Lisa Shearin - Magic Lost, Trouble Found

“Who says I asked him?” I shrugged deeper into my cloak. “Better safe than sensed. And as an added bonus, Quentin gets to go inside where it’s nice and warm, and we get to stay here where it’s nice and smelly.”

Phaelan looked up at the now dark gallery windows. “I don’t think anything in there is nice.” He took a not-so-delicate sniff and looked down at his boots in disgust. “Or out here.”

I followed his gaze, and took a whiff of my own. I had really been trying to ignore my boots. Though I’d rather be in a stinking alley than a necromancer’s house. Especially this necromancer. I’d once heard Nigel’s place described as forbidding. Just plain spooky worked for me. I think he had both in mind when he had it built. Not many people would want to live in a place that looked like a mausoleum, but then Nigel wasn’t most people.

My back was starting to cramp, and I shifted my weight, trying to get comfortable. The more I squirmed, the worse it got. I hated stakeouts. My body didn’t respond well to sitting or standing around for long periods of time. Then there was the boredom. I was almost hoping Nigel’s steward would wake up, go looking for a nighttime snack, and find Quentin. At least I’d get to do something.

Just because I didn’t really expect any violence tonight, didn’t mean I wasn’t prepared for it. I’m not exactly what you’d call physically intimidating. Thanks to my elven blood, I’m tall enough, but my small bones and slender build are designed more for running than fighting. For those times when speed or spells didn’t discourage someone, I kept all sorts of interesting weapons, mostly the bladed variety, tucked here and there.

Quentin was even smaller than I was, and wiry—and could locate trouble faster than a lodestone could find true north. Though considering the section of the city we were in, I’d more than likely have to call on my alternate arsenal.

I’m a magic user of respectable ability, though most sorcerers would look down their noses and call what I do parlor tricks. In addition to my seeking skills, I can move small objects with my mind, maintain an image of myself in a place I’ve just left, and my shields are right up there with the best. Not the most powerful sorcery by a long shot, but in my opinion, power’s overrated—plus I know how to fight dirty, magically and otherwise. It’s always been enough to keep me alive. Singed around the edges doesn’t count.

What I can’t do is manipulate the wills of others, affect the weather, communicate with or raise the dead, turn base metal into gold, see into the future, or any of the other skills other sorcerers turn into a way to make a living. Not that I haven’t tried a few. I think the words “young” and “stupid” went a long way toward explaining those efforts. I even tried pyromancy once, but I almost set fire to my cat. It was at least six months before he didn’t run every time I struck a match.

I couldn’t see Quentin anymore, but it didn’t mean I didn’t know exactly where he was.

“He’s inside,” I told Phaelan. “And he didn’t set off any wards.”

“You make it sound like a bad thing.”

“It’s not good. Quentin’s employer either had Nigel’s wards disabled ahead of time, or Quentin has a ghencharm.”

Phaelan didn’t exactly look enlightened. “Which is?”

“A talisman that disables wards. Quentin could walk straight through every ward in that house and not make a sound. Problem is you have to know ahead of time what wards are being used. Whoever keyed it would need inside information.”

Phaelan shrugged. “So someone bribed one of Nigel’s servants. So did you.”

“I just got the household routine. Quentin apparently got the house. Someone in there really doesn’t like their boss. Nigel’s not going to be happy.”

“So he’s not the lovable type. I’d imagine not many necromancers are. Can you track him?”

I nodded absently. I was seeing more than just Phaelan.

Quentin was in the main part of the house now. A tracking stone only lets you know the carrier’s location, usually without any details as to what they see. There could be occasional flashes of image, but that only happened with magically sensitive carriers, or those you knew very well. Quentin wasn’t the sensitive type, magically or otherwise. Apparently I knew him well enough, because I got a hazy vision from his viewpoint of stairs leading to the second floor. No wards. No lurking stewards. Looked like Quentin had a good ghencharm. Phaelan and I might not have to charge in to the rescue after all. But I still had every intention of sitting down with Quentin for a very long talk when this was over, and if I needed extra muscle to hold him down while we chatted, so be it.

Quentin went straight to what looked to be a formal reception area on the ground floor. He crossed the room to a wall, pushed on something I couldn’t see, and exposed a hidden staircase. Interesting. Quentin activated a tiny lightglobe on the interior wall, illuminating steep and polished wooden stairs. A plush carpet of deep crimson ran up the center. It was all a little much for Nigel’s taste. Maybe select noble clients saw this part of the house as well. At the top of the stairs was a door with a screened panel that was just large enough to look through. Quentin looked inside, and so did I. An ornately carved bed dominated the room. I found myself grinning.

“What?” Phaelan asked.

“Just a fun fact to know and share. Conjuring up the dead relatives of Caesolian courtiers must only pay so much. It looks like Nigel supplements his income with a little blackmail.”

Quentin was searching Nigel’s room, and doing a very efficient and professional job of it for a reformed thief. Someone had been staying in practice. He’d just discovered a compartment in the headboard of the bed containing a jumble of small boxes and papers. He took out a white stone box. The entire thing fit in the palm of his hand. It had been sealed with black wax, but the seal had been broken. Quentin opened the box.

The world exploded. Or at least my corner of it.

I found myself on all fours like I’d taken a giant fist to the gut. If there was any air in the alley, I couldn’t find it. My vision swam, and pain stabbed behind my eyes. I heard someone whimper. I think it was me. I pitched forward, my forehead landing in something I didn’t want to identify, its stench the only thing keeping me from passing out. I dimly felt Phaelan’s hands on my shoulders, lifting my face out of the muck. I was dizzy, nauseous, and had an urge to make my own contribution to the pile of scraps next to me.

“Stop,” I managed.

Phaelan stopped lifting, but didn’t let go. I was grateful. I don’t think I could have stayed upright on my own. I raised my head slowly until my eyes were level with the street. I resisted the impulse to gulp air into my lungs. I took a few steady breaths. My vision began to clear.

“Raine?” He sounded worried. That made two of us.

I tried to answer, but my mouth was too busy breathing.

“Are you all right?”

I thought about nodding, but decided against it. “Think so.”

“What happened?”

“I think Quentin just found what he was looking for.”

Unfortunately, I was right. Sometimes I hate it when that happens. Quentin showed no signs of putting the whatever-it-was back in the box, and my head hurt too much to maintain contact with him until he did. Fine. I broke contact. He was on his own. I assumed he had done everything he came to do, and would be coming out soon. I sat back against the wall of the alley, watched the door where he had gone in, and concentrated on breathing. Breathing was good.

No alarms went off, no lamps were lit in the servants’ quarters or anywhere else in the house. The street was quiet. The few people who passed the alley with magical talent enough to see past my shields probably thought I was either drunk or had just been mugged. Either way, no one stopped to ask.