Lisa Shearin - Magic Lost, Trouble Found

I winced. “He might have had other things to think about.”

Phaelan chuckled softly. “Two very important things.”

“Until I can find out otherwise, let’s just operate under the assumption that the Nukpana person got away,” I told Quentin.

Quentin was instantly alert. “Operate? I don’t like the sound of that.”

That made two of us.

Quentin looked around at the plain walls. “A safehouse, right?”

I nodded. Markus’s idea of a safehouse looked like a cross between a barracks and a prison. My sometime client had exquisite decorating taste, but in his practicality, saw little reason to extend those talents to his safehouses.

“You said I can leave by midmorning?”

“I wouldn’t be so eager if I were you,” Phaelan told him. “By now those goblins probably have your name on the lips of every assassin in Mermeia. By daybreak you’ll have a hefty price on your head.”

Quentin wouldn’t be the only one gracing a wanted poster. Phaelan didn’t mention me. I was grateful. I also contemplated pouring myself another drink. Better not. I had the feeling I’d need all the quick reflexes I could get.

“I’ve had a price on my head before,” Quentin said. “No one’s managed to cash in yet. Though tonight they came close.”

“Khrynsani aren’t known for being a soft touch,” I told him. “One Khrynsani I’ve heard of would throw everything he had against a human or elf just to see what would hit the far wall. The shamans on Nigel’s balcony were good, but not the best they could field. And Sarad Nukpana wasn’t expecting the Guardians in Stocken’s warehouse. We were lucky twice tonight. It won’t happen again.”

Quentin succeeded in sitting up. “I’ve had Khrynsani try to vaporize me, feed me to the bog beetles, and slit my throat. I just want to find a nice, deep hole and crawl in for a few days until things calm down.” He looked around the room. “You sure I can’t stay here?”

“Sorry. If necessary, I can have the people here put you into deep hiding, but I’d rather you be where we can keep an eye on you.” I turned to Phaelan. “Know where we can find a nice, deep hole on short notice?”

The smile that spread slowly across my cousin’s tanned face was well known for promising bad things. If I didn’t know him well, it would have made my skin crawl. I answered with a grin of my own. We’re a sick family that way.

“I know just the place,” he said.

“I can manage just fine on my own,” Quentin protested. “I wouldn’t want you two to go to any more trouble. I’ve been enough trouble already.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” Phaelan assured him. “Our pleasure. You don’t get seasick, do you?”

Quentin blanched. “Yes, I do. And there’s no way you’re getting me onboard the Fortune .”

“Who said anything about the Fortune ? If anyone recognized me tonight, that’s the first place they’d look. No, I have another of my fine vessels in mind. And she’ll be docked, so you should be able to hold down solid food after a day or so.”

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?