Magic Lost, Trouble Found (Raine Benares #1)

Magic Lost, Trouble Found (Raine Benares #1) Page 16

“Yes, you did.” Tarsilia grinned. “Mind if I join you two? Sounds like fun.”

Dueling is forbidden in the city, but that doesn’t stop sorcerers from doing it. And a watcher’s meager salary doesn’t exactly inspire local law enforcement to get between two sorcerers bent on obliterating each other. The chronic offenders are usually mediocre talents fighting over a choice client—or looking to enhance their reputations. Charlatans don’t have the talent to survive a duel, and a mage doesn’t want to be bothered with such childish pastimes. Of course there are exceptions. Then there are the suicidal types—mediocre talents who try to goad a mage into a duel. I guess they think it looks good for them to have fought and defeated a mage. What few of them fail to remember is that duels have winners and losers. Losers tend to be dead. That memory lapse is the reason why there always seem to be rooms available for rent in the Sorcerers District.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let Alix know you can’t make it,” Tarsilia was saying. Her little face grew solemn. “If you promise me you’ll be careful.”

I gave her an impulsive hug. “I promise.” I draped a hooded cloak over my shoulders, followed by my pack. I didn’t raise the hood. I wanted to be seen leaving. Later I’d see what I could do about a little vanishing act. “And if careful doesn’t work, maybe I’ll just be lucky. Luck has to start speaking to me again sometime.”

Chapter 6

You know it’s going to be a bad day when you can’t get privacy inside your own head.

I knew it’d only be a matter of time until someone came looking for me. When that time came, I had hoped that someone would trail me at a discreet distance. Aside from being invasive and rude, mind touching was just icky. Not to mention having somebody popping into your head starts to wear on you after a while. It makes you wonder which thoughts are yours and which ones have been planted and fertilized by someone else. After last night, my own imagination was doing a fine job of shoveling fertilizer all by its lonesome. It didn’t need any help.

Since it wasn’t an actual speaking voice, I couldn’t put a name to it. But the slimy trail it left behind left no doubt that it was a Khrynsani shaman. A certain elven Guardian had already put in an appearance, so why should the goblins be left out?

Ignoring it wouldn’t make it go away. As uncomfortable and disgusting as it felt, I let whoever-it-was putter around for a little while. Too long and he would see everything I saw—and know precisely where I was. He wasn’t going to be there that long. But the longer he was there, the easier it would be for me to slam my mind’s door on his figurative fingers. I was overdue for some fun.

I ducked down a side street and stopped. It was early, so it was empty. I’d never been able to dispel a mind intruder and walk at the same time. Not coordinated enough, I guess. I stilled my thoughts and waited. My visitor was impatient, so I didn’t have to wait long. My action was rewarded by a pained shriek from the other side.

Visitor gone. Problem solved. For now. I knew he’d be back, and he’d probably bring a friend or two with him—or his boss. Sarad Nukpana must have either been a late sleeper or busy getting in a little prebreakfast torture. Before he had some time to spare for me, I was going to do everything I could to make sure my mind wasn’t such an interesting destination, or myself such an irresistible target.

One big way to do that would be to take off the amulet. Not recommended under normal circumstances, but I had been thinking. If I had the white stone box the amulet came in, half of my problem might solve itself. Quentin had dropped the box when the Khrynsani shamans came through the Gate. Through my link with Quentin, I had seen that there were runes carved into the surface—runes that were probably containment spells. If I could find that box, I might be able to take the amulet off. I’d worry later about what to do with an amulet-in-a-box. One problem at a time.

First stop, Nigel’s house. I’d done work for the city watch, and counted several officers as friends. I didn’t think it’d be all that difficult to talk my way into the house. Finding the box and having my idea work was another thing, not to mention a slim hope, but at this point I’d take what I could get. At the very least, it put a spring in my step for the rest of the way to Nigel’s house.

I took a shortcut through Brightleaf, the Elven District’s oldest and most elegant section. Trouble rarely came to Brightleaf, and on the rare occasions when it did, it had the decency to use the back door. The old blood disliked disruptions to their well-ordered lives, and maintained bodyguards to ensure it didn’t taint their doorsteps. High-walled gardens further insulated them from the baser elements. If they couldn’t make trouble go away, they at least went to great lengths to pretend it didn’t exist.

Just because I didn’t care to be around most elven aristocrats, didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate their taste. Mermeia was built on a marsh, but a stroll through Brightleaf convinced you otherwise. It was amazing what a lot of money and a little magic could do. Aristocratic elves had a thing for trees, and the more the merrier. Since this section of Mermeia didn’t have enough for them, the elves had planted additional trees. Now Brightleaf looked like a woodland park in the middle of the city. The flowers of the kembaugh tree attracted fireflies, and I had to admit it made for a pretty sight at night with all the twinkling lights. All in all, a nice way to live if you could afford it.

As I walked along the cobbled and tree-lined avenue that ran next to the Old Earl’s Canal, I caught an occasional glimpse of shaded courtyards through ornate—and securely locked—gates. Mermeia’s canals rose and fell with the tide, and the smell along with it. Not in Brightleaf. An elaborate system of filters had been installed at the entrance to every canal where it entered Brightleaf. The water was always pristinely clean, and smelled the same way.

A lone boatman leisurely poled his way down the canal. He sang as he went, a simple tune I had heard boatmen sing on canals all over the city. His voice was pleasant enough, but not really all that memorable. That was what I heard. What I felt flowing quietly under his song was something else entirely. Paladin Mychael Eiliesor was up early. I wasn’t the only one with a morning mind visitor, but the boatman seemed oblivious. Unlike the Khrynsani shaman, Eiliesor didn’t invite himself into my head, and using the boatman’s voice wasn’t all that invasive either. As far as doing something like that went, it was actually quite polite. It was also sneaky. The Guardian wasn’t inside my head, so I couldn’t do a thing to get rid of him. Eiliesor could follow me anywhere in the city using the same trick with any susceptible passerby.

I didn’t feel like being followed. Time for a little sneakiness of my own. I felt bad about involving the boatman, but I’d feel worse if Eiliesor tracked me long enough to locate me physically. I didn’t know if I could break Eiliesor’s contact with the boatman, but I could sure give him something else to think about. I could move small objects with my mind, and a gondola pole was a small object. I concentrated, yanked, and the boatman took a swim. When the baffled boatman managed to heave himself back into his gondola, his sputtering sounded a lot like a certain Guardian commander.

I grinned and darted around the corner and out of sight. Mission accomplished.

Nigel’s townhouse must be crawling with city watch by now. Considering who and what Nigel was, Janek Tawl would probably be in charge of the investigation. And the hands-on type that he was, Janek would be overseeing things himself. If that was the case, I should be able to talk my way into the house for a little investigating of my own.

After that, I’d put myself out of circulation for a few hours at one of Markus’s safehouses. The peace and quiet would be welcome. A nap, a bath, and a decent meal wouldn’t hurt, either.

I ducked out of sight once I crossed the canal at Wormall Mews. This part of the Sorcerers District was a rabbit’s warren of twisting streets and alleys that no one was going to follow me through—at least no one using feet. And if someone did pick up my trail, it was broad daylight, I was armed in more ways than one, and if my follower wanted a fight, I was more than willing.

The bridge across the canal to Pasquine Street was busier than usual for that time of day. Hardly surprising considering what had happened there last night. I stepped to the railing to allow a cart to pass, and a flash of red caught my eye. Pasquine Street had the dubious distinction of being the closest point in the Sorcerers District to the goblin embassy. The Khrynsani banner had joined the royal standard already flying over the compound. I guess after last night, there wasn’t much use in Sarad Nukpana denying that he and his boys were in town. The amulet thrummed under my shirt.

“Oh, shut up,” I muttered.

Wormall Mews was thick with small businesses popular with nonsorcerers. Fortune-tellers, alchemists, astrologers, and the like did a healthy business parting the local Mermeian population from their coin. Most of the proprietors were only marginally talented, but a convincing performance went a long way toward building a successful business.

I walked the two blocks down Pasquine, keeping to the side of the street opposite Nigel’s house. I spotted Janek talking to someone who looked like he might be one of Nigel’s wealthy merchant neighbors. Janek saw me about the same time.

Chief Watcher Janek Tawl was human, Brenirian by birth, and a watcher by natural talent. People trusted Janek, even people who weren’t particularly trustworthy themselves. His knack for getting results had put him on the fast track to second in command of the watch in the Sorcerers District. That was as far as he wanted to go. Janek liked being on the streets with the people. He looked like a watcher. It wasn’t just that he was built like a soldier, all ropy muscle—it was an attitude. An attitude that said “Don’t even think about trying that in my District.”

Janek had helped me in the past, and I had given him more than a few leads. He was probably hoping for one or two more this morning, but I didn’t see myself being helpful, at least not yet. Janek could toss me in jail for where I had been last night, what I had done, what I was wearing around my neck, and how it had gotten there.