Lisa Shearin - Magic Lost, Trouble Found

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.

Quentin began to stir. This was unfortunately timed with Phaelan’s use of a whetstone against a particularly stubborn knick. I didn’t know how Quentin would react to awakening to the sound of a sword being sharpened, but I knew what it’d do to me.

“Phaelan?”

He never slowed or looked up. “Yes?”

“Could you stop that for a moment?”

“What?”

“Quentin’s waking up. That’s not exactly a soothing noise.”

“What? Oh.” He grinned. “You don’t want to scrape Quentin off the ceiling?”

“Not really.”

Quentin had stopped moving, but he hadn’t opened his eyes. He was trying to keep his breathing regular, but I could see the pulse racing in his neck. Quentin had been many things, and was good at some of them, but he wasn’t much of an actor. I tried to muffle a smile, and failed. Quentin was awake, but he didn’t want to advertise it. I would have done the same myself. When you’ve lost consciousness in one place and find yourself waking up in another—usually the longer you can keep that information to yourself, the better.

“Quentin, it’s us. No one is going to kill you. And I can’t wait all night for you to open your eyes.”

Quentin squinted in the direction of my voice. I had to admit it was a little bright in here. Maybe I shouldn’t have lit so many lamps. I extinguished the one closest to the cot where Quentin lay.

He didn’t need to look to know that he had been stripped to his shirt and trousers. He tried to sit up, and groaned. I put a restraining hand on his shoulder, and eased him back on the cot.

“Don’t even think about it,” I told him. “You had two cracked ribs, and they need another hour or so to finish setting. I’m sure the healer would appreciate it if you didn’t ruin her work. Behave yourself, and you should be good as new by tomorrow night.”

Quentin lay back with a ragged breath, looking a little green around the gills. “I don’t feel so good.”