Magic Lost, Trouble Found (Raine Benares #1)

Magic Lost, Trouble Found (Raine Benares #1) Page 9

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 get 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.

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.