The Wrath of a Shipless Pirate (The Godlanders War) Read online

  A flash of fire lit the night like noontime, and the concussion touched him even through the water. Corin stroked away, pulling hard against the current and refusing to look back. Behind him, the smuggler’s ship splashed and screamed and groaned like some dying thing, before at last it sank beneath the waters and went down.

  Corin fixed his eyes on a shadow at the surface, and now he swam even harder. That was Taker’s boat. He hadn’t reached the cutter yet. Corin was too long underwater now. His lungs were burning coals, his arms a cutting agony from too much heavy labor. But he pushed the pain aside and struggled harder. He pulled and pulled and pulled. Perhaps some vengeful spirit lent Corin inhuman strength, or perhaps Dave Taker paused to marvel at his handiwork, but somehow Corin caught the little boat.

  He sprang up alongside it, shooting from the water like a porpoise at play. He hung suspended for a moment, sucking in a great breath of air, then he grabbed the rowboat’s transom in both hands, pointed his toes toward the bottom of the cove, and stabbed downward hard enough to flip the little boat.

  He flailed before him until one hand collided with Dave Taker’s torso. Then he closed his left hand in a death grip on Taker’s shoulder and grabbed his dagger with his right hand. He plunged it in. Again and again and again until Corin’s lungs threatened once more to burst. Then he released the bloody corpse and struggled upward. He heaved himself onto the capsized rowboat, sprawled across it, and lay a moment, gasping for air. It was all he could do.

  You killed a good man, Corin thought, and he wasn’t sure whether he meant the accusation for Dave Taker or for himself. The words just kept repeating in his head. You killed a good man for the sake of a bad one. You’re the monster. You’re the monster.

  It seemed an age he lay there in the darkness, full of hate and rage and desperate for air. But eventually the world returned around him. He heard a voice crying out high above him. “Hallo? Hallo there, Gasparo? Mister Taker? Anyone at all?”

  Ezio. He yet lived. And now Corin understood Dave Taker’s plan. He’d never meant to sail the river boat across the open sea. He’d always intended to sink it and Auric with it. That was why he’d sent Ezio back for the letters. He’d planned to join him just like this, rowing away from the wreckage of the smuggler’s ship. He’d probably had some lie prepared about an accident. Perhaps he’d hoped to blame Gasparo for it all.

  Corin licked his lips, considering. He could be Gasparo. Or he could be Dave Taker. Which form would best convince Ezio to take him back to Ethan Blake? That was the only question that still mattered. In all the world, it was his only hope for satisfaction. Dave Taker was dead in the waters below, but he’d suffered less than he deserved. Ethan Blake would pay the price for all of this.

  “Mister Taker?” Ezio cried. “What’s happened? Gods favor, is anyone alive?”

  Corin closed his eyes, and summoned up an image of himself. Then he drew the ugly face of the wicked man he’d just destroyed. He made himself into Dave Taker, and it was not as difficult a thing as it should have been. When he opened his eyes and saw the thin gray mist still hanging there, he shuddered at the thought of what he had become.

  Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and called up to Ezio, “Hallo! I’ve lived, but your bloody partner sank the bloody ship! Now how will we get home?”

  Ezio’s sigh carried all the way down to the water. “You did claim you could sail this thing through the shoals.”

  “Nothing easier. Toss me down a line?”

  “Aye, aye. It’s coming. Watch your head.”

  Corin scrambled up the rope. He stood a moment face-to-face with Ezio, and Ezio stared deep into his eyes. There was no doubt he’d seen through Corin’s lie—Dave Taker’s lie—he merely had to choose whether to address it or let it go. Corin wasn’t entirely sure what to expect of either choice, but he closed one hand around the hilt of his dagger behind his back. Just in case.

  At last Ezio ducked his head. “It is a tragedy. Gasparo will be missed. Perhaps. And the farmboy…might have been a useful hostage. But as things stand, I believe every measure of the don’s demands have been met.”

  “Then you will take me to him?”

  “Those are my final orders.”

  “Just tell me where and I will plot the course.”

  “East. Across the Medgerrad. That’s all you need to know for now.”

  “But—”

  “Mister Taker, I do not trust you. I have my orders, and I will follow them to the letter. Take us east, and I will tell you more as it becomes necessary. Do you understand?”

  Corin nodded once. “Aye. As long as you get us there.”

  “And I would ask the same of you.”

  Corin knew two days into the voyage—and two full days before Ezio revealed it—where they must be heading. It was Aerome, Ithale’s capital. That served him well, and Ezio proved an able steersman, so Corin maintained the ruse right to the last.

  In all, they spent six days on the open sea. Corin docked the sleek cutter among the fishing boats and merchant vessels at the port town of Ostartia, and while he was still tying up, Ezio leaped down and gave some message to the runners on the wharf.

  Corin made some show of bundling up Taker’s possessions, but mostly he only cared about the things he carried on his own person. He checked that they were all secure, then made his own way down the gangplank and met Ezio outside the harbormaster’s wall.

  A moment later, a carriage arrived for them. It was a gaudy thing, oversized and paneled in some dark, expensive wood. It bore no noble’s seal; its attendants, no livery colors; but it had all the ostentation of a noble house. And there was none in all Ithale so ostentatious as the Vestossis. Who would doubt this was their carriage?

  A doorman hopped down to open a door for them, and Corin followed Ezio inside. The driver cracked his whip and they were off, charging up the hill toward the mighty city. Nor did they slow when they reached its busy streets. The driver only cracked his whip the louder, likely at the common folk that clogged his way as much as at the belabored horses. Corin held his place and bit his tongue. Ezio seemed quite accustomed to such rides. He said no word for the entire trip.

  Their destination proved to be some deep, dark alley, tucked between a row of modest homes and a public bathhouse, long abandoned by the look of it. The doorman handed them down, then bowed, ushering them toward a rotting wooden door that gave entry to the bathhouse. Corin looked to Ezio for some explanation, but now he seemed just as confused.

  He shrugged to Corin and said quietly, “The don sometimes keeps mysterious habits. He does adore his privacy.”

  Corin growled a curse against the man, but he went along. This was exactly what he’d come for, after all. He and Ezio stepped into a vast, dark room, the quiet ripples of still water and the stink of mildew their only company.

  Ten minutes they waited there. After twenty, a door opened at the far side of the room, spreading a wide, thin streak of torchlight across the stale pool. Corin went forward two steps before he recognized the frame and bearing of the new arrivals. They were only hired guards. He watched the door for someone else, but no one came. Four guards for two men.

  It was twenty paces across the pool, and no way around it. Any attempt to reach the other side would require a sprint through waist-high water. No chance for a surprise, then. It was a good location for a meet. Corin felt a touch of grudging admiration. Here on their home turf, the Vestossis certainly knew how to run a show.

  But still there was no sign of Blake. In his boredom, Corin took careful stock of all four guards. They were broad of shoulder, straight of spine, with the look of former soldiers about them. They wore daggers on their belts and knives in their boots, and every man among them carried a loaded crossbow. That could certainly do some damage from across the pool. He licked his lips and leaned his head toward Ezio.

  “How much do you trust your don?”

  “He is an honorable man. Hold your tongue.”

  “How
long do you intend to wait here for him?”

  “I would not like my chances of leaving here before he grants permission. He is not a much forgiving man.”

  “That he’s not,” Corin said. He sighed and rolled his shoulders. “Fine. I just hate the waiting most.”

  “You spent three months in the Wildlands alone to earn this meeting. You can wait ten minutes more.”

  Ten minutes proved too generous an underestimation. At half an hour, the far door cracked again, and the shadow of the man who stepped in front of the distant torchlight did not have the bearing of a soldier. For one dreadful moment, Corin feared it was some retainer, some other hired hand like Ezio instead of Ethan Blake himself. But then the distant shadow spoke, and the voice was all too familiar.

  “Master Ezio, what has become of your companion?”

  “Regretfully, he did not survive the voyage.”

  “Ah.” There came a whispered conference from the other end of the room, and then the speaker in the doorway raised his voice again. “Shall we wait for his return?”

  “Regretfully, he did not survive at all.”

  “Then he is dead? You’re certain of it?”

  Ezio looked to Corin. Corin nodded once. Ezio called back, “He is dead.”

  “And you, Taker? You had a mission to fulfill.”

  “It is done,” Corin answered.

  “And I attest to it,” Ezio said. “He has done all you asked of him, Don Giuliano.”

  Corin leaned toward Ezio again. “Giuliano?” he whispered. “That’s Blake’s true name?”

  “Blake was his name for a time,” Ezio returned under his breath.

  Across the wide pool, Blake was still speaking. “I thank you, gentlemen. You’ve served me well, and you will be remembered.”

  Corin felt a deep suspicion as to what was coming next. Everything about the meeting suggested Blake was tying up loose ends, but Corin would not have expected such treatment for Dave Taker. He darted forward, still in his disguise, and called across the pool. “Is that it, Blake? ‘Remembered?’ You promised me more!”

  Blake almost didn’t answer. Corin saw him hesitate, one hand on the door, but pride dragged him back into the room. He stood, still just a distant silhouette, and called back in an even voice. “The situation changed. You should understand that. Corin Hugh’s back from the dead. You’ve served me well. Now go with grace.”

  Corin cried out, “But—”

  But Blake spoke over him, even as he turned his back. “Guards, you have your orders.”

  Corin cursed. He drew his dagger and hurled it in desperation, but through the glamour’s veil, through the stifling darkness, and over such a distance, he never had a chance. It was a marvel the blade came as close to Blake as it did. It sank into the doorframe just as Blake passed through. Then the door fell shut, and all four guards raised their crossbows in unison.

  For all his claims of trust in his employer, Ezio reacted nearly as fast as Corin had. He sprang aside, reaching underneath his coat and drawing out the druids’ dartgun. Still, he had no chance to fire it—to even aim—before two heavy bolts ripped through his torso, and he collapsed.

  Corin spun his heavy cloak around him and dropped the glamour. All dressed in black, he disappeared among the shadows, but nevertheless he didn’t tarry. He dashed to Ezio’s corpse, snatched up the dartgun, and dove toward the outer door a moment before a crossbow bolt ricocheted where he’d been. For all his stealth, his boots rang loud on the marble floor, and this end of the room gave little space to maneuver.

  He didn’t try. He sprinted straight for the door onto the alley and slammed into it hard.

  It didn’t budge.

  He drove a mighty kick against it, right beside the latch, but it made no difference. The door was barricaded from outside. Some instinct made him dodge aside one heartbeat before another crossbow bolt buried itself to the fletchings in the rotted door. He cried out anyway, as though he had been hit, then drifted farther left, as softly as he could.

  The pool. It made too dangerous an approach. He cursed Ethan Blake’s black cunning. He’d had the man in his grasp—scant paces away—and now Blake was slipping away. The thought of it burned like coals in Corin’s belly. For all his caution, all his fear of losing time, he closed his eyes and called on Oberon’s power. There was no quick escape from this place, and nothing in the world could have stopped him chasing after Blake. He drew the sword Godslayer, with righteous murder in his heart, and flung himself through dream across the wide, dark room.

  Before he opened his eyes, he tasted ash on the air. He looked and saw only burned-out ruins where the bathhouse had been.

  Corin cursed. The day was gone, and Blake with it. Night lay thick and cold over the city, and the whole lot was empty now. There was no sign left of the meeting, of the guards, or of Ezio’s corpse. Of course. It had always been Blake’s plans to tie up his loose ends here. Corin wondered if he’d let the guards escape before he set the fire. It didn’t matter. Blake was gone. In a bid to end things here, Corin had lost his chance and lost more time on top of that. He cursed and cursed again.

  And then he stopped. And then he smiled. Don Giuliano. Aerome. He was not glad to have given Blake a single extra minute, but that was a problem he could overcome. He had everything he needed now. He traded the glamour of Dave Taker for another face, old Josef from far-off Marzelle, and pressed out through the ruins toward the distant bustle of the city streets.

  Aerome. It was not quite home, but it was a city he knew well. And now he had a target here. Somewhere in this town was Ethan Blake—Giuliano Vestossi—and he might well believe his hired henchmen were all dead. He would be satisfied. He would be comfortable at last. After all, his loose ends were tied up. He’d never see the stormclouds brewing.

  Corin grinned despite the anger burning in his belly. Ethan Blake was going to suffer for his sins.

  For some time he drifted aimlessly along the busy streets. He needed time to catch his bearings, some familiar landmark to point his way, but he needed time to think, at least as much. After weeks of grueling searching, he’d learned everything he wanted in two words from Ezio.

  They were two important words. Don Giuliano. And there was more, though it had gone unsaid. Vestossi. Don Giuliano Vestossi. The family name showed in everything Corin had seen since his arrival at Aerome. It was the ostentatious carriage, the show of force in a surreptitious meeting, the contemptuous betrayal, and the gall to burn down a sprawling public building just to conceal another villainy. Corin felt a gnawing irritation at that. He wanted Blake to pay for the act of mutiny. He wanted to make him suffer for any and every pain he’d done to Iryana. But now…Blake had become so much more. Now he was a Vestossi—not just in name, but in deed. From half a world away, he’d sent the orders that left a righteous man dead beneath the sea, for no other reason than family politics.

  Corin seethed at that. Blake had killed Ezio as well, and given orders to kill Taker, even after learning the man had faithfully fulfilled his duties. This was the kind of monster Ethan Blake could be. He was a wretched dog, but here in the heart of the Godlands, he was called Don Giuliano. He was respected, a noble representative of Ithale’s first family.

  It was not enough to kill him. Not by half. Corin’s first thought outside the bathhouse had been to find Giuliano’s estate, to get a good look at all the grounds, and then to come back when Blake was home. Step through the dream and kill him in his sleep. It would be easy with Oberon’s power at his command. But Corin had already slaughtered Dave Taker. Dead men slept in easy peace, and Corin wanted no peace at all for Ethan Blake.

  But how to make him suffer? Blake loved his power. He loved his luxury. But most of all, he loved the respect of his peers. Corin knew that well. It was pride and vain ambition that had always driven Ethan Blake, and it was there that Corin could hurt him most.

  He’d have to cost the man his rank. He’d have to strip him of his standing. He’d have to cast him dow
n to nothing—less than nothing—and somehow bind him there for the rest of his days. Corin went a block or two mulling that, and it felt right. It would be no easy task, but it was a righteous one.

  Corin’s wandering footsteps carried him to a broad piazza in a modest part of town. He found himself standing in the shadow of some long-forgotten patron, but something in the statue’s timeworn face sparked a memory for Corin. It felt familiar somehow. For one strange moment he thought it might be a memory of Jezeeli—perhaps this was a shadow to some elfin legend—but then he glanced aside and recognized the street. He realized where his idle path had brought him.

  On the north side of the piazza stood an ancient chapter house. It might once have belonged to carpenters or masons, but its walls were cracked with age and its windows boarded up. The huge polished wood doors that filled the arching entryway were sealed, and scrawled signs plastered on the doors declared this place private property. Closed. Keep out. By the look of them, those doors hadn’t opened in ages.

  But Corin knew the other way around. He’d been here before. He slipped down the alley to the left and found a much newer door—this one entirely unmarked—set in a bit of darkest shadow. He glanced back up the alley both directions, assured himself no one was watching, and then dropped his glamour altogether. If there was anywhere in the world Corin Hugh might find true welcome, it was beyond this door.

  He announced himself with a patterned knock, just as he’d done once before in Marzelle. The door opened and Corin went in.

  And this…this was a Nimble Fingers. Marzelle’s smoky cellar had been a breath of fresh air after so long away from civilization, but it had been a poor excuse for a Nimble Fingers compared to the organization in Ithale. Back home in Aepoli they did things right, but even there they didn’t have anything like this.