The Wrath of a Shipless Pirate (The Godlanders War) Page 12

  “Oh! You wound me!” But then he hesitated. He rolled his eyes. “Oh, very well. What’s this other offer?”

  “I want to try to teach you how to work a glamour.”

  “This is more dream magic?”

  “Yes. It is a power specifically conferred by Oberon, so if he did not share it with you—”

  “He gave me dreamwalking and sampling. I can’t imagine he restricted that.”

  “We’ll learn in just a moment. And if it works,” she heaved a hopeful sigh, “it might just keep you alive a little longer.”

  “It warms my heart to know you care.”

  She rolled her eyes at him, but she was smiling. “It isn’t hard to do,” she said. “If you can, I mean. The dream itself does all the heavy lifting. You just…sort of…ask it to pretend you’re someone else.”

  “Ask?” Corin said. “Pretend? This doesn’t sound much like my dreamwalking.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m just trying to explain it. It’s dream magic, right? Have you ever had a dream featuring someone you knew but…they were also someone else? Like a celebrity? You don’t have those. But…well…nobility, I guess? Like it was the girl next door, but it was also the royal princess? I don’t know exactly how to—”

  Corin showed her a smile to shut her up. “I know the feeling, yes.”

  “Well, that’s how the glamour works. You are you—you know you’re you—but you ask the dream to make you also someone else.”

  “How?’

  She shrugged. “Close your eyes. Think about yourself. Then think about the replacement. And remember that it’s all a dream. That helps somehow.”

  “But what about my clothes? My possessions?” He thought about the Raentzmen in the common room, and his own uniquely Ithalian knock on the door. “What about your voice? Your accent? Do you have to study someone before you can become them?”

  She shook her head. “No. The dream takes care of that. The people you’re interacting with…they’re not seeing your playacting. The dream is showing them the person you’re trying to be.”

  “Fascinating.”

  She nodded. “It’s a fascinating world we made. Worth fighting for.”

  Corin felt the weight she put on those last words, the demand that was almost a plea. He met her eyes. “You have my promise. And now that you’ve given me another level of protection, you have even less reason to worry. So you can give me Blake’s name and tell me where he lives.”

  She tried to hide her smile. “You are persistent.”

  “I have been called a ‘force of nature.’”

  She laughed.

  He slipped closer to her. “Please, Aemilia. This is important. What’s his name?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, then hesitated for one heartbeat too long.

  Someone knocked on the door. Corin cursed and flung himself from the bed. He crossed the room in two long bounds and ripped the door open. “Gods’ blood, what is it now?”

  The innkeeper stood in the hallway, terrified and small before Corin’s onslaught. Old Josef and some other wiry Raentzman Corin hadn’t seen before stood there as well. All three of them shrank away from Corin’s anger, and he felt a pang of guilt.

  But all of his attention fixed on the stranger. The man looked worn out, dusty, and exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot, wind-burned from a furious ride perhaps. His boots were scuffed and caked with mud and his clothes all disarrayed. He looked like a man who’d come directly from a long, hard journey. He looked like a messenger.

  Corin caught a calming breath, then slipped forward gracefully. He gave a little bow to the newcomer and said, “Good afternoon, my friend. Are you the same Francois I’ve heard so much about?”

  The stranger shook his head, mute.

  Corin shrugged. “But you are a messenger? You bring news from him?”

  The stranger bowed his head, but he gave a little nod.

  “Well? Speak, man! I know you must be weary, but I am more so! Speak, and afterward we both will find some comfort. Speak!”

  The stranger sighed. “Francois is dead.”

  The Nimble Fingers gasped. Aemilia stepped up behind Corin and took his arm, as if to comfort him. But he could not yet understand. He caught the stranger’s shoulder and shook the little man more roughly than he had intended. “What do you mean? Francois is dead? He only went for news.”

  “He was asking the wrong questions. He crossed into Ithale and found an inn. Not a Nimble Fingers inn, but he was so anxious to find news that he asked his questions anyway.”

  Corin whispered, “Gods preserve.”

  “No. They didn’t. Some of the Vestossis’ muscle dragged him in an alley and beat him to death. They hung his body in the streets as a message. He found no answers for you. I am sorry.”

  Corin shook his head, stunned. “No. He should not have had to give his life. I never would have guessed…”

  “For what you did, for all Marzelle, I am sorry that he failed you.”

  “No,” Corin said again. “Don’t be absurd. I…I am sorry he is dead. I never met him.”

  “He was good and true.”

  Corin nodded. “Go and have a drink on me. I’m sure there are others here who need to know as well. Thank you. Thank you for bearing this grim news. Now go and grieve.”

  Corin didn’t move, even after they had left. Aemilia stood close beside him, breathing in his shadow. Eventually, she tugged his arm, the barest pressure, but it was enough to turn him. He found her staring up at him, her dark eyes wide and worried. For him.

  “What are you thinking, Corin?”

  “I think another man is dead because I have not yet found Blake.”

  She clutched at his shirt. “I think we’ve just heard why you shouldn’t try! A man is dead just for asking questions.”

  Corin arched an eyebrow. “So he is. But I won’t have to ask them, will I? You already know.”

  She shook her head, frantic. “I will not help you chase after him. You could be hurt!”

  “I’ve made my case,” Corin said. “I am a force of nature.”

  “That was before—”

  “Nothing has changed! Your Council has made its demands—”

  “This is not about my Council. Don’t you see? A man is dead. And…that could have been you.”

  He smiled sadly and caught her shoulders in a comforting grip. “Aemilia…I have always lived a risky life. I am not afraid of dying.”

  Tears touched her eyes. “I am. For you. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  He offered her a smile. “I appreciate your sympathy.”

  But she blinked, and all the sympathy was gone. She was hard again, precise and sure. She released his arm and stepped back a pace. “I won’t help you, Corin. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “Aemelia—”

  She shook her head. “I’m sending for the Council, and I will watch you like a hawk ’til they arrive. You are…you are too precious, Corin.”

  For just a moment there, he saw her softer side again. He heard it in her voice. But then she raised her chin and her eyes flashed like chips of obsidian. “Don’t move!”

  She slipped away and down the hall. He hadn’t lied before. He would not make himself a caged animal. Not if it meant letting Blake go free. And he was more than willing to use Oberon’s power to evade them if it came to that.

  But he could not afford to lose another day in chasing Blake. He could not afford to spend any time negotiating his release or fleeing the Council. He had to move. And he had to move now. It would only take Aemilia a moment to find the innkeeper and give him some message. Or perhaps she had some other means, some druid sorcery he’d never seen.

  It didn’t matter. He didn’t need that long. He scooped up his cloak and belt as he went by, and in two quick heartbeats he was out the window, down the wall, and off to find a former friend.

  Corin buckled on his belt while running, slung the cloak around his shoulders, and jerked the cowl up
to hide his face as he emerged from the back alley. He heard a cry somewhere behind him, but it came far too late. He was free.

  He dashed across the courtyard there and took the first right turn, which sent him north, away from the docks he’d gone so often to frequent. That would buy him time. The druids knew him as a pirate, and if they asked anyone, they’d know the taverns on the pier that had been a second home to him in Marzelle.

  He had no intention of going there now. He was heading for a smuggler’s dock two miles west of town. If he could meet up with Big Jack Brown before Dave Taker’s henchmen sailed, he could tag along. That would serve him well; it took him out of the druids’ reach and sent him straight to Ethan Blake’s closest confidant. Corin pounded over the cobblestones, fury hammering with his every heartbeat. He’d wring Blake’s secrets from Dave Taker, and Big Jack could do the rest.

  But just to baffle his pursuers a bit, he held straight a couple blocks before turning to the west. As he went, a rain began to pour—slowly at first, but thick with the promise of a summer storm. He thanked sweet Fortune for that, crossed two more streets, and then stole a saddled horse from a poorly guarded stable. There was no sign of pursuit, and the sleeting rain would make it that much harder, but Corin’s true enemy now was time. Big Jack’s ship would surely sail with the tide, and Corin had to beat it to the smuggler’s dock. He whipped the poor beast to a gallop through the rain and raced toward the setting sun, praying he was not too late.

  Corin left the city’s edge and started measuring distances. Two miles west of town by his best guess, he found a narrow, muddy footpath through the hills and trees. He splashed down it, heedless of the slapping branches, ducking under low-hanging limbs, until he heard the distant sound of breakers on the rocky shore.

  He slowed then, suddenly cautious. If the druids had been waiting for him, they’d have caught him before he left the town. They were not a threat now, but his quarry was. After all, he was rushing to meet a pair of Dave Taker’s henchmen. Corin left the horse on the trail and went ahead on foot, stalking now. Beneath the heavy stormclouds, night had already fallen, but Corin saw the flickering of torchlight some way ahead.

  He’d seen his share of smuggler’s stops. Usually it was some run-down, one-room shanty. Some of them had furnishings, a place to sleep the night. Most of them had fire pits and a neglected store of dry rations. The most popular were working taverns, stocked with beer and wine and rum to help a man forget his troubles. From Big Jack Brown’s description, Corin expected this to be one of that sort, especially so close to town, and the nearer he got, the more accurate that seemed.

  Two torches burned in sconces by the door, and a pitiful stable leaned against the outer wall. There were no horses in its stalls, but smoke was rising from the tavern’s chimney. Corin watched the door a moment, considering, but he did not dare tarry too long.

  Another approach occurred to him. He withdrew into the deeper shadows off the beaten path and stood a moment, collecting his thoughts. He closed his eyes and conjured up an image of himself, the cunning pirate captain with the charming grin. He grinned to himself. Then he imagined Charlie Claire, big and brave and dumb, and he laid that image over his own. He held it in his mind a moment, just as Aemilia had told him to do, and he repeated to himself, All the world’s a dream.

  Something seemed to shift. It might have been his imagination, or it might have been reality around him. It hardly mattered when fairy magic was involved. He opened his eyes and looked around.

  The world looked hazy gray. It was not the heavy rain, nor even the same thick fog he’d seen at Ahmed’s or in the alley when Aemilia had shot him. This was subtler, a blur around the edges of his vision, like a fine mist hanging in the middle distance. Was that the dream itself? Was that the fabric of reality, exposed, distorted by his borrowed power?

  Corin tucked the question away for later. Someday he would have the time to think about such things. For now, he had a ship to catch. Ten paces brought him to the tavern’s door. He hesitated on the threshold, eased his sword within its scabbard, and then stepped through the door.

  The first thing he noticed was the stink of blood. The tiny common room was wrecked, its handful of tables smashed or scattered. A crumpled old man who must have been the proprietor lay in a heap back in one corner. Bruises and blood marked his crown, and Corin held little hope for him.

  Big Jack Brown was there as well. He was stretched out on the floor, two paces from the door, one arm extended like he’d tried to crawl away. Blood pooled thick beneath him, all around him, and he was still. Otherwise, the room was empty. Rain and hail alike battered at the roof above, loud and angry.

  Corin flew to Jack’s side. He fell on his knees and pried Jack’s shoulder up. The man’s chest was a mess of bleeding wounds, and his face a mask of pain, but there was some life left in him still. He gave a wretched moan that was almost a gargle and convulsed, curling hard around his abdomen. Corin caught his shoulder, shifting him into an easier position, and with his other hand he supported Jack’s head, striving to comfort him however he could.

  Jack’s eyes fluttered open. He stared, unseeing, up at Corin for a moment, then knotted a shaking fist in Corin’s shirt and dragged him down close. His voice came out a wet rasp. “Charlie. Charlie Claire. The captain sent you.”

  Corin shook his head, but he doubted there was time enough to waste on explanations. “What happened, Jack? Who did this?”

  “Taker’s men. Not the ones I expected.”

  “And they did this? Just because you spoke with them?”

  “I asked to go along. They got suspicious. They know Corin’s back, and they are scared.”

  “And now they’re gone?” Corin searched the room again, but there was nowhere to hide. “Which way? Did they go into the city, or are they still heading to meet Taker?”

  Jack squeezed his eyes tight against some new wave of pain, but he gave an uneven nod to Corin’s question. “Just left. Just now. Go get a good look at them, Charlie, and tell the captain. He’ll want to pay them back for me. He understands the blood price.”

  Corin’s stomach knotted hard. He’d set Jack on this path. He’d used the man to do his murder for him, same as Taker. He dipped his forehead now and whispered, “Jack, I’m sorry.”

  But the man was gone. Between one heartbeat and the next, he’d fallen still. Corin sought a pulse, but there was none. Jack’s chest rose no more. His wounds no longer gushed, and his brow was smooth. He was beyond the ghosts of guilt and the hard pain of betrayal.

  But his killers were still nearby. Corin growled a quiet oath and drew his sword. He closed his eyes and fought to shake off the glamour. “I can’t afford to peer through mists at everything. Gods’ blood, I’m me! And this is more than just a dream!”

  He opened his eyes and saw the room more clearly. The haze was gone. Grateful to know the way of that, he sprang to his feet and sprinted for the door. The downpour came thick and chilly now, and Corin welcomed it. He dashed through the rain, along another path that led down among the rocks and shadows. The path cut sharply to the right and revealed a little alcove, an inlet hidden from sight out on the sea, protected from the fiercest waves. This was the tiny harbor where the smugglers had stopped.

  Their ship was still in port; a low, sleek thing better suited to river travel than the open sea, but it could make the trip as long as it stayed close to shore. Even as Corin peered through the rain, he saw them casting off their lines, securing cargo on the deck. They moved with practiced familiarity, preparing for a trip they’d made a hundred times before and completely unconcerned with the crimson stains beneath their cloaks. They went easily about their business.

  A bloodthirsty rage pounded in Corin’s chest, a hunger to do justice for poor Jack. In his mind’s eye, he was already sprinting down the narrow lane, leaping from the rickety pier to the low-slung deck, and ending both these monsters with two fierce and final thrusts.

  And yet he didn’t move. He li
ngered in the shadows, watching, thinking. He couldn’t kill these men. Not yet. They were heading to some secret spot along the rough, uncharted coast of Spinola. They were heading to Dave Taker, who’d become Corin’s last, best chance at finding Ethan Blake. Blake and Taker bore the ultimate responsibility for Big Jack’s death. More than these two hired hands.

  Corin clenched his fists until the bones of his hands ached with it, but he didn’t move. He held his place, calculating, reasoning, until the last line was cast off. Until the sails went up. Until the ship began to drift along the pier.

  He watched until the sailors turned their eyes toward the sea. Then he moved. Sure-footed as a cat and just as quiet, he sprinted down the rain-slick pier. He clasped his cloak around him, flitting like a shadow through the night, and as he ran, he watched the sailors’ backs. While he was yet ten paces back, he saw one of them twitch his shoulder, and Corin leaped aside before he could be seen. Down into the water with a splash inaudible beneath the storm. He ignored the biting cold, the boggy filth, and pulled hard against the water. He had to race the wind.

  He went ten paces in four hard strokes before he headed up for air, and when he broke the surface he was hard in the ship’s wake. He darted forward with a mighty effort and caught the rudder with his right hand. He dragged himself closer, hugging tight against the hull as the ship began to tack toward the sea.

  One of the deckhands appeared right above him, leaning out over the rail and staring deep into the night. Corin watched the man scan the length of the pier and even search the water’s surface, but he could not have picked out Corin’s form in the black shadows beneath the ship. Corin held his breath and gripped the rudder for all he was worth, and a moment later he had his reward.

  The man above him turned away and called back to his companion at the fore, “Nothing’s there, Ezio! I told you they was dead. I know my way around a dagger.”

  Ezio called back, “Still your tongue!” and both men fell to bickering. Corin seized the opportunity. He struggled up against the water, caught the railing of the quarterdeck, and heaved himself up out of the bog. He watched the other two a moment, arguing across the tiller twenty paces distant, and when he judged the moment right, he climbed up. Over the rail, onto the deck, and through the open trapdoor to the cargo hold.