Lisa Shearin: Con & Conjure

While we waited, Phaelan used the toe of his boot to push a bucket next to one of the office’s chairs. I just looked at him.

“What?” Phaelan asked. “You want Mago throwing up on your boots?”

Minutes later, a miserable groan came from the open doorway.

Mago was your basic tall, dark, and handsome elf. Phaelan shared the dark and handsome moniker with his older brother, but Mago had “tall” all to himself. Phaelan had always claimed that Mago stole all of the height so there’d be none left for him. Probably not possible, but if it were, Mago would have been the one who could have stolen it. Mago Benares was the master. He could rob a man blind and have that same man thank him for his diligent work.

Though right now, the master was miserable. His dark eyes were bloodshot from what I imagine was lack of sleep, he was pale from lack of what he’d last eaten, and most of his black hair had escaped the silk ribbon that always tied it back.

Phaelan looked past him. “Damn, brother. Did you even close the door?”

Mago looked at Phaelan like he’d punch him if he could just convince his hand to make a fist.

I pushed the chair closer to where Mago was leaning shakily against the door frame. After a moment’s thought, I pushed the bucket over to the chair. Mago looked at me and nodded gratefully at both.

Phaelan offered him his flask. “Here, this’ll help.”

Mago glanced distastefully from the proffered flask, to his little brother, and back again. “If that’s the vile liquid that you consider to be whisky, I’ll pass.”

Phaelan shrugged. “Suit yourself. Never let it be said that I didn’t try to help.”

“By poisoning me.”

Phaelan popped open the flask and raised it in salute. “Mother’s milk.”

“I’m certain that Mother would disagree,” Mago said dryly. He gingerly settled himself in the chair, and I passed him my own flask.

“Caesolian brandy,” I assured him. “And yes, it’s a good year and vintage,” I added before he could ask.

Mago took a tentative sip. Apparently he was satisfied, because his second sip was more like a gulp. Mago closed his eyes, and with a weary sigh, leaned his head against the back of the chair. “I may live. My thanks, Raine.”

“Hey, you’re here to help me stay alive. Returning the favor is the least I can do.” I pulled up a chair and sat down. “Was it hard to wrangle the time off?”

Mago opened his eyes and managed a crooked grin. “Actually, I’m here on official bank business. One of my more affluent and private clients has need of some discreet financial services. He normally conducts business through an intermediary, but insisted on an in-person meeting this time. Considering the destination, I agreed to come only after negotiating a raise and a sizable bonus from the bank.”

Phaelan laughed, a short bark. “That’s my brother.” He paused. “Why wouldn’t anyone want to come here?”

Mago looked at Phaelan like he was a couple of coins short of a full purse. I think I was wearing a similar expression.

Mago wasn’t going to dignify that question with an answer, so it was up to me to remind Phaelan why Mid was presently the next best thing to a hellhole. “Uh, Hellgate opened, demon infestation. Saghred opened, ancient evil mage infestation. Then Sarad Nukpana sucked out people’s life forces and turned them into beef jerky.”

“The Isle of Mid in its present state is hardly a vacation destination,” Mago said. “I wasn’t going to set foot on this cursed rock without hazard pay.” He looked at me. “Speaking of a cursed rock, how are you doing?”

“Working day and night to find a way to get rid of the damned thing. I’m close. Really close.”

I didn’t say what I meant by “close.” The only way I’d found to destroy the Saghred and break its hold on me was to empty the rock of the thousands of souls it held captive inside. The only creatures who could accomplish this monumental feat were Reapers—Death’s minions, gatherers of the dead and dying. I wasn’t dead or dying, at least not until they got hold of me. In their soul-sucking frenzy, they’d probably take my soul, too. “Probably” was too close to “definitely” for my taste. Needless to say, I was looking hard for other options.

“Pity the Saghred would eventually drive you insane,” Mago was saying. “Do you have any idea of how much money you could make with that much power?”

“Unless it’d be enough to buy back my sanity and life, everyone can keep their money.”

A sparkle of life—and avarice—lit Mago’s dark eyes. “Until we relieve them of it.”

That moment of bringing financial ruin to those threatening me and mine couldn’t come soon enough.

“When do we start?” I asked him.

“As soon as I get my land legs under me.” Mago paused and grimaced as if his stomach was considering doing something unpleasant. “And once I can keep a decent meal in me.”

We all wanted that. Phaelan nudged the bucket closer.

“I’m hopeful that I can attain both states of equilibrium by tonight,” Mago muttered. “I’m scheduled to dine with my affluent client this evening.”

I frowned. “He’s here already?” Call me paranoid, but most of the affluent people on Mid right now had a finger in the let’s-get-Raine-Benares pie.

“My client has some financial transactions he wants to conduct, and he will only do so in person. So your request to come to Mid couldn’t have come at a more convenient time.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want you to be inconvenienced on our account,” I told him.

Mago glanced toward the office’s windows. “His ship was not far behind mine.”

Phaelan was already looking out over the harbor. “Would that client be a crazy goblin bastard looking to get himself shot full of holes?”

I quickly joined him. “What crazy bas—” I didn’t finish the question; I couldn’t. And people said I was nuts.

Prince Chigaru Mal’Salin, exiled younger brother of the goblin king, with a price on his head and every other body part, was brazenly standing in clear view near the bow of a luxury yacht sailing into the harbor. His personal standard was flying at the top of the ship’s tallest mast, telling even the most clueless exactly who and what he was.

Phaelan was absolutely right. He was a crazy goblin bastard. Though his last name was Mal’Salin, crazy was in their blood.

Mago looked over both of our shoulders and saw what we saw. “Oh, bloody hell.”

Phaelan clapped him on the shoulder. “Think about it this way, brother. If someone puts a bolt in him, you won’t have to worry about keeping dinner down.”

I didn’t like Chigaru Mal’Salin, and unless his feelings had changed, the prince didn’t like me, either.

It wasn’t easy to forgive someone who had used a friend of mine as bait to kidnap me, and then threaten that friend with torture to get me to find and use the Saghred for him. I couldn’t believe that his manners had improved any since then. The prince was cunning, manipulative, ruthless, and conspiracies and plots were recreational activities. In other words, a Mal’Salin. But unlike his brother, Chigaru could be reasoned with and he wasn’t nuts.

Well, at least not as nuts as his brother.

I knew Prince Chigaru was coming to Mid; he just wasn’t supposed to be here this soon. The prince had made the trip from wherever his last hiding place was for two reasons, and both of those reasons were because of his brother. One was in response to his brother’s invitation to bury the hatchet and sign a peace agreement. The second reason was to overthrow his brother’s government then bury that hatchet in one of his vital parts. Not directly, mind you. Direct confrontation wasn’t the goblin way. Intrigue and subterfuge were the favored methods for two powerful goblins to settle things once they’d reached an impasse.