Magic Lost, Trouble Found (Raine Benares #1)

Magic Lost, Trouble Found (Raine Benares #1) Page 48

The door opened. We all turned to look.

It was a six-foot-tall peacock.

“Tell me you’re joking, sir,” the peacock said to Mychael.

The voice was Piaras’s, but I didn’t recognize anything else. I just stared in open-mouthed astonishment. My second of the evening. Mychael and Garadin just looked stunned.

Piaras was dressed in golden brown, vibrant blue, and iridescent emerald green. His doublet was rich blue velvet, short and formfitting with delicate silver embroidery representing peacock feathers and a dark jewel at the center of each feather’s “eye.” The cloak was a matching blue silk covered entirely with actual peacock feathers. It was tied dueling cloak style with a silver cord, under his sword arm and over the opposite shoulder. Of course with the goblin king’s request, Piaras wouldn’t be carrying a sword. The trousers were formfitting golden brown suede with matching high boots. The silver mask was inlaid with sapphire and emerald enamel, and was adorned with more feathers that curved to conceal some of Piaras’s dark curls.

To say the costume was a bit much would have been the ultimate understatement, but both it and the young elven spellsinger were breathtakingly beautiful.

I had to say something. “Now you can’t tell me that won’t attract attention.”

Mychael looked like he was reconsidering his grand scheme, or at least Piaras’s part of it.

A victory. Yes. At this point, I’d take what I could get.

The goblin king’s masked ball was being touted as the event of the social season. Call me a pessimist, but I couldn’t help but think of it as hunting season, with me as the prized catch being delivered dressed and trussed to the hunter’s front door.

The beacon seemed to think it was about to get what it wanted. At least that was the impression I got. It was hard to believe it had only been three nights since Quentin had stolen the beacon and given it to me for safekeeping. Ever since then, the beacon had either been completely silent, or trying to kick a hole in my chest. After we set out from the count’s palazzo, the beacon had settled down to a gentle hum in time with my heartbeat. Glad to know one of us was happy with our destination.

To help keep gondola traffic moving on the canals, and to avoid any flaring tempers that might result from gridlock or clashing cultures, classes, or magic, the mayor of Mermeia had ordered all members of the city watch, not otherwise assigned, to traffic duty. I know the watchers loved that. They were angry, they were armed, and most importantly, there were five of them at every major waterway intersection. There were more than a few aristocrats in town for Sathrik’s little get-together; aristocrats who felt entitled to go where they wanted, when they wanted, and to answer to no one when they went there.

Our city’s finest were there to tell them otherwise.

In an elaborately draped and gilded gondola to our port side, a Pengorian noble was being issued a stern warning for failure to yield to a smaller vessel. It probably wouldn’t have gone any further than a warning, but when the indignant Pengorian in question started shrieking about his privileges in this and any other city, the watcher said nothing else and promptly began writing him a ticket. As we turned the corner at the bell tower, I could still hear the noble’s shrill protests.

It warmed my heart.

Though what filled me with less than a glowing feeling was the rolling motion caused by the heavier than normal traffic on the canals. My normal—and entirely rational, I might add—fear of drowning had little to do with my present discomfort. I tried to focus on the unmoving building in front of us, rather than the all-too-moving water undulating below me. My eyes believed the deception. My stomach didn’t buy it for a second.

In addition to his house and invitations, the count had given Mychael the use of his gondolas. While thankfully not as extravagant as some of the floating palaces attempting to make their way to the embassy without tipping over, the count’s gondolas were sleek and tastefully elegant. Some of Mychael’s Guardians were outfitted in the count’s house livery of blue and white, and were piloting the gondola Piaras and I were in along with Mychael. The count’s other formal gondola was to our starboard, also with a full complement of Guardian oars-men with Garadin and Vegard looking miserable in his borrowed finery.

Weapons wouldn’t be allowed in the embassy, and any who tried to defy the royal edict would be denied entrance. We all needed to get inside, so we played by the rules—to a point. Elaborate costuming allowed for all kinds of places to conceal a small blade or two, or three or four, or more in my case. I was wearing enough steel to make me feel as comfortable as possible, considering the circumstances. And I made sure Piaras was similarly armed. The problem being, I was sure plenty of King Sathrik’s guests were thinking along the same lines. So unless Sathrik wanted to kick most of his guests out, he was going to have to make a few concessions.

Piaras and I were both masked and wore dark, hooded cloaks. Mychael had determined, and Garadin agreed, that with most of the high nobility from the seven kingdoms in attendance, Piaras’s costume wouldn’t stand out in the least. Besides, it was the only costume in the count’s trunks that fit him. I took a wait-and-see attitude. I had to admit that this was one time I didn’t want to be able to say “I told you so.” However, as an extra precaution, Mychael had asked us to sit in the section of the gondola near the stern that was draped from view. Neither of us had objected.

“Raine?” Piaras ventured from the plush upholstered seat next to me.

“Yes?”

I couldn’t see his face, but I didn’t need to. Just hearing him say my name told me he probably looked as scared as he sounded. I squirmed in my bodice in a vain attempt to get a decent lungful of air. If I looked as uncomfortable as I felt, we were quite a pair.

“How much farther?”

From the sound of his voice, he didn’t want to be any closer. The only place he wanted to be was home. I’d like to be there myself. Under my bed sounded like a nice, cozy spot. Piaras had never been into the heart of the Goblin District. Piaras had never wanted to go, even on a dare from his friends. Not that his friends would go themselves, or would many other elves, for that matter.

“We’re almost there.” I reached out and gave his hand a squeeze. His fingers curled around mine and didn’t let go. I was glad he didn’t.

“Are you scared?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.” I’d have to be seven types of insane not to be afraid of where we were going—and who would be there waiting for us. I had an extra reason to be terrified that had nothing to do with psychotic goblins. I’d be getting up close and personal with the Thief of Souls.

Piaras seemed to know what I was thinking and squeezed my hand reassuringly. “It’ll be okay. We’ll all be there with you.”

That would have been a comforting thought, except for the gnawing fear that having my friends anywhere near me was as far from okay as it was possible to be.

The Guardians guided the gondola around the corner at the clock tower that marked the entrance to the Goblin District. I had always found it to be an inspiring sight. On a normal night it would inspire a better than average case of the creeps. Tonight it inspired that along with awe, intimidation, and a goodly dose of terror. Maybe it was the circumstances, though I imagine it was exactly the effect the Mal’Salin family was going for. No doubt Sarad Nukpana had a hand in the party decorations that met King Sathrik’s guests as they made their way up the Grand Duke’s Canal to where it flowed past the steps of the goblin embassy.

The buildings in the Goblin District were of arched stone and gleaming marble—both were dark and built to be as imposing as possible. At least that was my impression of goblin architecture. But for all I knew, goblins thought it was cozy and reminded them of home. Gates were of intricately twisted wrought iron, and the tops of most, if not all, ended in a sharpened point. The streetlights glowed a dim blue. Supposedly the lighting was for the comfort of sensitive goblin eyes. That may be the case, but in my opinion, the goblins just did it to discourage visitors. It worked. I certainly wouldn’t come here for an evening out.

Apparently the goblin king’s party planner was looking to maximize the effect tonight. Caged torches mounted on tall metal spikes were spaced at regular intervals on both sides of the canal. The torches blazed with blue flames easily two feet high. The long shadows cast from those flames gave the impression that the buildings were looming out over the canal—and over the guests’ gondolas that traveled it. Mounted on the spikes were twin banners in the crimson and black of the House of Mal’Salin. Between the banners was a burnished shield that was easily an arm’s span wide. The shields were emblazoned with the family crest that Piaras and I were all too familiar with—the double serpents surmounted by a crown. The crests were inlaid with red enamel that glowed with a life of their own. In the torches’ light, the snakes on the crests seemed to writhe against the steel.

Then there was the warm greeting of the Mal’Salin royal guard in full battle armor standing at attention, illuminated by the blaze of the torches. They were spaced every twenty feet or so on both sides of the canal, and in addition to the usual curved daggers and sabers, each carried a slender spear with a particularly lethal-looking hooked blade at the top.

Piaras’s hand had started to sweat. Or maybe it was mine.

“This was not a good idea,” Piaras said from between clenched teeth.

“There’s nothing wrong with the idea,” I tried to reassure him—and me. “Just the welcoming committee.”

I was determined not to be scared. The trappings of terror decorating the canal banks had Sarad Nukpana’s name written all over them. Once again, he was only trying to frighten me so that I couldn’t fight him. I wouldn’t let him succeed.

But that didn’t stop him from doing a damn fine job.

The steps of the goblin embassy extended down into the canal. As we neared the steps, the gondola pilots guided their boats into a single line. When their passengers had safely disembarked, they pulled away, making way for the next guests. I say safely, because due to both the costuming and masks, maneuverability and visibility were at a minimum for some partygoers. There were goblin footmen there to assist, but I wasn’t about to take any proffered hands, especially if they belonged to someone working for the Mal’Salin family. I would rather risk going for an unexpected swim. I needn’t have worried. Mychael jumped out first and gallantly offered his hand to me. And once he had it, he didn’t let go. Considering where we were, I didn’t mind.