In the next few days I had to ruin Balmorlan or kill him, stop my former fiancé from killing the man I loved, keep a goblin prince alive, and prevent a full-scale racial war from ending life as we knew it. All while keeping myself alive, sane, and unarrested.
My time was literally running out.
Chapter 11
Mago returned a few hours later, told me his plan, and after I picked my jaw up off the floor, I had to admit that it was brilliant.
No one but a Benares would be crazy enough to do this.
I was standing in a cathouse, glamoured as a puny banker. In the next hour, I would be having a late supper with an elven inquisitor. For dessert, I would con or possibly kill said inquisitor.
The best thing about the entire scheme was that as long as I was glamoured as Symon Wiggs, I couldn’t use the Saghred.
And the Saghred couldn’t use me.
“Tell me again why we’re here?” I asked Mago.
“We need information before our meeting, which is conveniently at a restaurant across the street. If you want to know every secret, scandal, or just catch up on the day’s news, go to the best house in town, have some drinks and a cigar in the madam’s parlor, throw some money around . . .” He spread his hands and smiled. “And the news will come to you.”
“Could we find out what happened to Mychael, Tam, and—”
“Most assuredly.”
I let out a sigh that was half relief, half anxiety. I had to know what happened; right now ignorance wasn’t bliss, it was torment. You’ll know when you know, Raine. Try not to think about it.
Yeah, right.
“You know the madam here?” I asked even though I was hardly surprised.
“As a matter of fact, I am on the most cordial of terms with the madams of the finest houses in most major cities. You would be surprised how many business deals are made in a madam’s parlor.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Cultivating such relationships is the most advantageous mixing of business and pleasure.” He dipped his head toward my ear and lowered his voice. “How long can you hold that glamour?”
“The longest I’ve had to hold one is three hours.”
“Could you hold it for longer if you had to?”
“I don’t know how much strength it takes to hold an anatomically correct glamour. And I hope I don’t have to find out.”
The Satyr’s Grove was exactly as I’d remembered it. Well, as much as I could remember from running through it, chasing then fighting the specter of an ancient elven sorcerer who’d possessed one of the customers. The Night of the Naked Possessed Guy definitely ranked up there as one of my less dignified.
I didn’t know what Symon’s usual odds were at getting laid, but I was willing to bet the ladies at the Satyr’s Grove would charge him extra.
Not that I was going to find out.
At least I didn’t plan on finding out.
I was a man on a mission. And that mission had nothing to do with what little was between my legs.
Once inside, Mago didn’t hesitate, but walked straight through the front reception area to a large door flanked by matching muscle. One was human, one an elf, both were big. Not the big that came from working out, but the big that came from throwing out—anyone who caused trouble in the house.
One smiled at Mago and the other opened the door for us.
Traveling in Mago’s wake had its advantages.
The madam’s parlor looked like a really nice gentlemen’s club—dark wood, fancy furniture, rich men. Though not particularly attractive rich men. Ugly might be taking it a bit far, but let’s just say that Symon Wiggs wasn’t the homeliest guy in the room. But the job of every sleek, yet curvaceous woman in that room was to make every last one of those men feel like leaving a sizable chunk of their wealth here before they left.
A woman was essentially holding court on a low sofa in front of the fireplace. She was a sultry brunette, all curves with most of them on display. Not out, mind you; just strongly hinted at. She saw Mago, and my cousin was the recipient of a dazzling smile. She rose from the sofa and crossed the room in a seductive sway of silks and hips. She and Mago did that double-cheek-kissing thing, then the woman’s smile turned naughty and she kissed my cousin long and deep.
I felt safe in saying that she and Mago knew each other.
“It’s been far too long,” she all but purred. “It’s not nice to keep a lady waiting.”
Mago’s rakish smile was the twin to the one I’d seen many times on Phaelan. “Last time I was here, I don’t recall you being much of a lady.”
The madam languorously ran a lacquered nail down the center of Mago’s chest. “You bring it out in me.” She gazed around the room. “Unfortunately, I won’t be able to give you a repeat performance this evening.”
“Business seems to be good,” he murmured approvingly.
Her smile was almost demure. “Very good. Patrice is still with us; I’m certain she would be available for you.”
“Perhaps later,” Mago told her. “Right now my friend and I would like to bemoan our newly homeless state with your best brandy and two of those splendid cigars.”
“Homeless?”
“The Greyhound Hotel. We escaped with only the clothes on our backs.”
The madam made sympathetic sounds while her hands went from Mago’s chest to his shoulders, clearly enjoying the journey. “Do you have a place to stay?”
Mago didn’t hesitate. “We have a small room available to us. Please tell me the tailor on Capron Street still lifts his needle for the common man, and hasn’t been snatched away yet by the Duke of Brenir. I’m here on business and I can’t attend every meeting wearing the same doublet. I’d never live down the humiliation.”
She laughed. “He’s still here, though the duke still hasn’t stopped trying to lure him away. In fact, he’ll be here later this evening. I can send him up to your room.”
“Room?” I squeaked.
“Ah, Camille, this is my friend Symon Wiggs. A colleague of mine from the bank. In town with me on business when the unfortunate tragedy took place.”
“Room?” I repeated.
Madam Camille reached out and ran her hand down my—I mean, Symon’s—chest. The little banker didn’t have much by way of equipment, but if what I felt a split second later was any indication, all of it was in perfect working order. Holy crap. I think that horrified realization must have shown on my face.
Camille smiled and stepped in closer, brushing her ample charms up against me.
Oh yeah, perfect working order.
“I could hardly turn you two gentlemen out into the street,” she said. “Master Peronne has always been a fine, upstanding client of my humble establishment.” The emphasis she put on those two words clearly indicated that she wasn’t referring to Mago’s superior moral fiber. “I have a small suite on the top floor that would keep you out of the cold for a night—or two.”
Mago took Camille’s hand and bestowed a gallant kiss just above an enormous diamond ring. “Such a generous and gracious lady.”
Providing room and board wasn’t the kind of generosity Mago was talking about, either. And I think parts of Symon Wiggs were hoping for some of that generosity.
I had to get out of here.
“My pleasure,” Camille replied, with a sloe-eyed glance at me.
Get. Out. Now.
“On behalf of myself and my colleague, we most gratefully accept,” Mago was saying. “But only until we can make other arrangements. I wouldn’t want to interfere with such a profitable enterprise.”
All I could make was a strangled sound.
“You’ll have to excuse my friend,” Mago said. He lowered his voice. “He’s a little shy.”
“Oh.” Those eyes were on me again, looking me up and down, assessing. What she was assessing, I had no clue. “I have a girl who would be perfect for you,” she said. “I guarantee after a night in her bed, you won’t remember what shy is.”