The three men huddled at the table weren’t huddling anymore. They’d also sobered up entirely too fast.
I definitely didn’t need this.
Being glamoured as Rache was about to come in handy. My fists weren’t made for brawling, but Rache’s were. Better yet, Tam and Imala had seen to it that I was armed like an assassin.
No one had drawn steel yet, and I wasn’t going to be first. Unless it spilled out onto the streets, the city watch would ignore a brawl with fists. If you drew steel, your little party immediately got upgraded to a riot. At that point, watchers would draw their steel—both blades and handcuffs. I was understandably nervous around the latter. Both Rache Kai and Raine Benares had their pictures posted around town with tempting amounts listed below. I wasn’t going to give the local law any excuse, but at the same time, you don’t abandon family in a fight.
You pulled your hat down lower to hide who you were and waded in.
I didn’t like glamouring, and I certainly didn’t like being a man, but I really liked having a man’s fists. I pulled one elf off of Phaelan and landed an incredibly satisfying right hook to his temple. His baby blue eyes rolled up into his highborn head and he dropped like a rock.
One thing a good fight did for Phaelan—it sobered him up real quick. As I tossed an elf over a trestle table, I wondered if Phaelan’s grin was sparked by imagining the elves he was beating the crap out of having the face of a certain highborn elf mage or inquisitor. I visualized Carnades’s face on the next elf I punched and felt myself grin. Oh yeah, that worked for me, too.
I expected Vegard and company to charge through the door any minute. Actually I was kind of hoping for it. I was sure the shouts could be heard outside, especially after another chair crashed through the front window.
The fight kept getting larger as men either chose sides or just wanted an excuse to hit someone. I barely ducked in time to avoid being crowned with a tankard. A man who was neither elf nor pirate aimed a bottle at Phaelan’s head. I grabbed my cousin by the collar and snatched him back; the bottle flew by where he’d been an instant before.
I grinned. “Great fight, cous—”
Phaelan’s look was pure murder. “You!”
What the hell?
“You son of a bitch!” Phaelan roared. “You’ve hurt Raine for the last time!”
Oh shit.
“Phaelan, wait. I’m not—”
My cousin’s fist embedded itself in my gut. I’ve never been on the receiving end of one of Phaelan’s punches. They hurt. I heard Rache’s voice grunt, and then I doubled over headed for the floor. The floor could be good; maybe there was air down there.
When I hit the floor, the knuckles that were bleeding belonged to me, not Rache.
I’d lost my glamour.
And I was wearing a goblin secret service uniform.
Oh crap.
I really should have changed back into my clothes before I left the goblin embassy.
Phaelan’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Raine?”
Uniformed city watchmen came out of nowhere to break up the fight. I couldn’t get enough air to warn Phaelan about the watcher about to knock him over the head.
With the pommel of an elven embassy dagger.
My last thought before I got knocked over the head myself was that Taltek Balmorlan had been buying himself more than firemages.
I hurt.
My head felt like someone was inside taking a perverse pleasure in trying to pound their way out with a hammer.
I groaned and tried to move.
And heard chains clink.
My eyes blinked open on a room with a pair of light-globes set in the wall on either side of a doorway. It was barred and then some with wards crisscrossing just beyond the bars like a fine net.
I was in a cell.
My wrists were chained above my head to the wall, the weight bearing down on my arms heavier than any metal. A heavy chain that was wrapped around my waist was likewise bolted to the wall. Cold panic surged through me. The pounding in my head just got faster and I got sicker. My eyes flicked down to my ankles. Chained. Power lay dormant in the metal, just waiting for me to use my magic—or to try. Magic-sapping manacles. That power would stay dormant unless I tried to use my magic to escape.
Or to protect myself.
I was in the elven embassy. Oh hell, and then some.
Did Phaelan get away? I winced. Even thinking made my head pound harder. I dimly remembered somebody tossing me, none too gently, over his shoulder. That and the cudgel love tap would definitely account for my splitting skull.
“Would ‘I’m sorry’ even begin to cover it?” came Phaelan’s entirely too loud voice from the shadows. He had to be whispering, but it didn’t sound that way to me.
My cousin was trussed up like a holiday goose against the opposite wall. Not chained to the wall, but still chained fore and aft.
“The elven embassy?” I asked, desperately wanting to be told I was delirious from being konked over the head.
“Afraid so. Sucks, doesn’t it?”
“You don’t know how much.”
Phaelan shifted and winced in pain. “Everyone’s favorite inquisitor dropped by to check on us about ten minutes ago, and I—”
I froze. “How long have we been here?”
Phaelan managed a clanking shrug. “Half an hour, no more. The city bells were chiming one when we were brought in.”
“You were conscious?”
“Not the whole time, and not that they knew.” He grinned. “A knock over the head doesn’t put me out like it used to. Guess my skull’s gotten thick.”
Considering that what he’d done had resulted in us being where we were now, I agreed with him. I vaguely remembered being carried out into the dark. The air stank, too. The stink of too many things you didn’t want to know about concentrated into too small of a space. An alley. They must have taken us out the back door of that tavern. Being a neat and tidy megalomaniac, Balmorlan ordered that Phaelan be brought to the elven embassy along with me—no witnesses, no rescue.
Vegard might not have seen me carried out of there, but he had to know where I was now—and if he knew, Mychael knew.
Mychael. I had to warn him about the Chameleon.
Cancel that. I had to warn him when I got out of here. The pessimist living in my head chimed in with “if you get out of here.” I slammed the door on that part of my head. Though my resident pessimist wouldn’t say what I hadn’t already thought. The embassy was elven soil, and even though Mychael was an elf, he couldn’t get in here unless invited. I didn’t think Mychael would wait for an engraved invitation. If Tam or Imala tried to blast their way in, it’d be an act of war. I didn’t see that stopping them, either.
“We have to get out of here,” I told Phaelan. Nothing like stating the obvious.
“I know, I’m working on—”
“I hoped you would be awake by now, Raine. I was beginning to get impatient.” A cool voice came from beyond the wards. It was the voice of an elven inquisitor who had me right where he’d wanted me since the day I’d set foot on Mid.
“It wasn’t like I was taking a nap,” I said.
“It was unfortunate, but my men took a necessary precaution.”
I rattled my chains. “Like these?”
“Precisely.” Balmorlan turned his head toward the guard standing behind him. “Lower the wards and leave them down for now; others will be joining me.”
The guard wasn’t just a guard; he was a prison mage. He could not only guard, but construct complex wards. It took nearly two minutes for him to disarm the lethal netting that crisscrossed in front of the cell door’s bars.
Balmorlan came inside. “I didn’t go to the trouble and expense of acquiring you only to have you leave us before I get what I want. The cell is lined with Level Twelve wards, detainment spells layered for strength, and magic-depleting manacles—and you—bolted to the wall. I must say, you are a beautiful sight.”