chapter EIGHT
But what was this place? By every indication, this was the same Jezeeli he had found. Moved somehow by mystic arts or madness, this was the place he’d found behind the cliffs. He knew the shop. He knew the street. But it was not a tomb. It was alive and in the open, apparently as rich and powerful as it had been in the legends.
How many legends had he read? All of them with different names for the city—he’d found Gesoelig and Gesaelich, Jesalich and Jazil—and different locations all around the Meddgerad Sea, but all of them had spoken of its wealth and grandeur. All of them had spoken of the king, mighty Oberon, who’d conquered hells and made the gods his loyal vassals. They’d spoken of forgotten magic and powers lost to man, of scholars who held secret understandings of the dreams behind the stars.
But they had all been stories. They’d painted jeweled Jezeeli as the city of the gods, but not…not a real place. Not a sister city to Aerome in Ithale. Not full of heavy-handed shopkeepers and curious bystanders and spoiled gentlemen. Even as he thought it, Corin remembered the gentleman downstairs. He remembered the sword. Now there was a piece of legend. There was something out of story. It cried to Corin’s thieving soul and overwhelmed everything else.
The man who owned that sword had power. A man like that could open doors. If this place was anything like Aerome, a man who wore such an extravagant display would also have a wizard to his name, and a wizard might send Corin home. Corin had seen the cold disgust in the man’s eyes, but he could overcome it. He could steer a man as easily as a ship. It was never hard to learn the prevailing winds. Corin had learned much just in the brief exchange downstairs, and he could guess a volume more, but every hint he captured would aid him more.
So he braced himself against the pain he knew would come and pulled himself upright enough to catch the windowsill. He slid the thin pane shut to block the pleasant breeze and, with it, all the noise. Silence settled on the sitting room, but blood pounded in the pirate’s ears. Fire like a living coal burned in his foot. He breathed in frantic little gasps and fought it down.
He pushed away the pain and tried to focus. There were voices down below. Corin heard the personalities before he heard the words. Their cadences rose up the narrow stairway like the rise and fall of little waves against the hull. The lady’s voice was carefully polite, but Corin heard the brittle edge of her disdain. The gentleman gave orders in everything he said. He was loud and resolute and unyielding.
But however Corin strained his ears, he could not make out the words. Even when an argument raised both their voices. The pirate dashed off his expensive whiskey, braced himself against the pain, and lowered himself to the floor. He dragged himself toward the stairs and down, stifling groans every inch of the way. But he found strength as he came closer and finally understood the words.
The gentleman shouted in anger. “Well, blast it, girl! I’ve told you twice—”
The money changer interrupted with a pretense of patience in her voice. “Tell me again, but it will make no difference. Oberon himself made that decree.”
“And with good reason, but you cannot believe he meant it to apply to me.”
She sighed so loudly Corin heard it in the sitting room. “The law is law, my lord. It’s not for me to choose how it’s applied.”
“It’s not,” the gentleman boomed condescendingly. “That’s why you’re not in charge. That’s why I am.”
“My lord—” she tried to object, but he spoke over her.
“I am Oberon’s right hand,” he said. “I am the lord protector and prince of Hurope. If I request a writ of provender—”
“It’s not the note itself! It’s the goods you want.”
“I am the lord protector! What else would I demand?”
“My lord,” she persisted, “I would not challenge your intent, but law is law. All you need is Oberon’s approval.”
“I have it! I have it in my titles and my name!”
“But not on paper,” she said soothingly. “Forgive me, lord, but paper is my world.”
“You would thwart me for a scrap of parchment?”
“You would stoop so low as to ask one of me?” she answered. “A writ of provender by my hand is worth what it is worth because I follow law.”
“And I would pay what it is worth, but you insist—”
“I insist for both our sakes,” she interrupted smoothly. “For your safety as much as mine.”
“Only because you support these foolish games! I grow tired of your rules, outlander. And yes, I know who writes these rules for Oberon.”
The money changer lowered her voice until Corin could barely catch the words. “These rules make the world.”
“You’re wrong. The magic of my people makes the world. Your rules only constrain it. If we are to play by such rules, we should be gods above the manling crowd. Not slaves to paperwork.” With a casual gesture he struck the pile of carefully prepared forms from her hands. “If you earn my ire, outlander, Oberon himself would not protect you.”
He raised his hand as if to strike her and, unthinking, Corin took half a step to intervene. His ankle buckled at the barest weight, and he collapsed into the room. He caught himself on hands and knees, grinding his teeth to stop the screams of agony. When he could breathe again, he found them both staring down at him.
The gentleman arched an eyebrow. “Your drunk is listening in doorways.” His hand fell to the hilt of that magnificent sword.
The money changer darted between them and spoke breathlessly. “I’m sure he means no harm.”
Corin struggled up to lean against a wall. “No. I just…I just want to go home.”
The gentleman sneered. “And where do you call home? I do not recognize your fashions.”
“Another time,” Corin said. “Another place. Some kind…some kind of magic.”
The money changer turned to him, eyes wide and worried. “Hush. Be still. Your whiskey’s talking.”
“No,” the gentleman said. “No, I would like to hear what he has to say.”
She turned to him. “My lord, he isn’t well. He’s had a nasty fall.”
“Even so—”
Before he could say more, the bell above the outer door announced the physician’s arrival. The gentleman looked that way and then harrumphed.
“I should have known you’d summon another like you. Tend to your manling gutter trash. I will be back with the scraps of paper you’ll respect.”
The shopkeeper didn’t answer, and neither did the new arrival. The bell jangled once again, the door slammed shut, and Corin let himself collapse upon the floor.
Who was this man? Oberon’s right hand? The prince of all Hurope? Corin shook his head. The Godlands had no prince. They never had. Or, rather, they had dozens. Maybe hundreds. If this man held a fraction of the power he claimed, he’d be as powerful as any lord alive.
And Corin would play him like a lute. The nature of the man was utterly transparent. This prince had arrogance enough to drown a whale; he was a bully well accustomed to his privilege. Just another posturing Ethan Blake.
But Blake had won. The thought caught Corin broadside, but he shook his head. Blake had been even more a fool than Corin had believed. And when the darkness had cried out, Corin’s crew had let him down. They’d answered stupid confidence instead of reason. It wasn’t Blake who’d won, but Corin’s crew who’d failed him.
He’d learned a lesson there. That was the key. He knew Ethan Blake, and he knew this prince. Down to the core. All Corin needed now was an audience. With ten minutes’ time, he’d be a trusted confidant. With half an hour, he’d have some way back home. The man had mentioned the magic of his people, hadn’t he?
Corin rolled onto his side as a shadow fell over him. The figure looming there was unimpressive. Not one of the lords and ladies so common on the street, but…plain. An average height and build for any Godlander, but dressed in fine, strange clothes like the shopkeeper.
Was that what the gentleman had meant by “outlander”? Corin had thought of the graceful townsfolk as alien, something like the legendary elves from the Isle of Mists. But perhaps they were the natives here. Perhaps Corin’s own people had come from somewhere off.
Or perhaps these outlanders were something else altogether. In size and shape, this new arrival might have fit in on the streets of Aerome, but his clothes were strange. His tunic and trousers alike were made of some flat, untextured blue, and over all he wore a long white coat. His shoes were strange, as was the bracelet on his wrist. He lingered for a moment in the door, then glanced back behind him to the money changer.
“He isn’t one of ours?”
“I sure don’t think so.”
“Then what’s he doing here?”
Corin called out, surly, “He’s wasting away while you ignore him.”
The new outlander turned back to Corin. He knelt beside him at the bottom of the stairs, all the while watching Corin like he was some wild beast. Resting on his heels, elbows on his knees, he showed Corin a big, bright smile.
“How you doin’? My name’s Jeff.”
Corin waited for more. When the stranger didn’t offer it, Corin frowned. “I have never known a name like Jeff. Although…there was a Geoffrey Kirkwood at the university…”
Jeff laughed. “Just Jeff. Plain old Jeff. And you are?”
“Corin. Corin Hugh. Captain of the Diavahl.”
“Yeah. And Jeff is weird.” Still chuckling, Jeff slipped a knapsack off his shoulder and tore it open, rummaging within its contents until he brought out a broad white box, an extraordinary pen, and a small book. He flipped through to a blank page and scratched at the page with his pen. Then he glanced up at Corin again.
“Can you read, by any chance?”
“Not a lot.”
“Uh-huh. Where are you from?”
He said it casually, but Corin spotted the tension in his wrist and across his shoulders, the pinched lines around his eyes. Still…he could think of no good reason to lie. “Born in Aepoli. Sailor these last nine years.”
“Nine! You’re lying! You don’t look a day past eighteen.”
Corin didn’t answer.
The money changer stepped up close behind him and mumbled something in his ear. Jeff whistled softly and scratched something else in his book. “One more question, then I’ll see you right. Got it? Good. What year is this?”
Behind him, the money changer gasped. Jeff threw an irritated look over his shoulder, and that gave Corin half a heartbeat to think. What year? Was that the secret to this place? Had he stepped out of time?
Again, he couldn’t guess what would make a useful lie, so he reluctantly settled for the truth. “It’s the ninth of Ippolito.”
The outlanders both looked puzzled.
Corin bit his lip. “It’s…I believe the twenty-third of Francis. And something in the thousands south of the Meddgerad, but they don’t count by kings.”
The money changer frowned. “You do?”
Jeff said, “How many thousands? Two? Or ten?”
Corin shook his head. “One. One thousand, two hundred and…eight? Eighty? I don’t know. I only heard it once.”
Jeff leaned back. “Twelve hundred years. We’re already past that now, so they must be counting from some other date.”
“Gesoelig’s founding?” the money changer guessed.
“No. That wouldn’t give the northern nations time to adopt a new time scheme.”
“Then what?” the lady asked.
“I don’t know,” Jeff said. “I suspect it hasn’t happened yet.”
Corin said, “Perhaps it’s me.” A stab of pain spoiled the joke, and he doubled over clutching at his calf.
Jeff spat a curse and ripped open the low white box. “Close your eyes,” he said. “I’ll have you better in a moment. Just…close your eyes. You’ll be glad you did.”
Corin had seen chirurgeons at work before. He quickly complied. He tried not to hear the rustle of strange instruments as Jeff set about his work.
Jeff asked, “What’s he doing on the floor?”
He clearly meant the question for the money changer, but Corin was glad of the distraction. Eyes still closed, he answered. “There was a man here threatening the lady.”
“Threatening?” Jeff asked, alarmed.
“I’ll tell you later,” the money changer answered. “Just get this one taken care of.”
Corin shook his head. “No. I need to know more about that man.”
Something sharp and hot lanced into his ankle, but it wasn’t yet the bone saw. It lasted for a moment and then relented. Corin fell back, gasping. After that moment of liquid fire, the background agony of his broken ankle seemed to be relenting. He caught a dozen panting breaths and pursued his questions.
“Please,” he gasped. “I need information.”
“What do you want to know?” the money changer asked.
“Who is he? What is he in this town? Where can I find him?”
“Don’t go looking,” Jeff warned. “He isn’t nice at all.”
“But he does like to give speeches,” Corin said through gritted teeth.
Jeff laughed at that. “They all do. Something in their…hardwired in their souls, I guess. God bless ’em.”
The money changer grumbled some frustration then answered Corin seriously. “That was the prince and lord protector, though I suspect you might have heard that.”
Corin shook his head. “I…wasn’t listening. Too much pain.”
“Of course,” she said. “He oversees our defenses and our police forces. Our watch, I mean. He doesn’t have much patience for strangers.”
“Oh, I think I can win him over.” Eyes still shut tight, Corin smiled. He felt light. The pain had dwindled till he barely noticed it. “A man like that…he always needs a helping hand.”
Just then, Jeff caught his calf in a sure grip. Corin tensed despite himself. This would not be fun. He fought to take slow, calming breaths while a tight pressure clamped around his lower calf. Next would come the saw blade. Or did they use a knife to cut away the muscle first? He clenched his teeth and waited for the searing pain.
It didn’t come. Jeff clapped his hands together once and gave a sound of satisfaction. “That’s broken bad,” he said. “I can’t do much for it here, but at least the pain is gone. You’ll want to keep it elevated and stay off it for at least two weeks. It’s mostly set, but if you’ll come with me to my office, we’ll get it cast.”
“Set? Cast?”
Corin snapped his eyes open to meet Jeff’s gaze, and the leech looked startled. Nervous.
The money changer barked a laugh. “You never even try.”
“There’s not much room for role-playing in modern medicine,” Jeff shot back.
Corin looked from one to the other. Then he glanced down at his foot. There’d been no saw. There’d been no amputation. Instead, he wore some kind of boot. It seemed stiff as steel plate, but light as leather. It gripped tight around his calf, but below that, his whole foot was numb.
He looked at Jeff. “What did you do?”
Jeff threw a miserable glance at the money changer, then almost whispered, “Just a local anesthetic.”
Corin frowned. “A what?”
“Druid magic,” the money changer said. “All of this is druid magic.”
Corin’s brows shot up. “Oh! Oh, you are druids?”
“Yep,” she said. “Right off the ship. We meddle in things man was never meant to understand.”
Jeff said, “That’s hardly fair.”
She shook her head. “It’s how it has to be.”
Corin looked back and forth between them, mystified. At last he shook his head. All this was beyond him, but he had a question far more pressing. He said, “The prince.”
“No. Forget him,” the money changer said.
“I don’t believe I can. What is his name?”
Jeff answered, though the money changer tried to stop him. He didn’t seem at all concerned. He shrugged and said, “That’s Ephitel. Ignore him.”
Ephitel. He had looked a bit familiar. But Corin hadn’t thought to compare him to the ancient marble friezes or the etchings carved in stone. But aye, the resemblance was there.
So that was Ephitel. The tyrant god of all Ithale.
Corin closed his eyes and groaned.