Lisa Shearin - Raine Benares 01 (6 page)

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 widened, 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.

I got
to my feet and staggered over to Quentin. Phaelan was already there. I should
have known. Where there’s an explosion, there’s Phaelan. He made sure Quentin
was still breathing, then unceremoniously tossed him over his shoulder.

“Sorry
about that,” he shouted over the din of men yelling and smaller blasts. “I
didn’t factor lanterns into the plan.”

I
could barely hear him, or myself, from the ringing in my ears. “There was a
plan?” I yelled.

Phaelan
grinned. “There’s always a plan,” he shouted back. “But I thought I’d keep it
simple.”

“Productive
evening, Raine?”

Bertran
didn’t really expect an answer, which was good because I didn’t intend to give
him one. I hadn’t had dinner. Phaelan hadn’t had Madame Natasha. Neither one of
us were happy.

The
elven intelligence agency’s cross between a receptionist and a jailer sat
behind a small table in the miniscule entry hall of one of Markus’s safehouses.
One of the perks of occasionally working for Markus was that I got the use of
the agency’s safehouses. I only used one if my business involved Markus’s
interests. I didn’t have to ask myself twice whether what I wore around my neck
would interest Markus. Plus, I’ve discovered it’s not a good idea to go home
when you could be leading a parade of bad guys.

This
particular citadel of safety was a narrow townhouse on the
less-than-fashionable side of the Elven District. The house was close enough to
the waterfront for convenience, with a hidden entrance behind a sailmaker’s
shop for added security. I thought we’d be safe enough here for the time being.
Tanik and the five crew members he had brought with him thought they’d be safer
back at the tavern where Phaelan had found them. All had reasons not to be
found anywhere near Simon Stocken’s burning warehouse once the city watch
showed up.

A
stack of reports sat at Bertran’s right elbow. Tonight’s events certainly rated
a report, but an account of what actually happened would never be included in
Bertran’s stack. Since I wasn’t on Markus’s official payroll, I wasn’t required
to report anything. It would be the polite thing to do, because I was using one
of his safehouses, but truth be told, I wasn’t feeling very polite. The amulet
I wore beneath my shirt and Sarad Nukpana knowing my name made me uneasy in
ways I’d never thought possible, and the fewer who knew about either, the
better. For the most part, I liked Bertran, and trusted him, but only with
certain things. Tonight’s events didn’t qualify.

Phaelan
entered the house without glancing at Bertran, went straight into the back
room, and with a grunt, dumped Quentin on a cot in the corner. My cousin had
gone through a lot for Quentin tonight, and then had to carry him, too. And to
make certain we weren’t followed, we hadn’t exactly taken the most direct
route. I hadn’t told Phaelan to be gentle. Maybe I should have mentioned it.

“Where’s
Markus?” I asked Bertran.

“His
Grace is at a reception for the Count of Estre.”

“And?”

“From
there he intends to go directly home.”

I
reached for the pen and paper Bertran kept on his desk and started to write. I
wasn’t going to tell Markus everything that had happened, just the who, what,
when, and where. Markus’s agents made sure their boss knew everything. What had
just happened at Nigel’s house and Stocken’s warehouse was hardly
insignificant. I just had to hit the high points; Markus could fill in the
blanks.

“I
need you to send this message to his house,” I told Bertran. “I don’t need a
meeting this time, just a favor.”

Bertran
didn’t reach for the bell that would summon his assistant.

Patience
had never been one of my more sterling virtues, and what little I did have had
been tested to its limits this evening. I was wearing torn and blood-stained
clothes. I was tired, I was sore, I was more than a little afraid, and I wasn’t
in the mood for any political game Bertran might be playing.

I
just looked at him. “You’re not moving. May I ask why?”

“His
Grace requested that he not be disturbed through midday tomorrow unless it was
of the utmost urgency.”

I
gritted my teeth against what I really wanted to say. “I can safely say what I
have to tell him will more than meet his definition of urgent.”

Bertran
hesitated a moment more, his inner struggle apparent. He was a bureaucrat at
heart, but I tried not to hold it against him. He was only using standard
operating procedure, or at least trying. I never made it easy for him. Bertran
hesitated a moment more, then spoke.

“Will
delivery first thing in the morning be sufficient?”

That
was about five hours away. What I needed from Markus could wait that long. I
gave Bertran as much of a smile as I was capable of given the hour and the
circumstances. Always be nice to those in a position to help you. “That would
be more than sufficient, Bertran. Thank you. By the way, my friend needs a
healer. Could you see if one is available?”

Bertran
nodded, and rang the bell. My message to Markus and request for a healer would
be relayed to Bertran’s assistant. From there it would go to one of the
messengers the agency employed for such purposes. Markus’s messengers were
good, and were paid accordingly. Some were even paid more than agents
themselves.

I had
some time to kill before the healer arrived, so I decided to try to get some
sleep.

Unlike
Phaelan, who could sleep anywhere at anytime, I didn’t have much luck with a
nap. I pulled up a chair against the far wall to keep watch over Quentin and
settled for trying to rest. I’d never been able to sleep in a safehouse. Go
figure. I don’t think it was the house; it was the events that compelled you to
be there. Being in a safehouse meant you weren’t safe. That certainly applied
to me right now, and to a lesser extent to Quentin.

One
question kept running through my mind. Why me? I knew self-pity wasn’t
productive, but I felt entitled to indulge myself. All I wanted to do was help
a friend, and look where it got me. Then there was what I did to free Quentin.
Not one of my glowing moments. But we were safe, for an hour or two, or three,
if we were lucky. Both Nukpana and the Guardian knew I had the amulet. They
wanted the amulet, and that meant they wanted me. I sighed and ran my hand over
my face. Then there was the question I really wanted an answer to—how did Sarad
Nukpana know my name?

The
healer came, did her usual exceptional work, and left. Quentin had two cracked
ribs, probably from being tossed into that crate. Phaelan woke up soon after
the healer had gone, pulled up a chair next to mine, and used the time to clean
his sword. My cousin’s domestic habits would shame a pig, but he kept his
weapons immaculate.

I’ve
always found it prudent to be well out of reach when someone regained consciousness.
Even if I counted that someone a friend. Especially if that friend lost
consciousness in less than congenial circumstances. Considering that Quentin’s
last conscious thoughts included threat of torture, almost having his throat
slashed, and being slammed into a crate—all my rules applied.