“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.
I also knew who the fancy robe wearer was. I’d had ample descriptions from Markus’s agents.
The hood on Sarad Nukpana’s robe was back and I could clearly see his face. He was only slightly taller than me, slender and compact beneath his robes. His gleaming black hair fell nearly to his waist and was held back from his face with the narrow silver circlet of his office. His features were elegant without appearing weak, beautiful without sacrificing one bit of masculinity. The reality of the goblin grand shaman didn’t match the stories and nightmares I’d heard from others. But then the most beautiful serpents were the most poisonous.
There were ten Khrynsani with him that I could see, and I was certain there were more.
“Sit tight,” Phaelan whispered. “I’ll get some help. Tanik Ozal and his crew are two blocks over at the Rude Parrot. They live for this sort of thing.”
I nodded. I agreed with him, to a point. The goblins with Sarad Nukpana were professional killers; Tanik’s crew just did it for fun. There was a difference. Whether Phaelan could get back in time with Tanik and his merry band of cutthroats was one thing, whether they would be able to keep Quentin from being killed or worse was quite another.
“You took your time joining us, Master Rand,” Nukpana told Quentin. His dark eyes regarded the dead broker gently swaying from the beam overhead. “Apparently the late Master Stocken tired of waiting for you.”
“So you killed him,” Quentin said flatly.
Nukpana smiled as if he knew the punchline to a private joke. “Master Stocken was already dancing on air when I arrived.”
“To do what?”
“Inquire about a box you recently acquired from a certain nachtmagus.”
Quentin didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Considering the difficulty you had stealing it, I wouldn’t think you would have forgotten so soon. My guards remember you”—Nukpana’s smile vanished—“and your friends. If you need help jogging your memory, a few hours staked out on the edge of the Daith Swamp should suffice. I do have a little time at my disposal this evening. I’m certain the bog beetles would appreciate dining on something besides dead fish.”
Quentin said nothing. But my mind was racing. Quentin was terrified, but not nearly terrified enough. He had no clue who and what Sarad Nukpana was, and for once I was grateful for Quentin’s ignorance. Why Nukpana wanted the amulet could wait, for now. What I needed to know was how to keep Quentin from getting himself killed in one of the many interesting ways only someone of Nukpana’s ability and perversions could devise. I was feeling outnumbered. For the moment, the best thing I could do for Quentin was to sit quietly, not knock anything over, and wait. Either for Phaelan and friends to return and give me the diversion I needed to grab Quentin and run, or for an opening that had yet to present itself. It wouldn’t help Quentin to get myself killed, and it wouldn’t do much for me either.
Quentin remained silent.
“Tell me more about your friends,” Nukpana asked in a quiet voice.
“What’s in it for me? You’ll kill me faster?”
The goblin smiled, a glimmer of fang peeking into view. Quentin swallowed.
Nukpana moved slowly towards him, the only sound the sibilant rustle of his robes. “I’ve always held the opinion that anything worth doing is worth doing correctly. From time to time, some of the gentlemen here have the challenge of extracting information. Even though I provide careful instruction to my guards, the new ones do it rather sloppily. It’s unfortunate, but expected in those with little experience. Information that dies with its owner is of no use to me. Practice does make perfect.”
The goblin stopped, his face mere inches from Quentin’s own. “I have no doubt you will tell me all I want to know,” he murmured. “Eventually. You’re here to deliver the box to Master Stocken, who would in turn collect payment from his client. The client would then take possession of his new purchase. You do remember how it works in polite criminal circles, little thief?”
Nukpana was closer to where I was, but not nearly close enough for me to stick something sharp through him.
“I am that client,” he said. “And I have paid Master Stocken in full.” The smile vanished. “I want my property. Disarm him. Completely. Then bring me the box.” He turned to leave the circle, then paused. “On second thought, if he resists, just kill him.”
Four temple guards moved to act on Nukpana’s orders.
Then a lot of things happened at once.
I heard a familiar whistle and thump, and one of the guards holding Quentin looked down in surprise at the crossbow bolt that had just bloomed from his chest. The goblin pitched forward to the floor, the fletching protruding from his back. At the same instant, one of the men securing Quentin’s arms was propelled backwards against the warehouse wall, a bolt through his throat.
Nukpana lunged for Quentin, wrapping an arm around his neck, a curved knife at his throat. The small blade Nukpana wielded glowed sickly green with a power of its own. A pair of glowing threads snaked outwards from the tip of the blade. One curled itself around Quentin’s throat; the other hovered above his heart. One word from Nukpana, and what looked like two harmless tendrils of light would instantly strike, enter Quentin’s body, and end his life. I had a pair of daggers ready that would do the same for Nukpana the moment he drew breath to speak that word. I crept closer, stopping just on the edge of the light.
A strong, clear voice came from the shadows, not twenty feet away. “Don’t move.”
I froze. So did everyone else. The command wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The volume was from the warehouse’s cave-like interior—the authority came from another source entirely. The echo of those simple words resonated with a quiet power held in perfect check. It also doused all other magic in the room like a bucket of cold water on a candle. It looked like Nukpana’s antics had attracted a spellsinger. My night was just getting better all the time.
With the power of their voice alone—the inflection, the resonance, the charisma—a spellsinger could influence thought with a quietly hummed phrase, or control actions with simple speech or carefully crafted tune. The number of people didn’t matter. One spellsinger could turn the tide of battle. Gifted spellsingers were highly prized and sought after—not to mention rare and dangerous. Judging from the way the tiny hairs on my arms were standing at attention, this one could probably do virtually anything he wanted to with his voice, and not only would his intended victim not mind in the least, they’d probably enjoy it.
