Lisa Shearin: Magic Lost, Trouble Found

“Makes sense to me,” Phaelan added.

Quentin shot a betrayed look at my cousin. “You didn’t have to break into that crypt Nigel Nicabar calls home.” His fear from earlier in the evening had been soundly replaced by moral outrage and greed. “You didn’t have goblins jump on you out of thin air. You didn’t—”

“Fight Khrynsani guards to keep you from being sliced apart one piece at a time?” Phaelan’s voice was soft and low. It was the voice his enemies never wanted to hear. He stepped toe to toe with Quentin. “Something I’m beginning to regret.”

Quentin raised both hands and stepped back. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful, but—”

“It sounds that way.” Phaelan didn’t back down. Retreating isn’t a concept my family’s too familiar with. If we’ve gone to the trouble to stake out ground, or water, we’re keeping it.

I blew out an exasperated sigh and stepped in. “Just tell Stocken what happened. But don’t show him the amulet. Don’t tell him what was in the box at all at this point. On second thought, just so you won’t be tempted, why don’t you give me the amulet? I’ll keep it until you finish talking to Stocken.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Phaelan asked.

I knew what he was thinking, because I had already thought it. The last thing I wanted was a repeat performance of my reaction in the alley when Quentin had opened the box. But when he had dangled the amulet itself in front of my face, nothing had happened. Maybe it had been the box, or a spell guarding the box. Either way, I wanted to make sure Quentin didn’t give the amulet to Simon Stocken. If Stocken dangled a pouch of gold in front of Quentin’s face, the amulet was as good as gone.

Quentin looked doubtful. “You’ll give it back?”

“Yes, I’ll give it back.” Eventually. Once I found out what it was. And if I found I needed to hold onto it to keep it out of Sarad Nukpana’s hands, I’d pay Quentin the rest of his fee. Or Markus Sevelien would. For the elven duke, thirty gold tenari was pocket change. I couldn’t say the same for myself. Information was a professional courtesy Markus and I had extended to each other over the years. If I happened across something that Markus might be interested in, I let him know, and the elven duke did the same for me.

I knew Markus would be interested in anything that interested Sarad Nukpana.

Quentin pulled the chain over his head and handed it and the amulet to me. I hesitated before actually touching it. Caution had never been a bad thing for me. I took it from Quentin by the chain, and the silver disk spun slowly at the end. There were carvings on the front and back, but I couldn’t make out any details. The amulet gleamed when I touched the chain. Just a reflection of the streetlamps—and the hum that I heard was just a figment of my imagination. Metal didn’t make noise unless you struck it. And even if it could hum, that hum wouldn’t sound smug.

“Do you hear anything?” I asked Phaelan, never taking my eyes off the amulet.

He gave me an odd look, then glanced behind us for signs of pursuit. There were none, but he knew that. “No, do you?”

“Never mind. Just my imagination.”

I slipped the chain over my head, and when the amulet didn’t try to burn a hole through my jerkin, I slipped it and the chain inside my shirt. The metal was warm against my skin. I told myself the heat was left over from Quentin’s body. Perhaps if I kept telling myself that, I’d begin to believe it.

The front entrance to Simon Stocken’s warehouse was usually guarded by at least two men. Things usually went better if they knew you. I recognized the first guard, but not the other on duty with him. Both acknowledged Quentin, and the one I didn’t know opened the door for him. Stocken’s guards were reliable men as long as he kept their purses full; and with business as good as it was, there was ample coin to pay for good help. Quentin went inside. We stayed outside and out of sight.

A minute or so passed. Quentin must have been halfway through the warehouse by now. Simon Stocken’s office was in the far corner. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, and adjusted my baldric on my shoulder. Then I shifted my weight back. I was suddenly uncomfortable in my own skin. I looked down at my hands. One of them actually twitched. I looked back to the warehouse. The guards were no longer by the door.

“Phaelan?”

His dark eyes were staring intently at the door. “I see it. They just went inside.”

“That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not.”

That wasn’t the only thing that was less than ideal. It wasn’t the guards’ absence that was making my skin crawl. It was something big and ugly and waiting inside that warehouse—magic, and not the good kind. Quentin was walking into trouble for the second time tonight. I knew it as sure as if it were me walking into that trap. Curious. I had a knack for sensing certain things, but big bad magical traps had never been one of them.

“Does Stocken’s warehouse have a back door?” I asked.

“Of course. And two side doors and a trap door over the water.” Phaelan said before dashing across the street. I was right behind him.

My cousin drew his rapier as he neared a narrow space between two stacks of crates that opened into the alley beyond. He looked through. I glanced over his shoulder, a pair of long daggers in my own hands. It was all clear to the waterfront.

“Take a right at the end of the alley,” he told me. “It’s the first door on the right.”

“There’s something waiting inside.”

“Not a new shipment of Caesolian red, is it?”

“Hardly.”

“One could hope.”

There were no guards posted by the small side door. Things were looking up. The hinges were well oiled and opened without a sound. Even better. The warehouse’s vast interior was dimly lit by lightglobes spaced at regular intervals along the walls. Only some of them were activated, throwing large sections of the warehouse into shadow. What we could see was only about a quarter full of crates, cases, and casks, which wouldn’t be a sign of a healthy business in many parts of the city; but Simon Stocken based his success on the quality of the goods traded, not the quantity.

Quentin was nearing the door of Stocken’s small office in the back of the warehouse. I resisted the urge to call out to him. Whatever the trap was, he had already tripped it. Getting caught with him wouldn’t do any of us any good.

Quentin was completely oblivious to what he had just walked into. “Simon, I want another twenty tenari and four bottles of Caesolian red, not a drop less.”

Simon Stocken didn’t answer. We soon found out why.

A shadow swung across one of the lightglobes, blocking it, revealing it, and blocking it again. Along with it came a creaking sound I instantly recognized. Quentin looked up. We all did.

Simon Stocken hung from a rafter outside his office, a halter of woven hemp tight about his abnormally lengthened neck, hooked beneath the chin. His hands were tied behind his back. He was quite dead.

Quentin had his daggers half drawn when the goblins stepped from the shadows, completely surrounding him. Half of them were robed, the other half were armored—all of them were familiar.

Khrynsani shamans and temple guards.

Phaelan leaned close, his lips next to my ear. “Didn’t we just leave this party?”

Some of the goblins opened lanterns and set them on crates, further illuminating Simon Stocken—something I could have done without. When they had finished, a figure robed in rich, black silk moved out of the shadows between two of the guards and into the ring of light. So much for the reason behind all my twitching and skin crawling. I still didn’t understand how I had sensed it, but at least I knew why.