by Lisa Shearin
I’d save my worries about Sarad Nukpana for the next stop on my list. One crisis at a time.
Garadin Wyne’s rooms were above a parchment and ink shop on Locke Street, which ran parallel to a nameless back canal in the Sorcerers District. While he could have afforded Nigel’s level of accommodations, he had the good taste and lack of pretension not to. Locke Street had everything my godfather wanted in his semiretirement: paper, ink, tobacco, a tavern that didn’t water down the drinks, and neighbors who minded their own business.
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 ragge
d 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 just 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.
For me, he was just the little brother I’d always wanted.
“Speaking of someone up past their bedtime,” I said. I looked from Garadin to Piaras. “Is there something I should know?”
Piaras looked to Garadin, and Garadin didn’t answer immediately. He looked at the empty plate on the table. There were a few crumbs left. “Sorry I didn’t have anything better to offer, though you seem to have done well enough for yourself. Considering the kind of night you must have had, I’d imagine you were hungry.”
Nigel’s house crawling with goblins and Simon Stocken’s warehouse burning to the ground must have been public knowledge by now, but not the fact that I was involved. Or maybe Garadin just assumed I was involved. Neither assumption was good or very flattering.
“Bad news must travel fast,” was all I said.
“Tarsilia sent Piaras over to the Mad Piper to tell me you might be in trouble.”
I stepped a little farther into the light. Garadin and Piaras took in my blood-spattered clothes.
“I see she was right,” my godfather said. “Any of that yours?”
“No. Why did she think I was in trouble?”
Piaras spoke. “Ocnus Rancil and two other goblins tried to break into your rooms. Then more goblins showed up. That’s when Grandma sent me to find Garadin.”
Damn.
“And considering the hour and circumstances, I didn’t want to send Piaras home once he found me,” Garadin added.
Piaras took off his cloak and gave me a halfhearted smile. “He and Grandma are plotting to protect me again.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having someone watch your back,” I told him. “Phaelan was there tonight to watch mine. Who’s watching Tarsilia’s?” I asked Garadin.
“Parry and Alix were with me over at the Piper. They went to Tarsilia’s, and I came back here with Piaras. If you had stepped in anything deep, I knew you’d come here first.”
Sometimes it’s nice to be predictable. I relaxed a little. Alixine Toril was my best friend, a sorceress, and one of the finest robe designers in the Sorcerers District. Parry Arne was her sometime lover, a Conclave emissary, and when it came to creative magical retaliation, he had pretty much written the book. If a fight got nasty, the big Myloran mage was good to have by your side. Tarsilia was in good hands. Ocnus and the other goblins were not.
“Going directly home didn’t seem like the best idea,” I told him, “though I never meant to put goblins on Tarsilia’s doorstep. Were Ocnus’s friends shamans or warriors?”
“Shamans,” Garadin said. “Khrynsani.”
Damn again.
He made himself comfortable in his favorite chair in the far corner, which oddly enough was always paper free, and lit a pipe. “And they seemed determined to get into your rooms. Apparently it was all over rather quickly. Alix just met us down the block to let us know Tarsilia had the situation well in hand by the time they arrived. Tarsilia discouraged the goblins from trying to get in your rooms, and Alix and Parry will see to it they don’t feel welcome in the neighborhood. Alix said she and Parry will stay the night to make sure the shamans don’t stage a repeat performance.”
“What about Ocnus?” I asked.
Ocnus Rancil was a goblin sorcerer of marginal ability and maximum aggravation. He hadn’t crossed my path for several weeks now. Any illegal, immoral, or just plain repugnant act committed in Mermeia usually had Ocnus’s fingerprints on it somewhere. As a result, business had brought us together over the years. The results had yet to be fatal, though I had been sorely tempted on more than one occasion. I wondered if Ocnus knew about the gathering at Stocken’s this evening and just hadn’t managed to make the party. Considering his presence at my door this evening, that was a possibility I’d have to look into.
The smile that spread across Piaras’s face reached his large, brown eyes. It was open, welcoming, and like Piaras himself, completely without guile. “Ocnus wasn’t all that much trouble. Grandma let me practice on him before she sent me after Garadin.”
I answered with a grin of my own. Like myself, Tarsilia believed in the importance of practice. And if Piaras had needed help, she was more than able to back him up. “What did you use?” I asked.
The tips of Piaras’s pointed ears were visible through his curls. They blushed pink. “An illusion song Garadin taught me last week. I thought it’d be fun to make Ocnus think there were a pair of werehounds guarding your door.”
“And?”
Piaras’s smile broadened into a boyish grin. “Ocnus thought they were so real he conjured a swamp cat to lure them away. You could see through his cat, but other than that, it wasn’t half-bad.”
“What did you have the hounds do?”
“What comes naturally. They ate the cat. That’s when Ocnus ran.”
“I hate that I missed it.”
Garadin nodded in satisfaction. “You just can’t beat the classics.”
My godfather sported a tiny smile for my benefit. I knew what it meant. The spellsong Piaras had used was one of the most advanced, and summoning realistic images of something as complex as werehounds took a level of talent that only came from years of hard work and training. Piaras could do it now. Easily. His singing voice was surprisingly deep, vibrant, filled with quiet power and impossible to ignore. He had a prodigious, natural gift. And after years of hard work and training with the right voice master, who knew what he could accomplish. The image of the Conclave Guardian instantly sprang to mind. I pushed my thoughts away from that path. That wasn’t the kind of power I e
ver wanted to see Piaras wield.
“After Grandma sensed the goblins hiding behind Maira’s bakery, she sent me after Garadin,” Piaras was saying. “I wanted to stay and help, but she insisted.”
“Tarsilia doesn’t doubt your abilities,” Garadin said, “and neither do I, but she needed to warn Raine. And Khrynsani shamans are a whole different beast than Ocnus.” He looked at me, and his bright blue eyes narrowed. “Care to tell me the reason for your sudden surge in popularity?”
“I have no idea what Ocnus was doing there, but I know what the goblins were after. Have you heard what happened at Nigel Nicabar’s place?”
Garadin slowly drew on his pipe, blue puffs rising toward the beamed ceiling. “We heard. Watchers coming off duty stopped at the Piper for a pint. Sounded like quite a fight.”
“It was.”
“You were there.” He didn’t ask it as a question, and I didn’t take it as one.
“Phaelan and I dropped by.”
A corner of his lips quirked upward. “And there stands the source of the trouble?”
“No, that would be Quentin.” I hesitated before continuing. I felt more than a little uncomfortable talking about Quentin’s sideline employment around Piaras. He had met Quentin, so I’m sure it wouldn’t come as any great shock, but I couldn’t help feeling like I was somehow tainting the innocent. “He was hired to acquire something from Nigel.”
“You mean steal,” Piaras said point blank.
Garadin likewise ignored my effort to tiptoe around the subject. “I take it he was successful?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Equally unfortunate is that a few people are disappointed they didn’t get to it first.”
