Lisa Shearin - Raine Benares 01 (4 page)

The
warehouses of the waterfront were full of valuables of questionable ownership,
and manned by those whose jobs it was to guard them. Between the three of us,
we knew most of them, and they us. But I wasn’t holding my breath counting on
any for help. If anyone brought trouble with them to the waterfront, chances
were they had brought it on themselves and were expected to deal with it the
same way.

Simon
Stocken conducted business out of a small warehouse on the central city side of
the waterfront. Prime locations backed up to the lagoon for easier and more
discreet loading and unloading of cargo, but, as much of Stocken’s business was
conducted from the rich coffers of the central city, his less than ideal
location suited his needs nicely, as did his front as a wine merchant. If it
was a rare vintage, Stocken could get it for you—for a price. Like many
merchants in Mermeia, Stocken’s most valuable shipments were never seen by city
tax agents.

Mermeia’s
central city also had the dubious honor of being the financial center of the
seven kingdoms. And where there was money, there were creative uses, and
misuses. Mermeian loans financed wars, coups, treasons, assassinations—all the
building blocks of civilized society.

We
were walking at a fast pace in the shadows of Belacant Way, one block over from
Stocken’s warehouse. While the fast pace was healthy at this time of night
under normal circumstances, tonight hardly qualified as normal. Normal
waterfront hazards included cutpurses and garden-variety murderers, not
Khrynsani temple guards and jewelry that made my stomach do flips.

I
didn’t sense anyone following us. That was the first good thing to happen all
night. It also made it a perfect time to start that talk I wanted to have with
Quentin.

“Wait,”
I told Quentin and my cousin.

Phaelan
stopped. Quentin clearly didn’t want to.

“I
need to deliver this to Stocken,” he objected.

“A
few more minutes isn’t going to make any difference,” I told him. “And I’m not
convinced you should give that thing to Simon Stocken. Phaelan and I are in
this, whether we want to be or not—”

“And
we don’t,” Phaelan said.

“So I
think we deserve to know what’s going on.”

Quentin
made no move to enlighten us.

I
crossed my arms. “Now would be nice.”

Quentin’s
blue eyes darted to the warehouse behind us like he expected goblins to leap
out of the walls. I had never seen him this nervous, and we had been in plenty
of situations where he’d had ample opportunity. This wasn’t like Quentin at
all, and I didn’t like it. His mystery employer just earned a top spot on my
list of least-liked people.

“About
a week ago, Simon contacted me about a job,” Quentin said, talking fast. “I
meet with him, he tells me what the client wants, and how much he’s willing to
pay to get it. It was good money. Real good. Then Simon tells me whose house
I’d be breaking into. I tell him to forget it, no deal. That’s when he hands me
the letter. Tells me the man looking to hire me said to give me the letter if I
refuse the job. So I read it.” Quentin paused for air, and his jaw tightened.
“Let’s just say the letter changed my mind.”

“What
was in it?” Phaelan asked.

“I’m
not saying. But it’s got nothing to do with what happened back there.”

I
knew that probably wasn’t true, but I wasn’t going to force the issue, at least
not now. “Did Stocken tell you who the client was?”

“A
man by the name of Dinten Ronk,” Quentin said. “Claimed to be a silversmith
from Laerin. Simon had heard of a silversmith by that name. Parts of him were
found last month stuffed in a barrel on the Laerin docks. The man who showed up
at Simon’s may have been a fake, but his gold was real enough, so Simon didn’t
ask too many questions.” He grinned. “Didn’t want to scare away a paying
customer.”

“Was
the impostor Dinten Ronk also human?” I asked.

Quentin
shrugged. “As far as I know. Simon didn’t say otherwise, and he would have at
least mentioned it. Not that he has anything against nonhumans. Simon does
business with everyone.”

“Including
goblins?” Phaelan asked.

Quentin
threw a nervous glance back in the direction we came from. “Not those goblins.”

“Any
idea why the Khrynsani want the amulet?” I asked.

“I
didn’t even know there was an amulet. My job was to get the box. Simon didn’t
tell me what was inside. I asked. He said the client either didn’t know
himself, or just wouldn’t tell him.”

“So
why didn’t you bring the box?” Phaelan asked.

“I
dropped it, all right?” Quentin’s voice went up about two octaves. “Seeing
goblins appear out of nowhere can make you drop things. I had the amulet in my
hand, and I figured that’s what they wanted anyway. If I’m dead, the client
doesn’t get his goods, and I don’t get the rest of my money, so I jumped out
the window. Seeing goblins can make you do that, too.”

I
didn’t doubt that, but I did doubt the part about goblins appearing out of
nowhere. They had to have come from somewhere, and since they were Khrynsani,
they didn’t need a door to make an entrance. I knew that. Quentin didn’t need
to. No use scaring him any more than he already was.

“Did
the goblins see that you had the amulet?” I asked.

“I
don’t know.” He looked a little embarrassed. “It got kind of chaotic.”

Quentin
screaming and running and jumping out of windows certainly qualified as
chaotic.

“Well,
if neither Stocken nor the client is expecting an amulet,” I said, carefully
assuming my best rational tone, “then they won’t be disappointed when they
don’t get one.”

“What
are you saying?” Quentin knew very well, and from the way his eyes narrowed, he
didn’t like it one bit.

“Nigel
Nicabar had it,” I told him. “The Khrynsani want it. I don’t know what this
amulet is or what it does, but if the Khrynsani want it, it would probably be
bad if they got it.”

Quentin
started to speak, and I held up a hand. “Hear me out. Just tell Stocken about
the goblins. Tell him you dropped the box, and you don’t know what happened to
it after that. That’s not a lie.”

“What
about my money?”

“What
about it?”

Quentin
and Phaelan looked at me like I’d just uttered the most condemnable blasphemy
imaginable.

“I
got twenty gold tenari,” Quentin informed me. “Up front.”

Phaelan
whistled. “I’d stroll around Nigel’s house at night for that.”

“I’m
going to get five more when I deliver the goods, and another five if I deliver
it before dawn.” Quentin took two steps in the direction of Stocken’s
warehouse. “So I’m in a bit of a hurry. If we can move along, I can get my
money, and we can all go home.”

I
didn’t move. “Don’t you mean when you deliver
the box
?”

Realization
began to dawn on Quentin, and the thought that he might not get paid for
delivering an amulet rather than a box was the final blow to an already bad
night. I felt equally bad about breaking the news to him, but I would have felt
even worse if the amulet was sold out from underneath us before I knew what the
Khrynsani wanted with it—or more to the point, what Sarad Nukpana wanted with
it.

Sarad
Nukpana was the Khrynsani grand shaman. He was also a sadistic psychopath. I’d
done work for Duke Markus Sevelien long enough to have that confirmed on
numerous occasions.

Markus
was the head of elven intelligence in Mermeia. I’d like to think he’d retained
me as a consultant because of my superior seeking skills, but I know
differently. Markus thought my being related to criminals helped me know the
criminal mind. This wasn’t always true, but I wasn’t one to turn down a
regular, well-paying client just because he wounded my delicate sensibilities.
Truth be told, if it can be picked up, pried off, or in any way pilfered, my
family’s made off with it at one time or another. Unfortunately those pilfered
goods have occasionally included people. It’s not something I’m proud of, but
it’s not something I can deny.

Most
of my work for Markus involved finding pilfered elves—diplomats, intelligence
agents, assorted nobles. The kind of people the less savory members of my
family would love to get their ransom-grubbing hands on. Though most of the
missing elves Markus wanted me to find had been taken by the kind of people who
had no interest in ransom. I guess the more money you had, the cheaper life
was.

And I
had it on the best authority that no one held life in lower regard than Sarad
Nukpana.

I’d
heard stories from some of Markus’s agents who had seen the rotten fruits of
Nukpana’s labors up close and personal. A few of Markus’s agents were goblins.
They knew the Khrynsani grand shaman as soft voiced, cultured and courteous
with a formidable intellect. Elven agents told a different story. One of them
had been held across from another cell where Nukpana was interrogating a human prisoner.
Nukpana chatted as if hosting a cocktail party—while he did a little
exploratory surgery. His prisoner/patient was awake. The elven agent said the
screams went on longer than he thought possible. The pleasant conversation
continued, even after the screams had stopped. That story alone kept me waking
up in a cold sweat for weeks.

“But
it was the amulet they really wanted.” Quentin was looking in growing
desperation from one of us to the other. “Right?”

“Probably.”
I answered. “But Stocken might take some convincing. Then he’d have to get back
to the client for confirmation. All of which is going to delay your payment. In
the meantime, you can’t turn over the amulet without proper payment. As a
businessman, Stocken would understand that. It’s just not good business.”

“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.