Magic Lost, Trouble Found rb-1

by Lisa Shearin

  I had a pair of blades in my hands and a spell on my lips, and I was familiar with the alley Piaras had been shoved into. Unlike many alleys in Mermeia, this one had two exits. The trick would be to get to the closest exit first. Maneuverable space in any street near The Ruins was at a minimum. Not the safest place to cross swords with anything. Halfway down the block was another alley that ran parallel. An opening between a pair of buildings connected the two. In addition to not going in blind, it might earn me the element of surprise. Surprise may not always be necessary, but I’ve found it’s a good thing to have. Sometimes it’s the only thing you can get.

  I ran as silently down the alley as I could, checked around the corner and proceeded to the end. I stopped and listened. It was virtually dark between the buildings and completely silent. Great. My hackles went up along with my suspicions. There should be some kind of noise. Piaras may be young and inexperienced, but he wouldn’t go without a fight. I flexed my fingers on the grips of my short swords to ease the tension. Nothing left but to take a look.

  Piaras and his captors were standing where I could clearly see them. They were facing the alley, obviously waiting for me. Damn. Piaras had given them a fight, but had come out on the losing side. There was a line of blood from one side of his mouth, and the side of his face showed signs of a fist-sized bruise. One of his captors was big, cloaked, hooded, and had one leather-covered arm firmly around Piaras’s throat, choking off all sound and most of the air. His other hand held a long, slender blade pressed under Piaras’s third rib, just below the heart. His hands were bare—and gray.

  The goblin didn’t move and neither did I.

  Two more goblins emerged from the shadows. Their elegant clothing and leather armor all but blended in with the increasing dark. Street thugs they weren’t. I knew one of them: Rahimat, the spellsinger from Tam’s nightclub. He stopped to stand beside Piaras, a slender stiletto at the ready. Whether Tam had anything to do with this remained to be seen, but if I got out of this alive, Tam had some explaining to do—and he’d better talk fast, before he couldn’t talk at all.

  A slight figure lurked on the edges of the shadows. I couldn’t see his face, but I didn’t need to.

  “You skipped dessert,” I told Ocnus.

  “Business comes first. I can always have dessert later.” He turned to the goblin holding Piaras captive. “I kept my end of the bargain.”

  The hooded goblin nodded to Rahimat, and the spellsinger distastefully tossed a pouch of coins at Ocnus’s feet. Unless my Benares ears deceived me, it sounded suspiciously like fifty gold tenari. The pouch vanished into the folds of Ocnus’s robes almost before it hit the ground.

  The little goblin’s smile was full of fang. “It’s always a pleasure to do business with you, Mistress Benares.” Then he scurried out of the alley.

  Other goblins even better armed started coming out of the woodwork. Under normal circumstances I would have run, but normal circumstances didn’t have Piaras with me and at the mercy of goblins who carried themselves and their weapons with the confidence of professional killers.

  The hood of the goblin who held Piaras captive slipped back, exposing the high cheekbones and handsome, angled features of old-blood nobility. A trio of goblins approached me from behind and began relieving me of my weapons. They managed to find everything, and I had no choice but to let them. I looked at Piaras, willing him to a calmness I didn’t feel. His dark eyes reflected equal measures of pain, fear and helpless rage. The leader stared unblinking at me, his dark eyes hard and flat. Piaras was no more to him than a means to an end.

  When I was completely unarmed, he spoke. His voice was calm and measured, and he expected nothing less than my full cooperation.

  “You will come with us, or the boy will die.”

  Chapter 10

  There were two types of ground in The Ruins—that which was solid, and that which only looked that way. I hoped our captors knew the difference.

  Few remembered what The Ruins’ real name was. It had once been the most exclusive address in Mermeia—until about a hundred years ago, when a personal vendetta between a pair of retired Conclave mages got out of hand. It had been a lush island park in the middle of the city, home to only the most wealthy. When creatures out of a nightmare began haunting the dead mages’ estates, Mermeia’s social elite decided to take their high living elsewhere. Grand villas and sprawling gardens fell into piles of stone and swamp as the trees and lagoon reclaimed their own. Ruins were all that remained of the once beautiful mansions, and the name had stuck.

  Since then, The Ruins had become a favorite haunt of criminal gangs and rogue sorcerers looking for a hiding place and privacy for their work and experiments. The descendants of a few of those magical experiments gone awry still roamed The Ruins’ depths. In the course of my work, I’d seen a few of them firsthand, and had secondhand knowledge of others. I was in no hurry to repeat either experience.

  Several unfortunate incidents had forced the city’s leaders to take action. A high, iron fence topped with spikes was erected to keep The Ruins’ inhabitants in, and the general populace of Mermeia out. Protecting the stupid from themselves hadn’t been a popular use for taxes. Many citizens, myself included, felt that if someone wasn’t bright enough not to go wandering into The Ruins, they had every right to cut themselves from the herd, and we shouldn’t go wasting taxpayer coin trying to stop them.

  A walk through The Ruins was bad enough without being bound, blindfolded, and led by armed goblins. I had been here before, though it wasn’t my first choice then and it certainly wasn’t where I wanted to be now. I couldn’t see a thing either through or underneath the blindfold, but my other senses were telling me that things hadn’t improved any since my last visit.

  Daytime in The Ruins was generally quiet, as most of the things that made their home there needed the dark in order to venture out. As soon as the sun set, those things began to wake up—hungry things whose first order of business was to find food. Unfortunately, Piaras and I qualified as food. Muffled shrieks and calls erupted from nearby. A guttural moan materialized from above us, only to be abruptly silenced. I wasn’t sure which was worse, whatever the goblins had planned for us, or being an evening snack for what was now growling to my immediate right.

  Escaping wasn’t an option I considered for very long. Even if we could get away, it was dark, we were blindfolded, our hands were securely bound behind our backs, but most importantly, I knew what was out there. When it came to The Ruins, I’d consider our captors the lesser of two evils until they proved otherwise.

  Piaras was being herded by a second group of goblins on the trail behind us. They didn’t want me talking to him. That became obvious to me the moment I tried. My jaw still ached from where a goblin fist had abruptly made its acquaintance. Apparently a punch hurts a lot more if you don’t have the advantage of seeing it coming.

  The goblins set a quick pace. Apparently they didn’t like leisurely nighttime strolls through The Ruins either. I was grateful for the speed, but it didn’t make it easy to keep my feet under me. My captors didn’t care. With a firm grip on my upper arms, they just lifted me over whatever obstacle lay in their path. I guess it was faster than letting me fall down on a regular basis.

  Our captors finally slowed down. From that, and the feel of flagstones beneath my boots, I guessed we had arrived at one of the abandoned villas. I hardly expected to find a goblin who could afford the muscle accompanying us camping out in a fisherman’s hut, and I had to admit it was the perfect hiding place.

  I heard more goblins as we were led up a short stair and into what I assumed was our destination. I dimly saw flickers of light beneath the cloth of my blindfold as we were taken down a long corridor. I heard goblin voices. One suddenly drowned out the others in a flash of anger. I couldn’t make out the words, but the voice’s owner clearly wasn’t happy. A door grated open on long-unused hinges, and my arms involuntarily tensed in my captors’ grip. The voice abruptly lowe
red to a terse, sibilant whisper. We were pushed forward and the voice fell silent.

  A gloved hand removed my blindfold. Once I finished blinking against the light, I found myself in what looked to have once been a gentleman’s study. The dark wood walls were dull with age and neglect. What furniture remained was of the finest quality, before time and damp swamp air had taken their toll. Much of it was covered with either sheets or equally pale and filmy cobwebs. That told me that the goblins hadn’t been here long, and they weren’t planning to outstay their welcome. The room was lit by candles, and the sole source of heat was a small fire dwarfed by the massive marble fireplace that contained it.

  Our host stood before the fireplace. He was a tall goblin, his beautiful face a carefully emotionless mask. Except for its blue black shimmer, his waist-length hair was unadorned. His eyes were dark and intense, with hardly any white exposed. He took a breath and a forced calm settled over him. I wasn’t fooled. I also knew exactly who he was. Prince Chigaru Mal’Salin may be a fugitive on the run from his brother, but he was going to do it in style, and he could certainly afford the muscle that had brought us here and now loomed directly behind us.

  Some of the goblins in the room with him also wore their black hair loose, while others wore theirs in braids, elaborately entwined with silver chains and caught at the base with jeweled clasps. They wore earrings with fine chains linking them to cuffs attached to the ear near the pointed tip. All were stylishly attired in dark silks and velvets; and like their prince, some wore intricately tooled leather and blued-steel armor in addition to their finery. All were armed.

  Street thugs they weren’t. They looked like what they probably were: a royal court in exile.

  I inclined my head to the tall goblin by the fireplace. “Your Highness.”

  “Mistress Benares.”

  Sarad Nukpana and a Mal’Salin prince knew my name. That was more than a little alarming.

  “Yes, I know who you are,” the goblin prince said. His gaze landed on Piaras. “Who is this?”

  “Bait,” one of the guards told him.

  Piaras’s dark eyes flashed in anger. Good for him. He hadn’t panicked, and he had been given ample opportunity. From what I’d heard about the Mal’Salins, things would probably get worse before they got any better. If they got any better.

  The prince’s black eyes locked with mine for several long moments. “Untie them,” he said quietly.

  One of the guards approached and sliced through my bindings. I rubbed my wrists to restore the circulation. Piaras did the same.

  “I apologize for any inconvenience or affront to your dignity. I assure you neither was intended. I needed to speak with you, and you have been most persistent in avoiding me.”

  Avoiding him? I didn’t even know he was looking for me. Though I shouldn’t be surprised. It seemed like everyone else in Mermeia was looking for me. The prince’s voice was polite, but strained. He was under control, but only because he wouldn’t allow himself to be otherwise, at least not yet. Something was going on here, and I didn’t think I wanted to know what it was.

  “I regret I had to resort to such crude means to bring you here, but I am running out of time, and you left me with no choice. It was fortunate that you happened along when and where you did. If you had not, we would have had the regrettable task of proving that we had your young friend. We probably would have had to do something drastic.” He paused. “That would have been unfortunate.”

  Piaras paled. The prince took no notice. I fumed.

  “Well, we’re all lucky today, aren’t we, Your Highness?” I knew I was in enough trouble without comments like that, but I couldn’t help myself.

  The prince ignored it. “May I offer you a drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He gestured with a long-fingered hand to a high-backed chair opposite the fireplace from himself. “Then sit. If you please.”

  Not seeing the harm in it, I accepted. Better to save my strength for when I needed it later. He took the chair opposite me. Piaras was left standing, flanked by a pair of guards. The prince had made his status clear. I would cooperate, or Piaras would suffer. I had known Chigaru Mal’Salin for less than three minutes and I already disliked him. Not that I really expected to feel any other way.

  The goblin prince gestured to a figure standing on the edge of the shadows. “Jabari?”

  “Yes, Your Highness?”

  “I want you and Sefu to stay. The rest of you may go.”

  He may have been addressing his guards and courtiers, but he never took his eyes from mine. I made it a point not to look away. If there was any blinking to be done, I wasn’t going to be first.

  “I understand you met Sarad Nukpana last night.”

  I saw no reason to deny it. “I wouldn’t exactly call what happened between us a meeting. More like an avoidance.”

  “Only on your part,” he murmured. “Sarad Nukpana is most eager to make your acquaintance.”

  I shrugged. “I seem to be having that effect on men lately.”

  “Yes, there is something about you that is oddly bewitching.”

  I tapped my heel against the floor, knocking some of the mud from my boots. “Must be some indescribable quality I have.”

  “I can describe it quite well. A silver medallion of elven make, carved with runes that do not seem to mean anything—except to a dead elven Guardian who had it forged nine hundred years ago. Does that sound familiar?”

  I shook my head, which wasn’t easy to do around the lump that had taken up residence in my throat. “Not in the least. But then it doesn’t sound like my taste in jewelry either.”

  The goblin prince leaned forward, close enough for me to catch his scent. Sandalwood mixed with spices. His voice was soft and low. “Sarad Nukpana knows you have it—as do I. Your secret is out, Mistress Benares.”

  I let the silence grow for a few moments, and when I spoke, my voice was steady, which was another surprise. I made no move to show him the amulet, and I certainly wasn’t going to take it off, even if I could.

  “I really think you could afford better,” I told him. “Mermeia has some of the finest silversmiths in the seven kingdoms. What’s so special about this particular chunk of metal?”

  It was the prince’s turn to grow some silence. He did it well, and he did it for longer than I did. As the silence expanded, so did his smile. It was genuine. He found something amusing, and I think I was at the business end of his joke.

  “You actually do not know what you carry.” There was a note of wonder in his voice. “How can that be?” Then he thought of something that tickled his funny bone even more. “I could tell you,” he teased, “but your stay here would have to be longer. I could not risk you interfering with my plans.”

  I wasn’t about to give him the amulet, so he could plan on keeping me here for as long as he liked. I had yet to be locked up anywhere that I couldn’t get out of.

  I settled back in the cushions, and leisurely crossed my legs at the ankles. “Enlighten me.” Chigaru Mal’Salin wasn’t exactly the information source I had in mind, but since no one else was willing to talk, I’d take my knowledge where I could get it.

  The prince’s black eyes glittered in the dim firelight. “What do you know of the Saghred?”

  I knew it was goblin. When Garadin had taught me goblin history, he had concentrated on the crazies—which meant I had a more than adequate knowledge of the Mal’Salin dynasty. The Saghred had been temporarily in the possession of Omari, a Mal’Salin king who had elevated insanity to an art form.

  “A legendary talisman first heard of in your peoples’ Fifth Age,” I said, as if reciting from Garadin’s lesson. “It was said to be a black rock that fell from the sky. It was incredibly heavy, but it was only the size of a man’s fist. Rumor had it King Omari wanted to use it to destroy anyone and anything he didn’t like, which was pretty much everyone and everything. Rumor also had it the rock was more than capable of all of the above and t
hen some. Only shamans of the highest order could wield it—at least for a while. Eventually they all went insane and destroyed themselves. The Saghred was contained in a specially made casket of white stone from the Sorce Mountains. The Guardians took it away from King Omari. They tried to destroy it and failed, so they hid it. It was never seen again.” I paused, mostly for air. “I couldn’t walk all that well if I had a rock that heavy hanging around my neck, Your Highness.”

  “No doubt,” the prince agreed. “And the Saghred is not an object safely transported. Which is why the Guardian charged with protecting it had a beacon made to enable him to watch his charge without having to keep it with him, or remain in the Saghred’s hiding place for the rest of his life.”

  I realized where this was going, and it wasn’t anyplace I wanted to be. “Let me guess, you think his jewelry commission was a silver medallion.”

  The goblin prince didn’t answer. He just smiled.

  “A beacon with which to locate the Saghred,” he told me. “In my people’s language, the word Saghred roughly translates as ‘Thief of Souls,’ something else it is said to do. According to legend, shamans who had fallen from royal favor were sacrificed to the stone. The shamans doing the sacrificing received enhanced powers from the stone in exchange for their gift. Those enhanced powers came with an extended life and insanity; being sacrificed meant your soul was trapped for eternity inside the stone.”

  The prince leaned forward in his chair. “And if I may correct you, Mistress Benares.” His silken voice was little more than a murmur. “While all the shamans who used the Saghred did go insane, only a few actually destroyed themselves. Most were taken by the stone.”

  The only sound was the crackle of the fire. “Taken?” I whispered.

  “While using the Saghred. If the stone hungered, it would feed to sustain itself. Those shamans were absorbed, Mistress. Their powers and souls added to those already trapped inside—trapped for eternity with the very colleagues they had sacrificed with their own hands.”