Lisa Shearin - Raine Benares 01

Sorcerers
weren’t normal, sorcery wasn’t natural, and Quentin
Rand didn’t like either one.

Quentin
had always made an exception for me, but just because you tolerated what a
friend was, didn’t mean you understood what they did. Nothing explained to me
what Quentin was doing breaking into the townhouse of one of Mermeia’s most
infamous necromancers. Quentin was a thief—at least he used to be. And to the
best of my knowledge, he wasn’t a suicidal ex-thief. Yet there he was crouched
in the shadows of Nachtmagus Nigelius Nicabar’s back door, picklocks at the
ready. While not the most efficient way to ask for death, it was one of the
more certain.

I
knew all about Nigel’s house wards. The human necromancer did everything he
could to inflate his reputation, but he didn’t depend on it to protect his
valuables. Magical wards were home security at its most basic, and Nigel had
some good ones. But although they were nasty, they wouldn’t kill—rumor had it
Nigel liked to save that pleasure for himself. I guess when you worked with the
dead for a living, your idea of fun was a little different from everyone
else’s. The city watch frowned on citizens taking the law into their own hands
like that, but the watch was notoriously shorthanded in the Districts. They
couldn’t prosecute what they didn’t know about, and I’d rather they didn’t know
Quentin was here tonight.

Quentin
occasionally works for me. My name is Raine Benares. I’m a seeker. I find
things. Most times the people who hire me are glad when I do, but sometimes
they’re sorry they asked. Personally, I think people should be more careful
what they ask for. Some things are better left unfound.

Seeking
isn’t the flashiest occupation a sorceress can put out her shingle for, or the
most highly regarded, but it pays the rent on time. I’ve found the formerly
unfindable for the Mermeia city watch, and since I’m an elf, elven intelligence
has sought my help on more than one occasion. Most of what I’m hired to find
didn’t get lost by itself. It had help. Help you could depend on to use blades
or bolts or nastier magical means to keep what they went to all the trouble to
get. When that’s the case, I go by the rule of me or them.

I
also apply that rule to my friends. That’s why I was cooling my heels in one of
Mermeia’s more aromatic alleys—to keep Quentin’s moonlighting from earning him
a one-way trip to the city morgue.

As a
former career thief, Quentin knew the underside of Mermeia better than just
about anyone. That’s why I hired him. Well, it was one of the reasons. Our
professional paths had crossed from time to time over the years. What I had
been hired to find was often something Quentin had been hired to steal. It got
to the point that I just started my search with Quentin to save myself a lot of
unnecessary footwork. He didn’t take it personally, and neither did I. However,
I always extended to Quentin the professional courtesy of waiting until the
object in question had left his hands before recovering it. That way he got
paid while maintaining his reputation. But when the risks started to outweigh
the rewards, Quentin thought that an early end to his career might keep the
same fate from befalling his life. I helped him bridge the gap between thief
and quasi-law-abiding citizen.

No
fact, tidbit or rumor was too small or too hidden for Quentin to ferret
out—given the proper monetary motivation. Greed still occasionally whispered
sweet nothings in his ear, enticing my sometime employee to seek out additional
means of income. Most times he didn’t tell me the details. Most times I didn’t
want to know. Considering where he was right now, tonight wasn’t one of those
times.

The
city of Mermeia in the kingdom of Brenir consisted of five islands that had
been forced into existence by the determination of its founders, and kept from
sinking by the greed of its merchants. A powerful force, greed. It made solid
ground where there had once been marsh; built palaces and trading houses where
there were reeds; and inspired humans, elves, goblins, and magic users of all
races to live together in a city separated only by the canals that marked their
respective Districts. Sometimes we even got along.

I
cupped my hands to my mouth, blowing on cold-numbed fingers. I was trying to
breathe through my mouth to keep my nose from becoming any more traumatized
than it already was. The cozy little alley I’d found across Pasquine Street
from Nigel’s townhouse held a charm all its own. I’d put a shielding spell
across the entrance, so unless Quentin walked over and looked in, he couldn’t
see or hear me. The alley walls were slick with something dark and damp and
best left unidentified. The air was chilly but still warm enough to enhance the
aroma of the garbage sharing the alley with me. And the stench of the canal a
block away at low tide only further enhanced my sensory experience. I rubbed my
hands together, then gave up and reached for the gloves at my belt. Not that I
wanted anything to happen to Quentin, but it would be nice if all this turned
out to be worth my while.

“You
stood me up.”

I
yelped. I recognized the voice, which was the only reason my throwing knife
remained in my hand, instead of being lodged in the voice’s owner.

I
blew out my breath. “Don’t
do
that!” I sheathed my knife, though I was
still tempted to use it, more from acute embarrassment than anything else.

Phaelan
chuckled and stepped out of the shadows hiding the alley entrance from the
street. My cousin looked like the rest of my family—dark hair, dark eyes, dark
good looks, equally dark disposition. Next to them, I stood out like a flaming
match at night with my long red gold hair, gray eyes, and pale skin. The hair
and skin tone were from my mother. I assumed my eyes were from my father.
Neither parent was around for me to ask.

Phaelan
was the main reason having the name Benares was an asset in the seeking
business. When looking for pilfered goods, it helped to be related to experts—professional
pilferers all.

You
could say our family was well known in the import and export business. The
goods my cousin’s side of the family imported never saw the light of day in a
harbormaster’s ledger, and the exports consisted of vast profits sent to secret
family accounts in various banks in numerous kingdoms. Phaelan’s natural talent
was in acquisitions. Many times he neglected to get permission from the owners
whose goods he intended to acquire; or when he did ask, his request often came from
the business end of a cannon.

“Since
when does spending the night in an alley rate above dinner with me at the Crown
and Anchor?” he asked.

“Since
Quentin’s moonlighting again.”

“Varek
said you were staking out Nigel Nicabar’s. He didn’t say anything about
Quentin.”

When
in Mermeia, Phaelan did business out of the Spyglass, and Varek Akar, the
proprietor, served the dual purpose of business manager and social secretary
for my cousin when he was in town. I didn’t normally make my stakeouts public
knowledge, but since Nigel was involved, I thought it’d be a good idea to let
my next of kin know where to find me.

“That’s
because I didn’t mention Quentin,” I told him. “I’d rather the watch not get
wind that he’s working again.”

“Varek
knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

“I
trust Varek, but I don’t feel the same way about his new barkeep. Quentin
hasn’t done anything illegal tonight.”

Phaelan
laughed, his voice low. “Night ain’t over yet.”

He
was right, but I didn’t have to admit it. If certain members of the watch knew
where he was, they’d jump to conclusions, and then they’d jump Quentin.

Phaelan’s
ship had arrived in port late that afternoon, and the plan had been to meet for
an early dinner. Early, because I knew he had plans later—plans that had
everything to do with a woman, but nothing to do with a lady. My cousin had a
strict threefold agenda on his first night in any port—get fed, get laid, and
get drunk, in that order. Occasionally he would skip the food, but never the
other two. When in Mermeia, my cousin could either be found in one of the
city’s less reputable gambling parlors, or enjoying the comforts offered at
Madame Natasha’s Joy Garden, and probably the attentions of Madame Natasha
herself. This evening, Phaelan was positively resplendent in a doublet of
scarlet buckskin, with matching breeches topped with high, black leather boots.
At his side was the swept-hilt rapier he favored when out on the town. And
unless my nose deceived me, his white linen shirt was as well scrubbed as
Phaelan himself. An earring set with a single ruby gleamed in the lobe of one
elegantly pointed ear. I knew all the fuss wasn’t on account of me.

“You
took a bath,” I said. “And shaved. I’m impressed.”

“Just
fancying myself up for you, darlin’.”

“I’m
sure Madame Natasha and her girls will also appreciate your consideration.”

He
grinned in a flash of white teeth. It was the kind of grin that could get him
anything he wanted at Madame Natasha’s—or anywhere else in Mermeia—for free. He
nodded toward where Quentin still waited by Nigel’s side door. “So what’s he
doing here?”

“Asking
for more trouble than he can handle.”

The
grin broadened. “From Nigel or you?”

“Both.”

“Then
walk across the street and stop him. The Crown’s still holding a table for us.”

“It’s
not that easy.”

“Why
not?”

“Being
here wasn’t his idea.”

“So
someone paid him well. Wouldn’t be the first time. Let’s go and let the man
earn his money.”

I
didn’t budge. “How much would it take for you to break into Nigel’s at night?”

To
his credit, Phaelan didn’t have to think long. “More money than most in this
city can lay hands to.”

“Exactly.
And Quentin’s terrified of necromancers. There’s more involved here than money,
meaning whoever hired Quentin scares him more than Nigel does. Quentin’s been
trying to keep his nose clean and someone won’t let him—and I don’t like it.”