Magic Lost,Trouble Found Read online

  A minute or so passed. Quentin must have been halfway through the warehouse by now. Simon Stocken’s office was in the far corner. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, and adjusted my baldric on my shoulder. Then I shifted my weight back. I was suddenly uncomfortable in my own skin. I looked down at my hands. One of them actually twitched. I looked back to the warehouse. The guards were no longer by the door.

  “Phaelan?”

  His dark eyes were staring intently at the door. “I see it. They just went inside.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  That wasn’t the only thing that was less than ideal. It wasn’t the guards’ absence that was making my skin crawl. It was something big and ugly and waiting inside that warehouse—magic, and not the good kind. Quentin was walking into trouble for the second time tonight. I knew it as sure as if it were me walking into that trap. Curious. I had a knack for sensing certain things, but big bad magical traps had never been one of them.

  “Does Stocken’s warehouse have a back door?” I asked.

  “Of course. And two side doors and a trap door over the water.” Phaelan said before dashing across the street. I was right behind him.

  My cousin drew his rapier as he neared a narrow space between two stacks of crates that opened into the alley beyond. He looked through. I glanced over his shoulder, a pair of long daggers in my own hands. It was all clear to the waterfront.

  “Take a right at the end of the alley,” he told me. “It’s the first door on the right.”

  “There’s something waiting inside.”

  “Not a new shipment of Caesolian red, is it?”

  “Hardly.”

  “One could hope.”

  There were no guards posted by the small side door. Things were looking up. The hinges were well oiled and opened without a sound. Even better. The warehouse’s vast interior was dimly lit by lightglobes spaced at regular intervals along the walls. Only some of them were activated, throwing large sections of the warehouse into shadow. What we could see was only about a quarter full of crates, cases, and casks, which wouldn’t be a sign of a healthy business in many parts of the city; but Simon Stocken based his success on the quality of the goods traded, not the quantity.

  Quentin was nearing the door of Stocken’s small office in the back of the warehouse. I resisted the urge to call out to him. Whatever the trap was, he had already tripped it. Getting caught with him wouldn’t do any of us any good.

  Quentin was completely oblivious to what he had just walked into. “Simon, I want another twenty tenari and four bottles of Caesolian red, not a drop less.”

  Simon Stocken didn’t answer. We soon found out why.

  A shadow swung across one of the lightglobes, blocking it, revealing it, and blocking it again. Along with it came a creaking sound I instantly recognized. Quentin looked up. We all did.

  Simon Stocken hung from a rafter outside his office, a halter of woven hemp tight about his abnormally lengthened neck, hooked beneath the chin. His hands were tied behind his back. He was quite dead.

  Quentin had his daggers half drawn when the goblins stepped from the shadows, completely surrounding him. Half of them were robed, the other half were armored—all of them were familiar.

  Khrynsani shamans and temple guards.

  Phaelan leaned close, his lips next to my ear. “Didn’t we just leave this party?”

  Some of the goblins opened lanterns and set them on crates, further illuminating Simon Stocken—something I could have done without. When they had finished, a figure robed in rich, black silk moved out of the shadows between two of the guards and into the ring of light. So much for the reason behind all my twitching and skin crawling. I still didn’t understand how I had sensed it, but at least I knew why.

  I also knew who the fancy robe wearer was. I’d had ample descriptions from Markus’s agents.

  The hood on Sarad Nukpana’s robe was back and I could clearly see his face. He was only slightly taller than me, slender and compact beneath his robes. His gleaming black hair fell nearly to his waist and was held back from his face with the narrow silver circlet of his office. His features were elegant without appearing weak, beautiful without sacrificing one bit of masculinity. The reality of the goblin grand shaman didn’t match the stories and nightmares I’d heard from others. But then the most beautiful serpents were the most poisonous.

  There were ten Khrynsani with him that I could see, and I was certain there were more.

  “Sit tight,” Phaelan whispered. “I’ll get some help. Tanik Ozal and his crew are two blocks over at the Rude Parrot. They live for this sort of thing.”

  I nodded. I agreed with him, to a point. The goblins with Sarad Nukpana were professional killers; Tanik’s crew just did it for fun. There was a difference. Whether Phaelan could get back in time with Tanik and his merry band of cutthroats was one thing, whether they would be able to keep Quentin from being killed or worse was quite another.

  “You took your time joining us, Master Rand,” Nukpana told Quentin. His dark eyes regarded the dead broker gently swaying from the beam overhead. “Apparently the late Master Stocken tired of waiting for you.”

  “So you killed him,” Quentin said flatly.

  Nukpana smiled as if he knew the punchline to a private joke. “Master Stocken was already dancing on air when I arrived.”

  “To do what?”

  “Inquire about a box you recently acquired from a certain nachtmagus.”

  Quentin didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Considering the difficulty you had stealing it, I wouldn’t think you would have forgotten so soon. My guards remember you”—Nukpana’s smile vanished—“and your friends. If you need help jogging your memory, a few hours staked out on the edge of the Daith Swamp should suffice. I do have a little time at my disposal this evening. I’m certain the bog beetles would appreciate dining on something besides dead fish.”

  Quentin said nothing. But my mind was racing. Quentin was terrified, but not nearly terrified enough. He had no clue who and what Sarad Nukpana was, and for once I was grateful for Quentin’s ignorance. Why Nukpana wanted the amulet could wait, for now. What I needed to know was how to keep Quentin from getting himself killed in one of the many interesting ways only someone of Nukpana’s ability and perversions could devise. I was feeling outnumbered. For the moment, the best thing I could do for Quentin was to sit quietly, not knock anything over, and wait. Either for Phaelan and friends to return and give me the diversion I needed to grab Quentin and run, or for an opening that had yet to present itself. It wouldn’t help Quentin to get myself killed, and it wouldn’t do much for me either.

  Quentin remained silent.

  “Tell me more about your friends,” Nukpana asked in a quiet voice.

  “What’s in it for me? You’ll kill me faster?”

  The goblin smiled, a glimmer of fang peeking into view. Quentin swallowed.

  Nukpana moved slowly towards him, the only sound the sibilant rustle of his robes. “I’ve always held the opinion that anything worth doing is worth doing correctly. From time to time, some of the gentlemen here have the challenge of extracting information. Even though I provide careful instruction to my guards, the new ones do it rather sloppily. It’s unfortunate, but expected in those with little experience. Information that dies with its owner is of no use to me. Practice does make perfect.”

  The goblin stopped, his face mere inches from Quentin’s own. “I have no doubt you will tell me all I want to know,” he murmured. “Eventually. You’re here to deliver the box to Master Stocken, who would in turn collect payment from his client. The client would then take possession of his new purchase. You do remember how it works in polite criminal circles, little thief?”

  Nukpana was closer to where I was, but not nearly close enough for me to stick something sharp through him.

  “I am that client,” he said. “And I have p
aid Master Stocken in full.” The smile vanished. “I want my property. Disarm him. Completely. Then bring me the box.” He turned to leave the circle, then paused. “On second thought, if he resists, just kill him.”

  Four temple guards moved to act on Nukpana’s orders.

  Then a lot of things happened at once.

  I heard a familiar whistle and thump, and one of the guards holding Quentin looked down in surprise at the crossbow bolt that had just bloomed from his chest. The goblin pitched forward to the floor, the fletching protruding from his back. At the same instant, one of the men securing Quentin’s arms was propelled backwards against the warehouse wall, a bolt through his throat.

  Nukpana lunged for Quentin, wrapping an arm around his neck, a curved knife at his throat. The small blade Nukpana wielded glowed sickly green with a power of its own. A pair of glowing threads snaked outwards from the tip of the blade. One curled itself around Quentin’s throat; the other hovered above his heart. One word from Nukpana, and what looked like two harmless tendrils of light would instantly strike, enter Quentin’s body, and end his life. I had a pair of daggers ready that would do the same for Nukpana the moment he drew breath to speak that word. I crept closer, stopping just on the edge of the light.

  A strong, clear voice came from the shadows, not twenty feet away. “Don’t move.”

  I froze. So did everyone else. The command wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The volume was from the warehouse’s cave-like interior—the authority came from another source entirely. The echo of those simple words resonated with a quiet power held in perfect check. It also doused all other magic in the room like a bucket of cold water on a candle. It looked like Nukpana’s antics had attracted a spellsinger. My night was just getting better all the time.

  With the power of their voice alone—the inflection, the resonance, the charisma—a spellsinger could influence thought with a quietly hummed phrase, or control actions with simple speech or carefully crafted tune. The number of people didn’t matter. One spellsinger could turn the tide of battle. Gifted spellsingers were highly prized and sought after—not to mention rare and dangerous. Judging from the way the tiny hairs on my arms were standing at attention, this one could probably do virtually anything he wanted to with his voice, and not only would his intended victim not mind in the least, they’d probably enjoy it.

  Everyone froze, while Quentin was left with no choice. The voice hadn’t specified who wasn’t supposed to move, but one of the Khrynsani couldn’t take the suspense and dove for the cover of a stack of crates. He made it, but he wasn’t alive when he landed.

  Nukpana shimmered with the effect of a protection spell. Its confines included Quentin. As long as Quentin was encased in that shield, he was safe from outside harm. Of course, that still left the goblin with access to Quentin, and me without.

  “Have your guards drop their weapons and no one else will be harmed.” The spellsinger paused on the edge of the shadows, and I could see the outline of a tall and clearly fit figure.

  Shadowy figures closed in behind the goblins and appeared along the warehouse catwalks, positioning themselves to cover every goblin and every exit.

  “Now.” His voice was quiet, its owner a man used to absolute authority. He stepped into the lantern light.

  The spellsinger was an elf in the steel gray uniform of a Conclave Guardian. I noticed appreciatively that he wore it well. He was leanly muscled, his bearing was military, and he was not happy. Large, dark eyes bored into Nukpana’s. I wondered if he was as dangerous as he looked. Probably.

  Conclave Guardians were based on the Isle of Mid, known for having the largest sorcerer population on the continent. It was home to the most prestigious college for sorcery, as well as the Conclave, the governing body for all magic users in the seven kingdoms. The students were young and talented, and many were away from home for the first time. Most Conclave officials were from kingdoms where they had been big fish in little ponds. But the Isle of Mid was a big pond with bigger, carnivorous fish. Students and bureaucrats, all highly gifted, all packed together in one island city. It was a powder keg waiting to explode, and the Guardians’ job was to keep anyone from striking a match.

  Their sworn duty was to protect the members of the Conclave and defend Mid against any outside threat, but they spent most of their time protecting the Conclave, students and citizens, from each other. To keep the peace in a city of sorcerers took an even more talented sorcerer—and a warrior. Guardians had enough to do at home, so they only left Mid on official Conclave business—renegade mages and the like. The Seat of Twelve must want something, or someone, badly to turn Guardians loose on them. I was hoping they were just after Sarad Nukpana, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath.

  The elven Guardian indicated Quentin. “Release him.” His words were soft, but lined with steel.

  Nukpana’s grip tightened and Quentin held his breath. A thin trickle of blood ran down Quentin’s neck. No wonder he hated sorcerers.

  “This is a Khrynsani matter and none of the Conclave’s concern, elf.”

  The spellsinger moved farther into the light. “As a Guardian, that box and its contents are my only concern.”

  So much for me being able to stay out of this.

  Nukpana’s knife slipped deeper, and the glowing tendrils constricted. Quentin’s breath came in a strangled gasp.

  “Come and take him yourself.” The goblin’s voice promised violence; the gleam in his dark eyes welcomed it.

  “Very well.” There was no regret in the elf’s voice, just a calm acknowledgement of the goblin’s choice. He began to whisper.

  I could barely hear his voice, let alone the words, but I didn’t need to hear him. Neither did Nukpana. This spellsong didn’t have to be heard to work.

  Neither combatant moved, but that didn’t mean nothing was happening. Plenty was happening, although the only visual indication was a dimming of every lantern and lightglobe in the warehouse. While spooky, it was hardly dangerous. What was dangerous was what you couldn’t see.

  The power flowed beneath the Guardian’s voice like a river running deep underground, its depths hidden in darkness, its deadly currents concealed beneath a calm, but swiftly moving surface. It could either sweep you away or drag you under. Either way, you’d be just as dead.

  Nukpana wasn’t drowning in the depths. He was busy freezing the surface.

  The bottom dropped out of the temperature, and Nukpana’s sibilant words came out on frosty breath. I recognized a few words of the goblin’s incantation. It wasn’t the words that would kill us all, it was his intent. Nukpana was calling something that had no business being on the same plane of existence with the rest of us. Why slaughter a warehouse full of Guardians yourself when you could raise a demon to do it for you? The air between the goblin and the elf crackled with blue light, the light coalescing into the outline of a figure twice the elf’s height.

  I’d always thought demons came from warmer climates. Looked like I was wrong.

  The elf shielded himself, his own spellsong faltering momentarily in the process. And apparently demon conjuring took all of the goblin’s concentration, because the glowing blade he held to Quentin’s throat wavered just enough so a cut wouldn’t be fatal. I didn’t want to wait around to see who was going to win, and I sure as hell didn’t want to stick around to see who Nukpana’s demon picked first for his late-night snack. Quentin and I needed to leave. Now. But interrupting the work of two powerful sorcerers with a spell of your own often had unfortunate consequences, aside from being just plain rude.

  I opted for a more direct approach.

  I tackled Sarad Nukpana from the side below the knees, where his shields were weakest. He was definitely surprised. So was the Guardian. Quentin wasn’t exactly expecting it, either. As a result, the manifesting demon stopped manifesting. Nukpana and I hit the ground hard. Quentin rolled free, and I grabbed for Quentin.

  Sarad Nukpana and I were face-to-face. His midnight eyes wide
ned, and then he smiled. “Mistress Benares, how good of you to join us.”

  My mouth dropped open, and I was too stunned to move. The goblin reached for me, but the elf got there first, jerking me to my feet and away from Nukpana.

  Close contact gave me a good look at the Guardian, and he was good to look at. His eyes were stunning. Tropical seas stunning—and lock up your daughters and wives trouble. His rich auburn hair begged to be touched, and his features were classic, strong and oh so nice. Unfortunately, he also committed my face to memory. Not so nice.

  The center of my chest suddenly grew warm. It could have been my increased heart rate, but I wasn’t betting on it. The Guardian’s intense gaze went to my chest. I didn’t think he was admiring the view. The amulet flared to life.

  There was no pain or dizziness, and I didn’t feel a sudden urge to be sick all over the elf. That was good, but the attention I was attracting wasn’t. The Guardian’s eyes widened in amazement, and he tightened his grip on me. He had my arms, so the action I was forced to take was entirely his fault. It was as direct as my previous action, but not nearly as polite.

  In the next instant, the Guardian was on his knees trying to remember how to breathe.

  There was a crash and the sound of wood splintering in the middle of the warehouse, following by a low rumbling. A stack of barrels, already precariously balanced, began to move. The larger of those barrels crashed into smaller casks. They began to move. Movement was not good. The Guardians and the Khrynsani shared my opinion. They all scrambled and dove for cover, including the elven spellsinger. Lanterns hit the ground, and Quentin and I ran for the door. We didn’t question what or who had caused the barrels to fall; we just reaped the benefits of the distraction.

  I smelled something other than spilled spirits. A dim part of my memory registered what it was—then a series of blasts lifted us both off our feet. Quentin landed unmoving against a crate. I was dazed and my hair was a little singed, but I was in one piece. Wine didn’t explode, but gunpowder did. Looked like the late Master Stocken had dabbled in the arms business.