by Lisa Shearin
Quentin gasped, trying to get his wind back. “I’ve got to get to Simon Stocken’s.”
“What did you take?”
Quentin’s expression was somewhere between mere panic and basic terror, probably inspired by the goblins, not me. “What do you mean?”
I gave him a shake. “What’s in the box?”
He pulled a chain out of his shirt. On its end spun a plain, silver amulet. “You mean this?”
I winced, expecting a repeat of my alley experience. But there was no pain. No urge to be sick. I also couldn’t believe my eyes.
“What is it with you and necklaces!”
Phaelan dropped down beside us. He couldn’t believe we were still there.
“Go!”
Beyond going to see Simon Stocken, I didn’t know what Quentin’s plans were. But if it involved another extended stay in the Daith Swamp, he was on his own. Friendship only went so far.
Chapter 2
Few things stirred a man’s protective instincts like ill-gotten goods.
To anyone who had no business there, Mermeia’s east waterfront district was a place best avoided after dark. Chances were, if a man had killed to obtain certain objects, he had no qualms over killing to keep them a while longer, at least until he saw fit to sell them for a healthy profit.
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.
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.