Oberon's Dreams (7 page)

“Get him in my shop. Right now. And you. Fetch me Jeff from Snakestaff Lane. No, shoulders and knees! And stabilize his neck. Move it! Now!”

Corin saw the sign above the money changer’s shop as he was carried through the door. It was the same sign he had seen in an enormous, deserted cavern. Was this Jezeeli, then? In another time? Another world? There was no room left in him to be surprised. He recognized the room beyond when they carried him in, though it was mostly devoid of books now.

A heavy mesh of polished steel divided the room in two, and in the cage it made were four small vaults. Shelves above them held stacks of heavy paper trimmed in gold and green. The floor held leather bags in piles, their sides worn with faded lines that traced the rounded edges of coins. Minted gold and silver stood in neat little stacks atop the vaults.

The money changer had a desk outside the cage, hastily abandoned as she’d gone to check on Corin in the street. Its blotter held one of the expensive sheets of paper, with scrollwork on the edges and a detailed embossed seal. Those embellishments did more than decorate the page; they made the devil’s work of forgery.

Rare was the document that demanded such an expensive medium. This sheet looked remarkably like a gentleman’s credit note, and even those were often satisfied with just a waxen seal. But all the vaults in all Ithale could not have honored the sum the woman had been draping in calligraphy. No king could have requested such a note.

But the gentleman himself was in the room, leaning lazily against the wall while he waited for the money changer’s return. The gentleman was tall—taller even than the lords and ladies who packed the streets, and more heavily built. His eyes were bright and sharp, a cutting blue like that traitor Ethan Blake’s, and possessed of the same easy arrogance. His jaw was lean and strong, his shoulders broad, and there was something in his stance that screamed of violence restrained. But only just.

And on his hip he wore a sword so fine some kings would have gone to war to own it. His left hand rested on its guard, his thumb idly sliding the blade up and down against the scabbard’s throat. It filled the room with a constant steely hiss.

The weapon was a massive thing, with a blade wider than Corin’s spread hand, with silver on the scabbard, gold and gems upon the guard, but the grip was honest steel just like the blade. Sliding from the sheath, it sang of blood and shadows and the death of nations. The man who owned that blade might well demand the outrageous sum on the unfinished credit note. But then, the man who owned that sword would not need gold.

The man who owned that sword showed an inconvenienced frown as he watched the porters bringing Corin through the shop, and he turned it full upon the money changer as she came behind them.
She
was one of those rare few of normal build, though she used her voice to make up the lack in height. Still sour, she chivied the conscripted porters up the stairs.

Then, behind them, she turned with profuse apologies to the waiting gentleman. “Some nameless drunk, my lord, forgive his sins. But he’d done himself some violence somehow, so I fetched a leech to look him over. Shouldn’t think they’ll disturb us further—”

The gentleman sniffed sharp disapproval. “You bring a leech to tend a drunk in off the street? His bill will come to more than the blackguard’s worth. My guards can take him off your hands—”

“No need to trouble them, my lord. I have a friend.”

Then Corin lost the rest of the exchange as he was carried up the stairs. They took him to a little sitting room and stretched him on a couch beneath a window. One man pushed aside the sash to crack the window. Still baffled by this place, Corin expected billowing smoke or the dreary silence of the cavern tomb. Instead he heard birdsong and a busy market street, and he felt cool air against his face.

The other of the men had busied himself at a cabinet on one wall, and now he brought a heavy glass with a splash of amber whiskey. He pressed it in the pirate’s hands, then ducked his head and followed the other porter from the room.

For a moment Corin floated on the gentle waters of exhausted bafflement. The breeze was pleasant on his face, the noisy hum a kind of lullaby, and even before he tasted it, the spicy vapor off the brandy glass glowed warm and soft inside his head. He released a pent-up sigh and sent some tension with it, sinking down into the soft cushions. He sighed again and sipped the whiskey and closed his eyes.

This couldn’t be a dream. No dream could ever hurt as much as this. His ankle was a throbbing agony. It felt as swollen as a banquet goose and heavy as an anchor. He would be crippled no matter what the leech attempted—too many little bones, too many joints—but at least they might do something for the pain. Even the bone saw would hurt less than this, and gods knew he wouldn’t be the first to sail the seas with missing limbs.

He stopped at that and something like panic finally broke through his shock. Home. He had to find a way back home. Whatever this place was—and it seemed real enough—he’d left behind a girl who needed his protection, and a traitor who needed his revenge.

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.