Oberon's Dreams (14 page)

Corin had scarcely turned toward them before Delaen shook her head in a definite no. Jeff raised his hand to shoo Corin toward the jailers’ carriage. A
little
help, anyway. Corin cursed and dragged Maurelle on.

“What
is
the plan?” she asked. “We can’t just charge up and open the door!”

Half a dozen soldiers had emerged from the trapped carriage, and now they stood in a loose circle around it, keeping the angry crowd at bay with bared blades and blows from their heavy truncheons. Some of them looked angry, some regretful, but every one of them seemed ready to do violence to protect their charge.

“Only six,” Corin mused. “When he brought a regiment to the tavern. He must not have expected us here.”

“There would be more within the carriage.”

Corin shook his head. “There’s scarcely room for more. But who would sit inside a box with such a threat outside? I think they’d much prefer the room to swing a sword.”

“Even so, we cannot conquer six of them.”

“Three,” Corin said, circling toward his right. “See? We’ll let the carriage block the view of those on the other side, so now we only need to worry—”

“Three is as bad as a regiment!” she snapped. “You cannot hope to best three of Ephitel’s men in combat.”

“Not by myself.”

She laughed. “I will not serve you any better than Parkyr there.”

“I don’t need you to,” Corin said calmly.

“Then what—”

“Charge up and open the door,” Corin said. Before she could object, he raised his arm high and pointed to the guard standing near the carriage’s front axle. That one had a blade already wet with blood. Corin made the gesture big and glanced over his shoulder to see if the druids were watching. Jeff gave a little nod.

Corin turned back to Maurelle. “In a moment, that guard is going to fall.”

“How?”

“With some help from the people of Jezeeli, I think.” He raised his arm again, pointing to the guard right by the carriage door. This one, too, was using his saber against the crowd, but he had managed with threats what the first had done through pain. “Then that one will fall,” Corin said. “As soon as he goes down, run to the door.”

Maurelle watched the third soldier swing his truncheon and drop a man senseless. She whimpered. “What about that one?”

“Leave him to me,” Corin said. “Just get inside the coach.”

Maurelle clenched and unclenched her fists and stood bouncing on her toes, nervous but excited. He squeezed her shoulder and asked, “Are you ready?”

She nodded.

Corin turned his head, making sure the druids could see his profile clearly. Then Corin nodded once. “It should be any moment now.”

His eyes fixed on the forward guard, and he hoped for a well-thrown stone. A coordinated push might work as well, but there was greater risk of bloodshed. He watched, waiting, and even as intensely as he stared, he almost missed the strike. Not a stone, not a forward charge, but a tiny dart that glinted glass and steel. Corin had never seen the like. The delicate thing zipped through the air and buried itself in the soldier’s neck. A heartbeat later, the guard collapsed.

Maurelle saw him fall. She gave a nervous whimper, but as soon as the second guard fell, she darted forward. Rushing through the startled crowd, she leaped the fallen guard and locked her grip on the carriage door. Her charge drew the third guard’s attention.

She saw him coming and she cowered, raising one thin arm to protect her face, but she held her ground, even when the soldier raised his club. Corin felt a flash of pride at that. Then he threw himself upon the guard and caught him from behind.

Corin’s right arm locked around the soldier’s throat, and with his left he dealt a vicious blow to the soldier’s temple. The soldier fell. Panting hard, Corin met the lady’s eyes, then nodded to the coach’s door. She pulled it open.

Avery of Jesalich sat inside. Alone. Corin breathed his gratitude to fortune, then shoved Maurelle ahead into the cab. He slammed the door behind him and turned to meet his idol.

He dreaded the thought, but Corin had half expected Avery to prove another simpering dandy like Parkyr. To Corin’s relief, Avery—even in chains—looked more like a general than some spoiled prince. He held himself erect, tense as a coiled spring, and his dark eyes flashed with a heartfelt passion. He directed it all at Maurelle. “What are you doing here?”

Corin answered for her. “We’ve come to take you away from Ephitel.”

Avery turned his disdain toward Corin. “I do not know you.”

“No,” Corin said. “But I’m an admirer of your body of work.”

“I’m no admirer of yours,” Avery said. “How dare you bring my sister into this mess?”

“Excuse me,” Maurelle snapped, “but I brought
myself
.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “Well! Then you are more a fool than I thought.”

“I’m here to rescue
you
!”

“And I am only a prisoner because Ephitel wanted to catch
you
,” Avery said. “Now you’ve delivered yourself into his hands.”

Corin threw a glance at each of them. At a time like this they bantered. He tried to hurry them on. “Not quite. Err…on all counts. Ephitel does not want her, he wants me. And we still have a chance to escape.”

“
I
want my sister clear of this,” Avery snapped. “And I don’t want you anywhere near her. Right now, I consider you far more a threat to her than Ephitel’s jailers.”

“Avery…I need your help. I know what you are capable of, and I need your skills.”

The elven thief turned up his nose. “My skills are not for hire.”

For a moment Corin said nothing. He merely held Avery’s hostile gaze. Then he looked away. “Well, it is your good fortune that mine are.”

He produced the shoddy lockpicks borrowed from Parkyr. They were barely better than a toy, but the heavy manacles used a crude lock and Corin’s talents were sufficient to the task. He hesitated one twist shy of slipping the lock, and asked quietly, “Will you trade your services for your freedom? Or will you leave your sister in my hands?”

Avery bristled. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

“Not even a little bit.”

“What do you need?”

“To see the king.”

“That is not such a difficult thing.”

“But Ephitel wants me dead.”

Avery frowned. “Ah. I see. And you need me…”

“To help me find a way inside. Or to connect me with the kind of men who can.”

“That is
why
I made the Nimble Fingers.”

Corin gave him a count of seven heartbeats, then asked, “Well? What will it be?”

“It will not be easy.”

“I fought an angry mob and three of Ephitel’s jailers just to get this far.”

“I suppose you did.” Avery gave a heavy sigh. “Very well. I accede.” He jerked his wrists, which yanked at the chain and made the lock jump in Corin’s hand. The lock twisted against the picks still in place and opened with a
click
.

Avery rubbed his wrists as the chains fell away. He nodded to the far corner of the coach. “Should we take her?”

Corin turned, confused, and for the first time he noticed the prone figure on the coach’s floor. Aemilia lay unconscious, draped in chains of her own.

Corin said. “She’s a druid, and we can’t let Ephitel have her. Do you think you can carry her?”

Before Avery could answer, the door behind Corin flew open. Corin fell away from it, twisting to see, and recognized the soldier he’d assaulted outside the carriage. An ugly purple bruise already showed on the jailer’s left temple, but his eyes were sharp and clear. He drew back the heavy truncheon to attack.

Corin had no time to make a plan, no room to maneuver, but Avery uncoiled like a snake, snapping out a kick that passed just by Corin’s nose and connected hard with the soldier’s jaw. The soldier reeled away, stumbled two paces, then collapsed.

Beyond him, the druid Jeff stood with his arm extended, a strange little weapon like a miniature crossbow in his hand, the glass-and-steel dart not yet fired. Delaen waited by his left shoulder, guiding a pair of strong stallions on leather leads. She hissed something in his ear, and Jeff hurriedly concealed the weapon. Then he rushed toward the carriage door. Beyond them, the crowd was draining from the courtyard.

Corin nodded to Jeff as he approached. “They have Aemilia. She’s unconscious.”

Corin scooped her up, with some help from Avery, and passed her across the cab and down into the druid’s waiting arms. So close by, Corin caught Jeff’s expression clearly. It was apology and regret, though it lasted just a moment. Jeff tore his gaze away, heaved Aemilia’s limp form up in front of his saddle, and scrambled up.

Corin tried to follow after him, but Jeff quickly spun away. Corin shouted, “Wait! We have a coach!” but the druids didn’t meet his eyes. They didn’t wait. They galloped hard across the emptying plaza and disappeared down a dark alley.

Corin was left standing alone, surrounded by the fallen forms of guards and the rioters those guards had felled. While Avery and Maurelle came down behind him, Corin shook his head. “So. That’s why the druids helped.”

“And that,” Avery said, pointing past Corin’s shoulder, “is why the crowd is thinning.”

Corin had already spotted it. Ephitel rode into the plaza, shining like a star in silver-chased armor. More than a hundred mounted soldiers rode behind him, fanning out as they entered the plaza until they filled the far edge from end to end.

Avery darted to the rear of the carriage to look past it, back toward the Nimble Fingers’ hall, but Corin didn’t bother moving. “The other way is blocked, too,” Avery called.

“Of course it is,” Corin said.

“We’ll never get this carriage moving fast enough to escape the cavaliers.”

Corin shook his head. “Not a chance.”

“So how did you plan to escape?”

“In Parkyr’s coach.”

Avery heaved a disappointed sigh. “You’re going to need another plan.”

“I’ve just devised one,” Corin said, while Ephitel spurred his line forward at a walk. The prince had eyes like a hawk’s, sharp even behind his visor, and they never drifted from Corin’s face.

Corin licked his lips, mind racing. Then he raised his hands high and shouted, “We’re unarmed. And we surrender. Take us before the king.”

Avery’s whole body tensed in anger and fear, but the gentleman did not dare object. Corin had no such restraint. “She’s done no—”

“And you,” Ephitel boomed, smiling even as he voiced his grim displeasure. “Corin Hugh of Aepoli, a manling vagabond far from home now meddling in the affairs of his betters.”

Corin staggered at those words. How had Ephitel learned his identity? The answer came to him in a moment. “Aemilia…”

Corin barely breathed the name, but Ephitel nodded. “You have led me on a merry chase, slinking fox, but the moneylender made for docile prey.”

But she’s escaped your net
, Corin thought. He strove to hide the flash of satisfaction from his eyes, but Ephitel reacted. He spurred his stallion forward, knocking Corin back, and kicked aside the open carriage door. He stared inside. Corin itched to have some weapon—the sword he’d left behind, or even the crude knives he’d nearly borrowed from the kitchen earlier. For one long moment Ephitel left his back turned on Corin, and the pirate yearned to bury three feet of sharp steel in it.

Maybe not
too
sharp.

Then the prince wheeled in a fury. “Where is she? Where has the druid gone?”

One of his lieutenants pressed forward. “She must have slipped away with the crowd.”

“Impossible!” Ephitel shouted. “She carried a draught of the druids’ own sleeping potion. That would have rendered her as useless as these fools upon the road.” His eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “What has happened here?”