“We’ll be buying what he’s selling with his cronies’ money. Screwed by his own greed. I love it.”
Mago nodded once. “The more money he demands, the more he and his partners will lose.”
“Okay, we’re paying him with his own money. He’ll want it deposited into this new account of his.”
“Correct.”
“So . . . how does all this gold end up in your affluent client’s account?”
“Balmorlan’s new account is private. That means it’s only identified by numbers; there’s no name attached. I don’t know which one is his. I could find out, but it would take too much time. Balmorlan will give you the account transit number to transfer the money. With that I can get everything else I need to empty the contents of his new account into the prince’s.”
“A goblin prince who wants peace with the elves, not war.”
Mago took a sip of his drink to hide a small smile. “No doubt his elven partners will be very disappointed in him. And if elven intelligence somehow discovers that he’s funding the enemy, or if his war-monger partners find out he’s donated all of their money to a peace-loving goblin prince . . .”
I cracked my knuckles meaningfully. “Taltek Balmorlan will be taking a long swim with a rock and rope.”
“You’re as barbaric as Phaelan.”
“Thank you.” I toyed with the cutlery, too, most notably the knife which had an acceptably sharp edge. “So instead of merely draining the old account Balmorlan has with his partners as previously planned, we’ll be draining his partners’ account into his new account—”
“Then emptying the lot of them. Thanks to my colleagues back in D’Mai, there will be an abundant and obvious paper trail, so Balmorlan’s partners will have no trouble discovering exactly where their money went—and to whom that account belongs.”
I grinned. “His partners will come after him with a vengeance.”
“No doubt they’ll be extremely upset with him.”
“And after he gives us the account transit numbers, your banking friends will be able to tell you exactly which bloated account is his—”
“And will empty every last coin Inquisitor Balmorlan has into a poor, exiled goblin prince’s account.” Mago raised his glass. “Here’s to a generous elven benefactor whose largesse will soon be the talk of the seven kingdoms.”
I clinked my glass to his.
Mago took and savored a sip. “Now do you understand everything?”
“I always did.”
That earned me an annoyed look. “Then why did you make me say it again?”
“To make sure it hadn’t suddenly sprouted a new twist. Symon doesn’t strike me as the type who would like surprises. I know I don’t. I’ve had enough surprises since this whole crapfest started to last me a lifetime.” Then I remembered something we hadn’t actually covered. “Are we eating lunch?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Lunch. Are we eating?”
Mago’s expression came perilously close to appalled. “Of course. Inquisitor Balmorlan made the reservations—and he is paying.”
I grinned. “Then what’s the most expensive thing on the menu?”
Mago flashed his teeth in a predatory smile. “I have no idea, but whatever it is, I’ll have what you’re having.”
Three men came in. One was Taltek Balmorlan; the other two were protective muscle. These boys looked like they were good at being big, but that was about it. Speed, either in thought or action, didn’t appear to be a burden that either one carried. However, there were others outside: lean, armed, and alert. The muscle-bound bookends were merely decorative. Balmorlan didn’t expect trouble in here. His elven guards were outside to keep the trouble from coming inside.
I had news for Taltek Balmorlan—the worst trouble he’d ever had in his life would be sitting right next to him. I felt myself smile. I’d make the bastard curse the day he’d ever heard the name Raine Benares.
“Symon doesn’t gut business acquaintances with a spoon,” Mago whispered in a singsong voice.
I looked down in surprise at my clenched hand. A spoon. I knew how to do all sorts of unpleasant things to a man with a spoon. I calmly set it down, reluctantly forced the homicidal grin off my face, and stood to greet the man I was about to ruin.
Once introductions were complete, we all sat down. Time for small talk. As a result of my newfound vindictive confidence, it was amazing how relaxed and talkative I was.
After a few minutes I sensed someone standing at my left shoulder, patiently waiting for me to finish what I’d been saying. I turned to look and damned near lost it.
Vegard was a vision of servile propriety in black tunic, poofy black knee breeches, black hose, and . . . did my eyes deceive me? Nope, they knew what they were seeing—black shoes with darling black silk rosettes on top. The big Guardian’s blond hair was pulled back and tightly braided, his beard was closely trimmed in dandy fashion, and a pair of delicate gold-rimmed spectacles were perched on what was definitely not Vegard’s real nose.
“Hello, I’m Marc, and I’ll be your server today.”
As I looked up at him, I had to bite my bottom lip as tears welled up in my eyes. Fortunately, my back was to Balmorlan so he couldn’t witness my facial contortions.
Vegard, the consummate professional, didn’t bat an eye—which were now green, by the way.
“Would you like to hear our chef’s specials?” he asked.
“Of course,” Mago told him, knowing that I was well past the power of speech.
I got myself under control as Vegard—excuse me, Marc—prattled on about the sauce for this fish or the glaze for that steak, and even went so far as to make wine recommendations for each. Impressive.
Mago ordered the best cut of beef in the largest portion the restaurant had. Mid was an island and a rocky one at that. Fish were plentiful, but beef would most definitely be an import—a pricey one.
I handed my menu back to Marc with a bright smile. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
Balmorlan ordered the fish.
I proposed that we not talk business until after we’d eaten. Balmorlan didn’t like it, but then Balmorlan wasn’t going to like much about our meeting, though he wouldn’t know it until the results jumped up and bit him on the ass.
As we chatted and ate what was quite possibly the best meal I’d ever had, I became painfully aware that Taltek Balmorlan wasn’t what one would call a scintillating conversationalist. Mago, on the other hand, was well educated, well traveled, well-heeled, and well . . . interesting. Everything Balmorlan obviously was not.
I knew there had to be an accepted way to discuss buying something of questionable legality with money that was not your own. Since I had no clue what that was, I went with the direct approach. It seemed to be the way Symon would handle it. And since Balmorlan apparently accepted me as the genuine article, I just cut to the chase.
“You didn’t ask me all the way here from D’Mai for lunch.”
“I would have preferred a more private meeting location.”
“Such as your embassy, which is considered elven soil and is subject to elven law.” I dabbed my lips with my napkin and laid it carefully on the table. “I’m not an elf and the people whose interests I represent aren’t elves. So you can understand my suspicion of your elven privacy.”
“Symon, Symon, you misjudge me. Have I ever gone back on my word or not delivered what I’d promised?”
I had no idea what Balmorlan had promised or delivered, so I went with a stony silence. It seemed like the right response.
Balmorlan pursed his lips in annoyance and lowered his voice. “You can’t still blame me for your operation in Tamir.”
“Can’t I?”
“Your associates got what they paid for. However, it was beyond my control that the intelligence I was given reported that the garrison was empty. There was no way I could have known that your partners’ men had been set up for an ambush.”