Lisa Shearin - Raine Benares 01 (5 page)

The
front entrance to Simon Stocken’s warehouse was usually guarded by at least two
men. Things usually went better if they knew you. I recognized the first guard,
but not the other on duty with him. Both acknowledged Quentin, and the one I
didn’t know opened the door for him. Stocken’s guards were reliable men as long
as he kept their purses full; and with business as good as it was, there was
ample coin to pay for good help. Quentin went inside. We stayed outside and out
of sight.

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 paid 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.