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.

Everyone froze, while Quentin was left with no choice. The voice hadn’t specified who wasn’t supposed to move, but one of the Khrynsani couldn’t take the suspense and dove for the cover of a stack of crates. He made it, but he wasn’t alive when he landed.

Nukpana shimmered with the effect of a protection spell. Its confines included Quentin. As long as Quentin was encased in that shield, he was safe from outside harm. Of course, that still left the goblin with access to Quentin, and me without.

“Have your guards drop their weapons and no one else will be harmed.” The spellsinger paused on the edge of the shadows, and I could see the outline of a tall and clearly fit figure.

Shadowy figures closed in behind the goblins and appeared along the warehouse catwalks, positioning themselves to cover every goblin and every exit.

“Now.” His voice was quiet, its owner a man used to absolute authority. He stepped into the lantern light.

The spellsinger was an elf in the steel gray uniform of a Conclave Guardian. I noticed appreciatively that he wore it well. He was leanly muscled, his bearing was military, and he was not happy. Large, dark eyes bored into Nukpana’s. I wondered if he was as dangerous as he looked. Probably.

Conclave Guardians were based on the Isle of Mid, known for having the largest sorcerer population on the continent. It was home to the most prestigious college for sorcery, as well as the Conclave, the governing body for all magic users in the seven kingdoms. The students were young and talented, and many were away from home for the first time. Most Conclave officials were from kingdoms where they had been big fish in little ponds. But the Isle of Mid was a big pond with bigger, carnivorous fish. Students and bureaucrats, all highly gifted, all packed together in one island city. It was a powder keg waiting to explode, and the Guardians’ job was to keep anyone from striking a match.

Their sworn duty was to protect the members of the Conclave and defend Mid against any outside threat, but they spent most of their time protecting the Conclave, students and citizens, from each other. To keep the peace in a city of sorcerers took an even more talented sorcerer—and a warrior. Guardians had enough to do at home, so they only left Mid on official Conclave business—renegade mages and the like. The Seat of Twelve must want something, or someone, badly to turn Guardians loose on them. I was hoping they were just after Sarad Nukpana, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath.

The elven Guardian indicated Quentin. “Release him.” His words were soft, but lined with steel.

Nukpana’s grip tightened and Quentin held his breath. A thin trickle of blood ran down Quentin’s neck. No wonder he hated sorcerers.

“This is a Khrynsani matter and none of the Conclave’s concern, elf.”

The spellsinger moved farther into the light. “As a Guardian, that box and its contents are my only concern.”

So much for me being able to stay out of this.

Nukpana’s knife slipped deeper, and the glowing tendrils constricted. Quentin’s breath came in a strangled gasp.

“Come and take him yourself.” The goblin’s voice promised violence; the gleam in his dark eyes welcomed it.

“Very well.” There was no regret in the elf’s voice, just a calm acknowledgement of the goblin’s choice. He began to whisper.