Magic Lost, Trouble Found

Everyone froze, while Quentin was left with no choice. The voice hadn’t specified who wasn’t supposed to move, but one of the Khrynsani couldn’t take the suspense and dove for the cover of a stack of crates. He made it, but he wasn’t alive when he landed.

Nukpana shimmered with the effect of a protection spell. Its confines included Quentin. As long as Quentin was encased in that shield, he was safe from outside harm. Of course, that still left the goblin with access to Quentin, and me without.

“Have your guards drop their weapons and no one else will be harmed.” The spellsinger paused on the edge of the shadows, and I could see the outline of a tall and clearly fit figure.

Shadowy figures closed in behind the goblins and appeared along the warehouse catwalks, positioning themselves to cover every goblin and every exit.

“Now.” His voice was quiet, its owner a man used to absolute authority. He stepped into the lantern light.

The spellsinger was an elf in the steel gray uniform of a Conclave Guardian. I noticed appreciatively that he wore it well. He was leanly muscled, his bearing was military, and he was not happy. Large, dark eyes bored into Nukpana’s. I wondered if he was as dangerous as he looked. Probably.

Conclave Guardians were based on the Isle of Mid, known for having the largest sorcerer population on the continent. It was home to the most prestigious college for sorcery, as well as the Conclave, the governing body for all magic users in the seven kingdoms. The students were young and talented, and many were away from home for the first time. Most Conclave officials were from kingdoms where they had been big fish in little ponds. But the Isle of Mid was a big pond with bigger, carnivorous fish. Students and bureaucrats, all highly gifted, all packed together in one island city. It was a powder keg waiting to explode, and the Guardians’ job was to keep anyone from striking a match.

Their sworn duty was to protect the members of the Conclave and defend Mid against any outside threat, but they spent most of their time protecting the Conclave, students and citizens, from each other. To keep the peace in a city of sorcerers took an even more talented sorcerer—and a warrior. Guardians had enough to do at home, so they only left Mid on official Conclave business—renegade mages and the like. The Seat of Twelve must want something, or someone, badly to turn Guardians loose on them. I was hoping they were just after Sarad Nukpana, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath.

The elven Guardian indicated Quentin. “Release him.” His words were soft, but lined with steel.

Nukpana’s grip tightened and Quentin held his breath. A thin trickle of blood ran down Quentin’s neck. No wonder he hated sorcerers.

“This is a Khrynsani matter and none of the Conclave’s concern, elf.”

The spellsinger moved farther into the light. “As a Guardian, that box and its contents are my only concern.”

So much for me being able to stay out of this.

Nukpana’s knife slipped deeper, and the glowing tendrils constricted. Quentin’s breath came in a strangled gasp.

“Come and take him yourself.” The goblin’s voice promised violence; the gleam in his dark eyes welcomed it.

“Very well.” There was no regret in the elf’s voice, just a calm acknowledgement of the goblin’s choice. He began to whisper.

I could barely hear his voice, let alone the words, but I didn’t need to hear him. Neither did Nukpana. This spellsong didn’t have to be heard to work.

Neither combatant moved, but that didn’t mean nothing was happening. Plenty was happening, although the only visual indication was a dimming of every lantern and lightglobe in the warehouse. While spooky, it was hardly dangerous. What was dangerous was what you couldn’t see.

The power flowed beneath the Guardian’s voice like a river running deep underground, its depths hidden in darkness, its deadly currents concealed beneath a calm, but swiftly moving surface. It could either sweep you away or drag you under. Either way, you’d be just as dead.

Nukpana wasn’t drowning in the depths. He was busy freezing the surface.

The bottom dropped out of the temperature, and Nukpana’s sibilant words came out on frosty breath. I recognized a few words of the goblin’s incantation. It wasn’t the words that would kill us all, it was his intent. Nukpana was calling something that had no business being on the same plane of existence with the rest of us. Why slaughter a warehouse full of Guardians yourself when you could raise a demon to do it for you? The air between the goblin and the elf crackled with blue light, the light coalescing into the outline of a figure twice the elf’s height.

I’d always thought demons came from warmer climates. Looked like I was wrong.

The elf shielded himself, his own spellsong faltering momentarily in the process. And apparently demon conjuring took all of the goblin’s concentration, because the glowing blade he held to Quentin’s throat wavered just enough so a cut wouldn’t be fatal. I didn’t want to wait around to see who was going to win, and I sure as hell didn’t want to stick around to see who Nukpana’s demon picked first for his late-night snack. Quentin and I needed to leave. Now. But interrupting the work of two powerful sorcerers with a spell of your own often had unfortunate consequences, aside from being just plain rude.

I opted for a more direct approach.

I tackled Sarad Nukpana from the side below the knees, where his shields were weakest. He was definitely surprised. So was the Guardian. Quentin wasn’t exactly expecting it, either. As a result, the manifesting demon stopped manifesting. Nukpana and I hit the ground hard. Quentin rolled free, and I grabbed for Quentin.

Sarad Nukpana and I were face-to-face. His midnight eyes widened, and then he smiled. “Mistress Benares, how good of you to join us.”

My mouth dropped open, and I was too stunned to move. The goblin reached for me, but the elf got there first, jerking me to my feet and away from Nukpana.

Close contact gave me a good look at the Guardian, and he was good to look at. His eyes were stunning. Tropical seas stunning—and lock up your daughters and wives trouble. His rich auburn hair begged to be touched, and his features were classic, strong and oh so nice. Unfortunately, he also committed my face to memory. Not so nice.

The center of my chest suddenly grew warm. It could have been my increased heart rate, but I wasn’t betting on it. The Guardian’s intense gaze went to my chest. I didn’t think he was admiring the view. The amulet flared to life.

There was no pain or dizziness, and I didn’t feel a sudden urge to be sick all over the elf. That was good, but the attention I was attracting wasn’t. The Guardian’s eyes widened in amazement, and he tightened his grip on me. He had my arms, so the action I was forced to take was entirely his fault. It was as direct as my previous action, but not nearly as polite.

In the next instant, the Guardian was on his knees trying to remember how to breathe.

There was a crash and the sound of wood splintering in the middle of the warehouse, following by a low rumbling. A stack of barrels, already precariously balanced, began to move. The larger of those barrels crashed into smaller casks. They began to move. Movement was not good. The Guardians and the Khrynsani shared my opinion. They all scrambled and dove for cover, including the elven spellsinger. Lanterns hit the ground, and Quentin and I ran for the door. We didn’t question what or who had caused the barrels to fall; we just reaped the benefits of the distraction.

I smelled something other than spilled spirits. A dim part of my memory registered what it was—then a series of blasts lifted us both off our feet. Quentin landed unmoving against a crate. I was dazed and my hair was a little singed, but I was in one piece. Wine didn’t explode, but gunpowder did. Looked like the late Master Stocken had dabbled in the arms business.

I got to my feet and staggered over to Quentin. Phaelan was already there. I should have known. Where there’s an explosion, there’s Phaelan. He made sure Quentin was still breathing, then unceremoniously tossed him over his shoulder.

“Sorry about that,” he shouted over the din of men yelling and smaller blasts. “I didn’t factor lanterns into the plan.”

I could barely hear him, or myself, from the ringing in my ears. “There was a plan?” I yelled.

Phaelan grinned. “There’s always a plan,” he shouted back. “But I thought I’d keep it simple.”

Chapter 3

“Productive evening, Raine?”

Bertran didn’t really expect an answer, which was good because I didn’t intend to give him one. I hadn’t had dinner. Phaelan hadn’t had Madame Natasha. Neither one of us were happy.

The elven intelligence agency’s cross between a receptionist and a jailer sat behind a small table in the miniscule entry hall of one of Markus’s safehouses. One of the perks of occasionally working for Markus was that I got the use of the agency’s safehouses. I only used one if my business involved Markus’s interests. I didn’t have to ask myself twice whether what I wore around my neck would interest Markus. Plus, I’ve discovered it’s not a good idea to go home when you could be leading a parade of bad guys.

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. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">