Lisa Shearin - Raine Benares 01 (2 page)

“So
ask him who it is.”

“I
did.”

“And?”

“Quentin
bought a new set of picklocks last week and started keeping to himself. I
started asking him questions. He started avoiding me.” I indicated the assortment
of armaments and dark leather that made up my evening ensemble—all topped by a
ridiculously large and hooded cloak to keep Quentin from recognizing me had he
spotted me. As an added precaution, my hair was contained in a long braid and
hidden under the cloak. “Hence the cloak-and-dagger routine.”

“So
if he won’t tell you what he’s up to, you’re just going to follow him while he
does it.”

I
nodded. “Exactly. And pull his backside out of the fire if need be. Afterward,
we’re going to have a little chat.” I glanced back at the alley entrance.
Phaelan hadn’t brought any of his crew with him. That was surprising.

“You
alone?”

“My
men only want to end up in an alley after they’ve been drinking all night—or if
they’re waiting for someone. Even if they knew they’d be sharing that alley
with you, I’d have a mutiny in the making.”

I
didn’t have a response for that. I’d have mutinied, too. We settled back and
waited.

A
chat with Quentin was a given, but I hoped pulling his backside out of the fire
wasn’t going to be a part of my evening. Though with Quentin’s current track
record, both were probably in my immediate future.

Two
months ago, Quentin had been hired to steal an emerald necklace being delivered
to a local duke. The jeweler reported the theft to the duke. His Grace wasn’t
home, but his wife was. Unfortunately for everyone concerned, the duchess
despised emeralds—but they were the favorite gem of the woman she suspected of
being her husband’s mistress. Bad went to worse for both the duke and Quentin.
The duke simply retreated to his country estate. Quentin had to hide in the
Daith Swamp for three weeks. He emerged a changed man. I guess three weeks of
eating nothing but silt slugs will do that to you.

I
found out about all this after the fact. When Quentin got around to admitting
his career relapse to me, he also admitted that the job could have gone better.
My friends on the city watch thought Quentin’s flair for understatement was
exceeded only by his bad luck—or stupidity—depending on who you asked.

Yet
here he was tonight, about to break into the house of the nastiest necromancer
Mermeia had to offer. Some people were slow learners. But I would say that if
Quentin was looking for a fate worse than eating silt slugs in a swamp, he’d
come to the right place.

About
ten minutes passed, and Quentin hadn’t so much as flinched. I couldn’t say the
same for Phaelan. Three months at sea had taken its toll. There was something
he desperately wanted to be doing right now, and standing in a stinking alley
listening to himself breathe wasn’t it.

“Go
on, Phaelan. Nothing’s going to happen here that I can’t handle.”

“Not
a chance. Nigel isn’t known for being understanding of trespassers.”

“I’m
not trespassing; Quentin is.” I flashed Phaelan a grin of my own. “Besides,
Nigel’s not home. If he were, I wouldn’t let Quentin within three blocks of
here.”

“Then
what the hell’s he waiting for?”

“Him.”
I indicated the upstairs gallery. A tall, thin figure carrying a single lamp
proceeded at a stately pace down the length of the second floor gallery,
putting out lamps and candles as he went.

“Nigel’s
steward,” I clarified. “His reputation is almost as nasty as his master’s. I
did some asking around. It’s the same routine every night. He puts out all the
lights before going to bed. Nigel won’t be back until just before daybreak.
He’s out making housecalls. For some reason, his clients seem to think séances
have to be done at night. Since Quentin’s the cautious type, he’ll wait until
the steward gets to the servant’s quarters before he makes his move.”

Phaelan’s
expression indicated I was in dire need of a life. I wasn’t entirely sure I
disagreed with him.

“How
long have you been staking this place out?” he asked.

“Just
once. The rest came from a few well-placed bribes. If Nigel doesn’t want his
people to gossip, he should pay them better.”

“Any
idea what Quentin’s after?”

“Not
a clue. But if Nigel holds it near and dear, you can bet it’s a short list of
people who want it—or want to be anywhere near it.”

“So
that explains your sudden maternal urges.”

“I’m
just here to make sure Quentin doesn’t get in too far over his head.”

“I’d
say he’s there already. You planning to follow him in?”

“Not
unless something jumps out and starts killing him.”

“Then
how are you…?” Phaelan began. Then understanding dawned. “How did you get him
to take a tracking stone?”

“Who
says I asked him?” I shrugged deeper into my cloak. “Better safe than sensed.
And as an added bonus, Quentin gets to go inside where it’s nice and warm, and
we get to stay here where it’s nice and smelly.”

Phaelan
looked up at the now dark gallery windows. “I don’t think anything in there is
nice.” He took a not-so-delicate sniff and looked down at his boots in disgust.
“Or out here.”

I
followed his gaze, and took a whiff of my own. I had really been trying to
ignore my boots. Though I’d rather be in a stinking alley than a necromancer’s
house. Especially this necromancer. I’d once heard Nigel’s place described as
forbidding. Just plain spooky worked for me. I think he had both in mind when
he had it built. Not many people would want to live in a place that looked like
a mausoleum, but then Nigel wasn’t most people.

My
back was starting to cramp, and I shifted my weight, trying to get comfortable.
The more I squirmed, the worse it got. I hated stakeouts. My body didn’t
respond well to sitting or standing around for long periods of time. Then there
was the boredom. I was almost hoping Nigel’s steward would wake up, go looking
for a nighttime snack, and find Quentin. At least I’d get to do something.

Just
because I didn’t really expect any violence tonight, didn’t mean I wasn’t
prepared for it. I’m not exactly what you’d call physically intimidating.
Thanks to my elven blood, I’m tall enough, but my small bones and slender build
are designed more for running than fighting. For those times when speed or
spells didn’t discourage someone, I kept all sorts of interesting weapons,
mostly the bladed variety, tucked here and there.

Quentin
was even smaller than I was, and wiry—and could locate trouble faster than a
lodestone could find true north. Though considering the section of the city we
were in, I’d more than likely have to call on my alternate arsenal.

I’m a
magic user of respectable ability, though most sorcerers would look down their
noses and call what I do parlor tricks. In addition to my seeking skills, I can
move small objects with my mind, maintain an image of myself in a place I’ve
just left, and my shields are right up there with the best. Not the most
powerful sorcery by a long shot, but in my opinion, power’s overrated—plus I
know how to fight dirty, magically and otherwise. It’s always been enough to
keep me alive. Singed around the edges doesn’t count.

What
I can’t do is manipulate the wills of others, affect the weather, communicate
with or raise the dead, turn base metal into gold, see into the future, or any
of the other skills other sorcerers turn into a way to make a living. Not that
I haven’t tried a few. I think the words “young” and “stupid” went a long way
toward explaining those efforts. I even tried pyromancy once, but I almost set
fire to my cat. It was at least six months before he didn’t run every time I
struck a match.

I
couldn’t see Quentin anymore, but it didn’t mean I didn’t know exactly where he
was.

“He’s
inside,” I told Phaelan. “And he didn’t set off any wards.”

“You
make it sound like a bad thing.”

“It’s
not good. Quentin’s employer either had Nigel’s wards disabled ahead of time,
or Quentin has a ghencharm.”

Phaelan
didn’t exactly look enlightened. “Which is?”

“A
talisman that disables wards. Quentin could walk straight through every ward in
that house and not make a sound. Problem is you have to know ahead of time what
wards are being used. Whoever keyed it would need inside information.”

Phaelan
shrugged. “So someone bribed one of Nigel’s servants. So did you.”

“I
just got the household routine. Quentin apparently got the house. Someone in
there really doesn’t like their boss. Nigel’s not going to be happy.”

“So
he’s not the lovable type. I’d imagine not many necromancers are. Can you track
him?”

I
nodded absently. I was seeing more than just Phaelan.

Quentin
was in the main part of the house now. A tracking stone only lets you know the
carrier’s location, usually without any details as to what they see. There could
be occasional flashes of image, but that only happened with magically sensitive
carriers, or those you knew very well. Quentin wasn’t the sensitive type,
magically or otherwise. Apparently I knew him well enough, because I got a hazy
vision from his viewpoint of stairs leading to the second floor. No wards. No
lurking stewards. Looked like Quentin had a good ghencharm. Phaelan and I might
not have to charge in to the rescue after all. But I still had every intention
of sitting down with Quentin for a very long talk when this was over, and if I
needed extra muscle to hold him down while we chatted, so be it.

Quentin
went straight to what looked to be a formal reception area on the ground floor.
He crossed the room to a wall, pushed on something I couldn’t see, and exposed
a hidden staircase. Interesting. Quentin activated a tiny lightglobe on the
interior wall, illuminating steep and polished wooden stairs. A plush carpet of
deep crimson ran up the center. It was all a little much for Nigel’s taste. Maybe
select noble clients saw this part of the house as well. At the top of the
stairs was a door with a screened panel that was just large enough to look
through. Quentin looked inside, and so did I. An ornately carved bed dominated
the room. I found myself grinning.

“What?”
Phaelan asked.

“Just
a fun fact to know and share. Conjuring up the dead relatives of Caesolian
courtiers must only pay so much. It looks like Nigel supplements his income
with a little blackmail.”

Quentin
was searching Nigel’s room, and doing a very efficient and professional job of
it for a reformed thief. Someone had been staying in practice. He’d just
discovered a compartment in the headboard of the bed containing a jumble of
small boxes and papers. He took out a white stone box. The entire thing fit in
the palm of his hand. It had been sealed with black wax, but the seal had been
broken. Quentin opened the box.

The
world exploded. Or at least my corner of it.

I
found myself on all fours like I’d taken a giant fist to the gut. If there was
any air in the alley, I couldn’t find it. My vision swam, and pain stabbed
behind my eyes. I heard someone whimper. I think it was me. I pitched forward,
my forehead landing in something I didn’t want to identify, its stench the only
thing keeping me from passing out. I dimly felt Phaelan’s hands on my
shoulders, lifting my face out of the muck. I was dizzy, nauseous, and had an
urge to make my own contribution to the pile of scraps next to me.

“Stop,”
I managed.

Phaelan
stopped lifting, but didn’t let go. I was grateful. I don’t think I could have
stayed upright on my own. I raised my head slowly until my eyes were level with
the street. I resisted the impulse to gulp air into my lungs. I took a few
steady breaths. My vision began to clear.

“Raine?”
He sounded worried. That made two of us.

I
tried to answer, but my mouth was too busy breathing.

“Are
you all right?”

I
thought about nodding, but decided against it. “Think so.”

“What
happened?”

“I
think Quentin just found what he was looking for.”

Unfortunately,
I was right. Sometimes I hate it when that happens. Quentin showed no signs of
putting the whatever-it-was back in the box, and my head hurt too much to
maintain contact with him until he did. Fine. I broke contact. He was on his
own. I assumed he had done everything he came to do, and would be coming out
soon. I sat back against the wall of the alley, watched the door where he had
gone in, and concentrated on breathing. Breathing was good.

No
alarms went off, no lamps were lit in the servants’ quarters or anywhere else
in the house. The street was quiet. The few people who passed the alley with
magical talent enough to see past my shields probably thought I was either
drunk or had just been mugged. Either way, no one stopped to ask.

“What’s
keeping him?” Phaelan asked.

Glass
shattered. A lot of it. It sounded like it came from the back of Nigel’s house.
This was followed by shouting. I recognized Quentin’s voice. It sounded like he
had found his good friend Trouble, and they had made their own exit from
Nigel’s bedroom. Phaelan helped me to my feet and then sprinted toward the back
of the house. I ditched my cloak and followed as best I could. Considering how
I felt, my idea of running more resembled a loping jog. No use worrying about
waking the neighbors now.