Lisa Shearin - Raine Benares 01 (8 page)

Phaelan’s
idea of a fine vessel could mean anything from a galleon to a garbage scow. But
I think I knew which one he was talking about.

“The
Flatus
?”
I asked, grinning wider. I liked where this was going.

My
cousin nodded. “I thought it would be appropriate. Don’t worry, Quentin. You’ll
be as safe on the
Flatus
as in your mother’s arms. You don’t mind the
smell of dead fish, do you?”

“What’s
the
Flatus
?” Quentin sounded like he really could go without knowing.

Phaelan’s
grin kept many secrets. “She’s many things. To the harbormaster, she’s a
baitfisher. You know, the small fish used to bait crab pots?”

Quentin
was looking pale again. “I’m familiar with them.”

“She’s
named after the Myloran god of wind.” Phaelan chuckled. “Who says I’m not
cultured?”

Phaelan
would take care of Quentin. My job was to take care of
myself. It had yet to be more than I could handle,
but there was always a first time.

As an
official representative of the elven crown, Markus Sevelien was more than
qualified to give me the diplomatic help I might need before long, considering
I was wearing the makings of an interkingdom incident around my neck. But my
godfather’s assistance was a lot more valuable to me right now. Markus could
keep me out of trouble. Garadin could keep me alive.

The
people I had annoyed tonight wouldn’t go through diplomatic channels to
retrieve what they all saw as their property. They would proceed straight to
bolts through my back. As a former Conclave mage, Garadin might be able to tell
me what I was wearing around my neck. And being a spellsinger of respectable
abilities, he might be able to tell me more about the elven Guardian. I was
beginning to think that both were key to my continued well-being—if not my
existence.

I’d
save my worries about Sarad Nukpana for the next stop on my list. One crisis at
a time.

Garadin
Wyne’s rooms were above a parchment and ink shop on Locke Street, which ran
parallel to a nameless back canal in the Sorcerers District. While he could
have afforded Nigel’s level of accommodations, he had the good taste and lack
of pretension not to. Locke Street had everything my godfather wanted in his
semiretirement: paper, ink, tobacco, a tavern that didn’t water down the
drinks, and neighbors who minded their own business.

A
good many mages ended up in Mermeia after retirement. It was close to the Isle
of Mid, but without the bureaucracy and political backbiting that Mid was
notorious for. Garadin’s landlord was one of the most recent to make the move.
His shop did a booming business with other mage retirees. Most were scholars
and needed paper and ink for recording research or for correspondence. He
attracted even more business by offering bindery services for completed works.

If
someone wanted to hire a mage (and had money in hand) Mermeia was the place to
come, though it was buyer beware. Believe it or not, some magic users were less
than honest about their abilities. I had encountered everything from complete
fakes who put on a convincing show, to full-blown mages—like Garadin—who didn’t
want to be hired by anyone and played down their abilities to ensure they were
left alone. Even if you convinced them to listen to your sales pitch, chances
were you didn’t have enough gold to back it up. Garadin jacked his prices up to
obscene levels just so he wouldn’t have to be bothered.

A
narrow street between two shops on the edge of the Sorcerers District opened
onto the Grand Duke’s Canal—and the Goblin District on the far bank. The
buildings there were stone and gleaming marble, both dark and neither
encouraging to visitors. The streetlamps glowed a dim blue. The color was
flattering to goblins, but it gave any other race the unhealthy skintones of a
three-day-old corpse. Around the next bend in the canal was the Mal’Salin
family compound, and next to that, the goblin embassy. I didn’t need to see
them; I knew they were there. And I certainly didn’t want to get any closer to
the canal. Water and I have an agreement—I don’t get too close to it, and it
won’t drown me.

I
could just make out the banner flying over the goblin embassy. I didn’t need to
get a good look at that, either. The House of Mal’Salin crest was a pair of
entwined and battling serpents, both surmounted by a crown. They couldn’t have
made a better choice. Its appearance on the banner meant King Sathrik Mal’Salin
was in residence—and Sarad Nukpana along with him.

I
stood in the shadows, looking out over the canal, suddenly very tired. Too much
had happened tonight, and I understood too little of it. I watched the
reflection of the blue lamps on the rippling surface, then looked back at the
Mal’Salin banner, curling and turning in the night breeze coming off the
lagoon, its movement oddly soothing. I stepped out of the shadows to the
water’s edge, still watching. I came back to myself with a start and jumped
back. What the hell was I doing?

I
hurried back through the alley to Locke Street and Garadin’s rooms. Garadin
should be home, but if he wasn’t, I’d wait and try to find something to eat.
Like many bachelors, Garadin didn’t stock a good larder, but I could probably
scrape together enough to keep myself from starving. Potions, he could brew.
Cooking was an art best left to others. My godfather accepted his lack of
talent in that area, and took most of his meals out.

I
wasn’t quite a year old when my mother was killed. As her closest friend,
Garadin took me in and found himself faced with the not so small task of
raising a little girl. My mother’s brother, his wife, and his family lived in
Laerin. It didn’t take Garadin too long to decide they were better suited for the
job. Uncle Ryn was in shipping, was a respected businessman, and had done very
well for himself. By the time Garadin found out that much of what Uncle Ryn
called shipping was called piracy by all seven kingdoms, I was old enough to
call Laerin home, and refused to budge. Uncle Ryn may be a pirate, but he ran a
surprisingly moral and normal household—or at least my Aunt Dera did. It took
Garadin longer to reach that same conclusion.

All
things considered, I don’t think I turned out half bad.

A
narrow wooden stair by the parchment shop’s back entrance led up to Garadin’s
door. I stepped over the first two stairs and onto the third. The first two
creaked. Anyone Garadin didn’t mind coming to visit knew that. Those that he
did mind didn’t know. It served as an early warning system for undesirables. I
knocked and waited. No answer. Garadin was a light sleeper, so he must not be
at home. I had the keys—both metal and magical—so I could let myself in.
Garadin’s wards surpassed anything Nigel could have ever come up with. My
godfather didn’t keep anything of value except his privacy, but that he held
dear above all else.

Garadin
had a pair of rooms—the smaller one for sleeping, the larger for everything
else. Everything else consisted mainly of oddities he had collected over the
years. Dried things, dead and stuffed things, things in jars, things in
glass-topped cases. Then there were the books and papers. Any flat surface in
Garadin’s rooms was fair game. To anyone else, it looked like the place had
been ransacked, but Garadin knew where everything was, and there was hell to
pay if anything was moved.

The
big leather chairs were overstuffed and had seen better days, but they were
comfortable. To Garadin, comfort was all that mattered. I had always loved
Garadin’s rooms. When I had spent summers here as a child, I had never lacked
for anything interesting to get into. Now all I wanted was to find something to
eat and a clear place to sit down. Either was easier said than found.

After
some rummaging, I found some hard cheese and a partial loaf of bread that, like
the leather on the chairs, had seen better days. Nothing was growing on any of
it, so I deemed it edible. Garadin didn’t keep water around, but I knew where
he kept the ale. It wasn’t exactly a meal, but at least it was food.

A
chair and footstool in a corner by the bookshelves gave me an unobstructed view
of the door. I carefully moved the papers from the chair to the floor, took off
my rapier and leaned it against the chair within reach. The chair creaked as I
settled in. Nice to sit down, even better if no one tried to break down the
door in the next five minutes.

I
tore off a piece of bread and stuck it in a mug of ale to soak. While I waited
for it to soften enough not to break my teeth, I took the amulet out of my
shirt and looked at it again. Being a seeker gave me certain advantages when it
came to finding out what an object was. What I held was a silver disk, but what
it did was another matter. I knew the quickest way to find out, but the
quickest way wasn’t often the best or safest. The runes engraved in the silver
gleamed in the firelight. It had magic; that much I was sure of. But
considering who had last owned it—and who wanted it—it was probably the kind of
magic I could do without. Opening my mind to Nigel’s former amulet would be
like sticking my arm in a hole in a swamp just to feel around. Not something
sane people made a habit of doing. At least not more than once.

I
considered myself sane. I dropped the amulet back inside my shirt. If no one
else could tell me what it did—or if I got desperate enough—I could always go
poking around later.

I
ate, then located a blanket and tried to relax. Sleep would be better, but I
wasn’t counting on it happening. After less than a minute, I couldn’t keep my
eyes open.

A
voice spoke my name. Softer and more soothing than a whisper, it nestled into
the place between sleep and wake. I saw Garadin’s room from beneath my closed
lashes in half-light and shadow. For the first time tonight I felt safe. The
voice slipped through the walls and windows, up through the floor and down
through the ceiling, enfolding me in warmth and calming my fears. It was a low,
velvety voice, a voice of intimate whispers in the secret hours of night. I
made a small sound and snuggled deeper into the blanket. My heart slowed to
beat in time with the wordless song. My chest grew warm.

I sat
straight up, my heart pounding. I reached for the amulet. It was warm, even
through my shirt. I listened. No voice, no song, only the sound of my ragged
breathing—and boots on the stairs. They stopped outside the door. The door-knob
turned as my blade cleared its scabbard and my feet hit the floor. I stood, but
stayed in the shadows.

Someone
pushed the door open, but didn’t step inside. That someone was being cautious.
Since Garadin taught me all there was to know about caution, I was hoping it
was him at the door.

“Raine?”
The voice was rich and melodious. My godfather’s voice. It wasn’t the voice I
had just heard in my waking dream. I recognized that voice—a certain Guardian
spellsinger was staying up late on account of me. I didn’t think I should be
flattered.

I let
out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and sheathed my blade. “I let
myself in. Hope you don’t mind.”

“I
never have before.” Garadin came in and tossed his cloak over a chair. “The
city’s a busy place tonight. To which catastrophe do I owe this pleasure?”

“Can’t
I just want to visit?”

My
godfather was tall and distinguished looking, his eyes intense blue, his short
hair ginger, and his beard and mustache immaculately trimmed. That was where
immaculate ended. His dark homespun robes swept in virtual tatters behind him.
Garadin dressed for himself and comfort, and that was all.

“You
could, but not at this hour,” he said. “If you’re out this late, the reason’s
usually armed and annoyed with you.” He paused. “Are they?”

I
chose not to answer that.

An
equally tall and lanky figure came in behind Garadin, and pushed the hood of
his cloak back to reveal a familiar mop of dark curls framing a boyishly
handsome face that’d be turning female heads in a few years, if it wasn’t
already. Piaras. Now that was unsettling. It wasn’t odd that my landlady’s
grandson was with Garadin. Piaras Rivalin was also Garadin’s student. But the
young elf had just turned seventeen, and Tarsilia had set a strict midnight
curfew for him. I didn’t think pub-crawling with my godfather into the wee
hours qualified as an approved field trip.

Piaras
was a spellsinger-in-training, so puberty had been interesting at our house. I
say ours because when you live in the upstairs apartment, you tend to hear and
experience everything that goes on in the house anyway. As a boy, Piaras had
shown signs of talent, but once adolescence set in, big feet weren’t the only
things tripping him up. And all hell broke loose, magically speaking, when his
voice changed. Garadin stepped in at that point and promptly earned the
unending gratitude of the entire neighborhood.

For
me, he was just the little brother I’d always wanted.

“Speaking
of someone up past their bedtime,” I said. I looked from Garadin to Piaras. “Is
there something I should know?”

Piaras
looked to Garadin, and Garadin didn’t answer immediately. He looked at the
empty plate on the table. There were a few crumbs left. “Sorry I didn’t have
anything better to offer, though you seem to have done well enough for
yourself. Considering the kind of night you must have had, I’d imagine you were
hungry.”