Lisa Shearin: Con & Conjure

As always, for Derek

To Kristin Nelson, my agent. I couldn’t do any of this without you. You’re simply the best.

To Anne Sowards, my editor. You’re amazing to work with. And in my opinion, the best editor in New York. Period.

To Joanne Stapley, an awesome fan. The winner of my Name That Book contest, with the perfect title: Con & Conjure .

To David Parker Ross, my first fan who wasn’t related to me, and the winner of the Name That Goblin Assassin contest, with “Nisral Hesai” (a clever anagram of “Lisa Shearin”).

To my fans. Your support and enthusiasm amaze me and keep me going. All of Raine’s adventures are for you.

There’s no sick like seasick.

I knew this from personal experience; but fortunately, I wasn’t the one staggering down the gangplank looking like death warmed over and served up.

Mago Benares was a banker, not a sailor. Or as his employees at the First Bank of D’Mai knew him, Mago Peronne. The name Benares wasn’t exactly welcome in banking circles, since most people wouldn’t want to trust their investments to a member of the most notorious criminal family in the seven kingdoms. Mago had changed his name, but nothing could alter his instincts.

The Benares family didn’t get all of their money at the business end of a cannon. To Mago, embezzlement was an art, and he considered himself to be a master. This was one time when I had to agree with Mago and his ego. My cousin was at his con artist best when diverting funds, usually into offshore accounts for his own use and enjoyment.

But this morning, the master was as green as the money he stole. Seasick wasn’t a good look for Mago. Or since he was now standing on a dock rather than a deck, I guess that made him just plain sick. I smiled. I couldn’t help it. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Mago; I liked him a lot. But when my normally impeccably dressed and groomed cousin was leaning over a dockside railing, disheveled, disreputable looking, and about to toss what was left of the last food he’d managed to keep down . . . well, call me twisted, but that was funny.

Mago tossed and Phaelan chuckled from where he was standing next to me. Phaelan’s sense of humor was even more sick and twisted than mine. And yes, it’s possible.

Though as Mago’s little brother, it was Phaelan’s job not only to embarrass him, but to make him miserable. I’d never seen Mago looking more miserable than he did right now, and Phaelan didn’t have a thing to do with it. My cousins’ dad was Commodore Ryn Benares, the most feared pirate in any body of water larger than a bathtub. Phaelan was a chip off the old mainmast. Mago was quite possibly the craftiest weasel I’d ever met—a weasel who couldn’t set foot on a ship without feeding the fishes.

I’m a member of the family while not being in the family business. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. No one else believes me, either.

I’m Raine Benares. Like the rest of my family, I’m an elf. Unlike the rest of my family, I have a legal and moral job. As a result, every other Benares makes more money than I do. Hand-over-fist more. Believe me, crime most definitely pays.

I’m a seeker. I find lost people and missing things. Though the only things I’ve found lately are more ways to get into trouble and almost get myself killed.

And a rock the size of a man’s fist is to blame for every last bit of it.

Ever since the Saghred latched on to me like a leech fresh off a hunger strike, I’ve been attracting the attention of the kind of people I’ve never wanted to have notice me. And to turn my predicament from bad to as bad as it can get, the Saghred has taken my magical talents from mediocre to monstrous. I have more power than any living creature has a right to have or need to possess.

And therein lies my biggest problem. Other people want to possess that power for themselves—and to get the power, they have to get me.

That’s why I asked Mago to come to the Isle of Mid. Mid was home to the top college of sorcery and the Conclave of Sorcerers, the ruling body for all magic users. I came here thinking that they could help me. It never occurred to me that they would be the ones who I would need protection from.

Conclave sorcerers, elven intelligence, and the goblin king. All wanted me and mine. And since they were funded by wealthy and powerful allies, their pockets were deep enough to make it happen.

Mago was here to help me cut holes in those pockets.

I knew that what could be paid could be diverted. And what could be schemed could be scammed.

My family had been behind some elaborate scams before, but none had involved this much money, government officials this highly ranked—and none had my life and the lives of people I loved on the line.

This time we were playing for keeps.

I was counting on our scam buying me enough time to get rid of the Saghred. Permanently.

Phaelan and I were in the office of a dockside warehouse, looking out of the dirty windows facing the harbor. The windows were a special kind of dirty—no one could see in, but we could see out.

Neither one of us particularly wanted to be seen right now.

In my opinion, Phaelan had made a monumental effort to blend in. My cousin was normally a vision in a scarlet leather doublet and matching trousers. Today his leathers were dark, his boots scuffed, his tanned face unshaven. His hat had enough brim to conceal his face, not attract attention.

Phaelan took off the hat and ran one hand impatiently through his shoulder-length black hair. “Mago’s certainly taking his time.”

“He has to see to his luggage,” I reminded him. “The man travels with even more clothes than you do.”

“I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Best-dressed pirate?”

“Someone has to maintain the standard.” He took in what I was wearing, sighed, and shook his head.

I didn’t need to look down at myself to see where Phaelan was going with this. “I happen to like brown and black,” I said. “They’re great colors for redheads.”

“So are others that you’ve never tried.”

“I’ve never tried painting a target on myself, either.”

I’d adopted the mantra of blend and survive. Thanks to the Saghred, people could feel my magic coming a mile away; I was determined the same wasn’t going to be true for seeing me. If wearing brown or black or both helped me blend in with the background and kept me from being a target at least some of the time, then they were officially my favorite colors. Red hair and pale skin made me stand out enough; I was going to camouflage as much of it as I could as well as I could.

Mago would be joining us here shortly. As a vice president at the First Bank of D’Mai, he couldn’t be seen associating with criminals, either known or supposed. Mago knew the drill. He’d arrange to get his luggage sent ahead to the Greyhound Hotel, the finest accommodations Mid had to offer, and then we’d have a little private meeting. The warehouse’s owner was a friend of the family, meaning he was paid to store stolen goods until they’d cooled enough to be put on the market. That pay also bought us certain benefits like a meeting place that could be counted on to be completely private. These walls only had ears if Phaelan wanted them to.