“I knew someone had set up housekeeping in Stocken’s warehouse once you were inside. I knew you were in trouble.”
Phaelan put away his whetstone. “You think that was the amulet’s doing?”
“It wasn’t anything I could do before I put the thing around my neck.”
“Is it doing anything else? Besides making you sick?”
Quentin looked surprised. “It makes you sick?”
“Just when you first opened the box,” I told him. “It hasn’t bothered me that way since.”
Phaelan slid his rapier back in its scabbard. “Regar
dless of what it does, or why anyone wants it, the problem is who wants it and what they’re willing to do to get it. Well, cousin, what’s your next step?”
Since I hadn’t been able to sleep, I’d had plenty of time to think about that one. “I’ve sent a message to a client of mine who might be able to help,” I said. “But right now, I thought I’d start by dropping in on Garadin. He’s a retired Conclave mage, Conclave Guardians want this thing, so he might know something about it.”
“Having a mage for a godfather is good for something, I guess,” Phaelan said. “Need someone to go with you?”
I shook my head. “It’s only four blocks, and I know a shortcut. I’d rather you stayed here with Quentin. You’ll need to move him by midmorning.”
Phaelan grinned. “I already have a plan.”
“Your last plan’s what put me here,” Quentin growled from his cot.
Phaelan’s eyes narrowed. “It got you out of Stocken’s warehouse, didn’t it?”
“Well, yes.”
“Well, then it worked.” My cousin sat back and shrugged. “Who knew Stocken had any more gunpowder?”
That was news to me. “Any more? You knew Stocken dealt in gunpowder?”
“Sure. Who didn’t?”
“I didn’t.”
“The lanterns were unfortunate,” Phaelan admitted.
I let it pass. Going down that road wouldn’t do me any good.
“Did Stocken tell you anything else about the job?” I asked Quentin. “Warn you about anything—or anyone?”
Quentin smiled faintly. “Other than the usual ‘Don’t get caught. And if you do, don’t tell them about me’? Just the information I normally need. What the client wants, where it is, and how much I’m going to be paid to get it. The rest I found out on my own. Nigel’s schedule, who his servants were, where I could find them when they weren’t working. Sometimes it’s best not to know who you’re working for.”
“Or who your competition is,” Phaelan added.
“Khrynsani goblins weren’t on my list of possibilities,” Quentin admitted.
“Don’t forget about the Guardians.”
“That’s unlikely. I do attract interesting people.”
“Quentin, people who are trying to kill you are not interesting,” I said. “Speaking of Nigel’s servants, which one gave you the ghencharm?”
“The what?”
“Ghencharm. That thing that let you stroll through Nigel’s house without setting off his wards.”
Quentin blanched. “He had wards?”
I just looked at him. When this was over, I was going to teach Quentin a thing or two or three about magic whether he liked it or not.
“Yes, he had wards. Nasty wards. Apparently they weren’t there when you were. Someone did you a big favor. Any idea who? One of the servants you talked to?”
“None of Nigel’s people knew a thing about me, or even suspected. Give me a little credit here, Raine. I am a professional.”
Now Quentin had hurt feelings to go with his cracked ribs. Great.
“I’m not questioning your competence.” Actually I was, but there was no need to say so out loud. “Someone had to know you’d be there. Why else deactivate every ward in the house?”
“If someone did know, they didn’t find out from me.”
Yet another question that needed an answer. If no one in Nigel’s household left the magical doors standing wide open, then who did? And if Sarad Nukpana was Quentin’s mystery employer, why did he feel the need to send his bully boys over to Nigel’s house? Quentin was going to steal the amulet for him. All he had to do was sit back and wait for Quentin to do his job. Unless Sarad Nukpana knew he wasn’t the only interested party. Was the second group of goblins more than an opposing faction? Maybe they were competition for what I was wearing around my neck.
Too many questions. Too few answers.
I knew part of why Sarad Nukpana and his Khrynsani were in Mermeia. The new goblin king, Sathrik Mal’Salin, had arrived in the city four days ago for a week of receptions culminating in a masked ball three nights from now. Nobles from surrounding kingdoms had been pouring into the city for the past week for what was being touted as the social event of the decade, and the local aristocracy was scrambling to get invitations. In my opinion, going to a party surrounded by Mal’Salins would only be fun in the way being locked in a room full of snakes would be fun.
Sarad Nukpana was King Sathrik Mal’Salin’s chief counselor. From what I’d heard of Nukpana, he wasn’t the party type. And judging from our little encounter in Stocken’s warehouse, he had business in town other than keeping a proprietary eye on his new king. It looked like I was wearing the real reason for his visit around my neck. Small world.
I went to the corner table and poured a round of drinks. Markus saw to it that all of his safehouses were well stocked. I guess he figured that people who were in that much trouble would want alcohol. I couldn’t fault his logic. I passed a brandy to both Phaelan and Quentin, and kept one for myself. I drank half of it in one gulp. I needed it even more than Quentin. He could go to ground to stay alive, but hiding wasn’t an option for me. My problems were just beginning. I drained the glass.
Quentin took a good-sized gulp himself. “Did the elven Guardian manage to kill that Nukpana person?”
I winced. “He might have had other things to think about.”
Phaelan chuckled softly. “Two very important things.”
“Until I can find out otherwise, let’s just operate under the assumption that the Nukpana person got away,” I told Quentin.
Quentin was instantly alert. “Operate? I don’t like the sound of that.”
That made two of us.
Quentin looked around at the plain walls. “A safehouse, right?”
I nodded. Markus’s idea of a safehouse looked like a cross between a barracks and a prison. My sometime client had exquisite decorating taste, but in his practicality, saw little reason to extend those talents to his safehouses.
“You said I can leave by midmorning?”
“I wouldn’t be so eager if I were you,” Phaelan told him. “By now those goblins probably have your name on the lips of every assassin in Mermeia. By daybreak you’ll have a hefty price on your head.”
Quentin wouldn’t be the only one gracing a wanted poster. Phaelan didn’t mention me. I was grateful. I also contemplated pouring myself another drink. Better not. I had the feeling I’d need all the quick reflexes I could get.
“I’ve had a price on my head before,” Quentin said. “No one’s managed to cash in yet. Though tonight they came close.”
“Khrynsani aren’t known for being a soft touch,” I told him. “One Khrynsani I’ve heard of would throw everything he had against a human or elf just to see what would hit the far wall. The shamans on Nigel’s balcony were good, but not the best they could field. And Sarad Nukpana wasn’t expecting the Guardians in Stocken’s warehouse. We were lucky twice tonight. It won’t happen again.”
Quentin succeeded in sitting up. “I’ve had Khrynsani try to vaporize me, feed me to the bog beetles, and slit my throat. I just want to find a nice, deep hole and crawl in for a few days until things calm down.” He looked around the room. “You sure I can’t stay here?”
“Sorry. If necessary, I can have the people here put you into deep hiding, but I’d rather you be where we can keep an eye on you.” I turned to Phaelan. “Know where we can find a nice, deep hole on short notice?”
The smile that spread slowly across my cousin’s tanned face was well known for promising bad things. If I didn’t know him well, it would have made my skin crawl. I answered with a grin of my own. We’re a sick family that way.
“I know just the place,” he said.
“I can manage just fine on my own,” Quentin protested. “I wouldn’t want you two to go to any more trouble. I’ve been enough trouble already.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Phaelan assured him. “Our pleasure. You don’t ge
t seasick, do you?”
Quentin blanched. “Yes, I do. And there’s no way you’re getting me onboard the Fortune.”
“Who said anything about the Fortune? If anyone recognized me tonight, that’s the first place they’d look. No, I have another of my fine vessels in mind. And she’ll be docked, so you should be able to hold down solid food after a day or so.”
Phaelan’s idea of a fine vessel could mean anything from a galleon to a garbage scow. But I think I knew which one he was talking about.
“The Flatus?” I asked, grinning wider. I liked where this was going.
My cousin nodded. “I thought it would be appropriate. Don’t worry, Quentin. You’ll be as safe on the Flatus as in your mother’s arms. You don’t mind the smell of dead fish, do you?”
“What’s the Flatus?” Quentin sounded like he really could go without knowing.
Phaelan’s grin kept many secrets. “She’s many things. To the harbormaster, she’s a baitfisher. You know, the small fish used to bait crab pots?”
Quentin was looking pale again. “I’m familiar with them.”
“She’s named after the Myloran god of wind.” Phaelan chuckled. “Who says I’m not cultured?”
Chapter 4
Phaelan would take care of Quentin. My job was to take care of myself. It had yet to be more than I could handle, but there was always a first time.
As an official representative of the elven crown, Markus Sevelien was more than qualified to give me the diplomatic help I might need before long, considering I was wearing the makings of an interkingdom incident around my neck. But my godfather’s assistance was a lot more valuable to me right now. Markus could keep me out of trouble. Garadin could keep me alive.
The people I had annoyed tonight wouldn’t go through diplomatic channels to retrieve what they all saw as their property. They would proceed straight to bolts through my back. As a former Conclave mage, Garadin might be able to tell me what I was wearing around my neck. And being a spellsinger of respectable abilities, he might be able to tell me more about the elven Guardian. I was beginning to think that both were key to my continued well-being—if not my existence.
