The Wrath of a Shipless Pirate (The Godlanders War) (6 page)

“I don’t,” he said, but he was not so stupid as to move. He had watched one of the tiny darts from that strange weapon
incapacitate
an elven soldier in a fleeting heartbeat. But still he was confused. Why would she threaten him at all? Why pretend she didn’t know him?

Ah! But it had been more than a thousand years since
she la
st saw him. How many other dashing pirate captains had she met in all that time? How many other grand
adventures had
she enjoyed? Any answer just raised questions of its own.

He frowned at her. “How can it be that you are still alive?”

She flashed her teeth, though it was not a friendly smile. “I am careful and I’m smart and I overuse my ammo.”

Corin took a risk. Slowly, unthreateningly, he shifted. She twitched the dartgun, but she didn’t fire it, so he rolled up into a more comfortable position. A moment later, almost reluctantly, she did too. On their knees now, two paces distant, they faced each other.

Would a thousand years be time enough to forget a face like that? It lacked the fine, sharp lines of Raentz’s noble ladies or the snowy pale so praised in Princess Sera. Her hair was short, held back with combs, her eyes a boring brown. She was not
beautiful
, but there was something in her bearing, in her every expression, that was absolutely
her
. Intelligence and strength and fear in equal measure. He smiled, despite himself, to look on her again and wondered aloud, “Where did you get a thousand years? How did you get here?”

“I will ask the questions!”

“Why?” Corin asked. “Why have you been stalking me?”

“To find out what you are. To understand the threat you pose.”

Corin spread his hands. “You could more easily have asked. I will tell you. I am Corin Hugh, an enterprising manling who has seen much of the world.”

“Manling?” she asked, shock in her tone. “Where did you learn that word?”

“In the same place I learned the tricks that so alarm you. It’s also where I learned that
I
am not the threat you fear. That honor is reserved for Ephitel.”

Her eyes went wide. She forgot the weapon in her hand and bent toward him. “Do not say such things on open streets.”

“It is also where I met you, Aemilia. A druid in a
moneychanger’s
shop. Or should I call you Emily?”

The druid’s eyes narrowed. She said, “Everything about you is wrong.” And then she shot him.

Corin saw her pull the trigger. He saw the glass-and-silver dart exit the barrel, flashing distant torchlight. The dart bit into his neck just above the shoulder, sharp and hot like a scorpion’s sting, and the poison went straight to work. Corin’s world turned gray and fuzzy, soft around the edges, much like it had done when he tried to leap away from Ahmed’s place.

And again, he watched time unwind. He felt himself slam back down into the alley. The pain in his neck faded, and color washed back in.

Corin stared, stunned but clearheaded, while Aemilia still covered him with her weapon. Her eyes narrowed. She said, “Everything about you is wrong.” And she shot him. Again.

He had a chance to curse this time, but nothing more before the dart struck home. The tranquilizer seemed to burn worse this time, but the effect was the same. Gray fog enveloped him, pulling him away, but he lashed out against it.
No
, he thought, furious.
I have no time to rest
. And back he went. The memory of pain remained, but history unwound itself so Corin found Aemelia once more narrowing her eyes.

“Wait!” he shouted, trying desperately to twist away, but there was no time. She shot him in the back of the shoulder, and that worked just as well.

And once again he clawed his way back. This time he didn’t hesitate. While she was still deciding, he sprang forward,
closing
the narrow distance between them, and knocked the dartgun from her grip with a full-arm backhand.

She dove after it, but he rolled once and tripped her up with a scissor kick. Then he leaped like a frog and flung himself to cover up the weapon with his body. He curled around it, fighting for his breath, and tensed himself against whatever violence would come next. Surely this toy was not the druid’s only magic.

But before he felt anything, he heard the sound of running footsteps. He shoved then, taking the weapon with him as he rolled to his feet, but Aemilia was already halfway down the alley and moving fast. “Stop!” he shouted after her. He raised the
dartgun
. “I’ll shoot!” But the woman didn’t slow, and Corin didn’t fire. By the time he reached the alley’s mouth, she was lost to sight.

C
orin didn’t dare give serious chase. There had been too many familiar faces in the crowd. Frustrating though it was, he let her go. For now, anyway. He would have to track her down
eventually
because he needed answers only she could give.

How
had
she survived a thousand years? She certainly looked no worse for wear. Was that some druid secret, or had she stepped through time the same as Corin?

For that matter, how had she been able to find him? The woman seemed as close as his shadow, popping up every time he turned a blind corner. The thought was an alarming one because Corin needed his anonymity. He had dangerous work to do, and a persistent tail might get him killed.

At least he had her weapon. He looked down at the
contraption
in his hands and remembered the stabbing fire of its bite. It only had one shot, but it was a strong one. He
remembered
what had happened all too well: four
different
chains of events, all of them mutually exclusive. What had
happened
in that weird gray fog? Was this more of Oberon’s power, or something new at play?

He cursed quietly to himself while he watched the slow tides of sailors and villagers flowing past the alley’s mouth. Only one person in this city could answer his questions, and he had let her slip away.

Again, he felt some small victory at capturing her weapon. If he tracked her down before she found another one, he’d have the upper hand. In the meantime, he had other business to attend to. As Corin slipped back into the flow of traffic, he stashed the druid’s gun beneath his cloak, in a pocket near another pistol that wasn’t his. The dwarven revolver was a piece of mastercraft, but still it made Corin’s skin crawl.

Another memory torn from the past. He had promised to deliver it to its rightful inheritor, the dwarf known as Ben Strunk, but that would have to wait. Aemilia would have to wait. Even Ephitel would wait. There was so much to do, but Ethan Blake came first.

Corin ground his teeth as he remembered the traitor. So much to do, and all of it required information. At least he knew where to find it. Cautious as he was being, the journey took twice as long as it should have, but at long last Corin found the shady tavern used as headquarters by the local chapter of the Nimble Fingers.

Corin watched the door for half an hour, assuring himself that nothing was amiss, but in the end impatience won him over. He slipped across the empty street, announced himself with a patterned knock, and flowed through the narrow doorway.

The room beyond was barely more than a cellar, with unfinished walls and a low ceiling. Choking smoke hung heavy in the air and almost overpowered the stink of stale beer. At half a dozen little tables around the room, tired-looking men drank beer or wine, but no one seemed much interested in conversation.

Half a pace inside the room, Corin’s eyes burned and his shoulders sagged. He breathed deep of the noxious air and grinned despite himself. At long, long last, he had come home.

Then someone hit him. The blow came in from the side—from the doorman he’d just passed—and it nearly unhinged Corin’s jaw. Light burst behind Corin’s eyes, red and orange, and he stumbled two paces into the smoky room.

His attacker was talking, something puffed up and obnoxious in a deeply slurred Raentz dialect that Corin didn’t bother trying to unravel. He was just waiting for the gray fog to take over, for the chance to unwind time and catch this villain unprepared.

It didn’t happen. Still mouthing off, the villain closed with Corin and slammed a kick right into his gut. Corin folded over, gasping, and rolled away a moment before the brute’s foot came stomping down hard. Still no gray fog. Still no help from Oberon.

If you can’t count on a dead god these days, who can you count on?
The thought flashed through Corin’s mind, and the answer was an easy one. He’d never been able to count on anyone—not even Old Grim, once push came to shove—but Corin could always count on himself. And he wasn’t about to lose a fight to some stinking Raentzman!

Corin rolled again, curled up tight, and sprang to his feet. His hand went instinctively for the dagger on his belt, but the Nimble Fingers had its rules. He left the blade alone, ducked a vicious haymaker, then stepped in close and threw all his weight into an uppercut. The villain’s head snapped back with a
crack
that drew a groan from someone else in the room, and Corin’s opponent staggered back a pace, but he didn’t go down.

His heart pounding now with unspent anger, Corin pursued the bigger man. He feinted high then threw a quick, sharp kick that snapped something in the villain’s ankle. The Raentzman started to fall then, and as he passed, Corin smashed an elbow against the back of his neck. That drew another groan—as well as some approving grunts—from his audience. It also left the Raentzman out cold on the floor.

Now
Corin drew a weapon. He went for the sword
Godslayer
too, instead of the little dagger. Bar fights were not uncommon in a Nimble Fingers tavern, but the rules said to keep them one-on-one. If anyone felt an urge to avenge the big man on the floor, the rules went out the window.

One slow glance told him he was safe. For now, at least. There were perhaps a dozen patrons in the bar, dressed like locals and none of them with the look of a sailor. If any had thought to spring on him, the sword had instantly dissuaded them. Now it held all their eyes transfixed, and that gave Corin time enough to catch his breath and formulate a question in his uneasy Raentzian. He found the inn’s proprietor among the watchers, marked as clearly by the scars across his face as by the tarnished tin ring on his right hand. Corin nodded his direction. “What was his problem?”

The innkeeper answered in easy Ithalian. “Josef has no love for your countrymen.”

Corin frowned. “My countrymen?”

“That was an Ithalian knock if ever I’ve heard one. Josef’s something of a connoisseur.”

“Of
knocks
?”

“All manner of secret signs.” The innkeeper jerked his head toward the bar, then pulled Corin a flagon of beer. As he passed it over, he went on. “Josef is our records keeper.”

Corin gaped at that. He spun on his heel to stare at the man he’d dropped, and took in details he’d missed during the frenzy of the fight. He was old, for one—nearly thirty—and the fringe around his big bald head was dusty red. Corin shook his head. “Josef of Marzelle? I know him! I studied under him.”

“Oh, many have.”

“But I don’t understand. He bore me no ill will then.”

The innkeeper shrugged. “Times have changed. Some of your countrymen have staked a claim on Marzelle, and they play by no rules but their own. Josef thought you had the look of one of them.”

“Aye,” Corin said, staring sadly at the unconscious form of Josef. “He’s got a good eye. These countrymen of mine. They would be pirates?”

The innkeeper nodded. Corin took a long drink, then
nodded
back. “I know them right enough. Dave Taker and his boys. I only just learned that they call Marzelle home. In fact, I came to your tavern tonight to ask for aid in finding them.”

The innkeeper pursed his lips, clearly worrying he’d said too much. “You
…
you struck me as a man who knows t
he ru
les.”

Corin grinned back. “Friend, I’ve shaken hands with Avery himself. I mean you no trouble. I have a score to settle with Dave Taker and his crew.”

The innkeeper breathed a heavy sigh, “Then we are friends indeed. Even Josef may clasp your hand when he recovers. He always did respect a worthy foe.” He stepped aside to call out orders in his native tongue to the other patrons, who still stood watching Corin in utter fascination.

At the innkeeper’s command, the others finally began to move. They lifted Josef from the floor and found him a more comfortable position on one of the long benches against the outer wall. Someone ran to fetch a physician too, and that reminded Corin that he had other pressing questions.

“If you would call me friend,” he said, “I could dearly use some information.”

“We get but little news since the pirates settled in, but I will tell you what I can.”

“What do you know of druids in Marzelle?”

“Druids?” He laughed. “There are none here. If you need druids, head out west to the Dividing Line. They keep to their circles and rarely trouble us at all.”

“But I just met a woman in the streets. She dressed like a local, but she carried a druid artifact.”

“No doubt stolen.”

“No. I know her to be a druid.”

The innkeeper shrugged. “Then you know more than I. But I can tell you they do not find favor with our ruling houses or our gods, so if she is still in town at all, she’ll do everything within her power to stay hidden.”

“And that’s a problem?” Corin asked. “Is there no one in your Nimble Fingers who excels at finding just such people?”

“There may be one or two. Are you prepared to ask this favor of them?”

Corin didn’t answer right away. Favors carried heavy weight within the Nimble Fingers, and Corin had no surplus to share. He could scarce afford the extra burden, with all the work he already had to do. So he sighed and shook his head. “No. Forget the druid. I’ll find her on my own. But I will ask their help in tracking down two of my enemies.”

“Are these the pirates?”

“Aye. Dave Taker’s cousin Tommy and Tommy’s loyal
sidekick
, Billy Bo.”

The innkeeper shook his head. “Such silly names you
pirates wear
.”

Corin shrugged. “They are a kind of armor. And at times, a kind of weapon too.”

“And you mean to do battle with these names?”

Corin showed his teeth. “They dared to mutiny against me. They have harmed a loyal friend. I mean to war with them.”

“Then these charges will not cost you any favors. I suspect when you provide an adequate description, we will already know where to find them. We are watching, after all.”

“Ah, but I don’t even know if they’ve arrived yet. I may have beaten these two to Marzelle, so it may require a careful watch.”

“When did you expect them?”

Corin paused, calculating in his head. They’d spent the
winter
in the Endless Desert. It had been about the end of February when they found Jezeeli. By Charlie’s estimation, Corin had lost more than three months in his short step across the desert, and some couple days with Charlie there in Khera. If Tommy and Billy both went straight to Raentz from Ahmed’s place, it would still take them weeks. Corin plotted the most likely course,
double
-checked it, and nodded to himself. “No sooner than the first of June,” he said. “No later than July.”

The innkeeper blinked, surprised. “Then they arrived two months ago.”

Corin groaned.

The innkeeper went on. “Or it will be most of a year. Do you mean to wait so long?”

Corin buried his face in his hands. “When is this?” The
innkeeper
didn’t answer right away, so Corin clarified. “What month and year? How much time have I lost now?”

“It is the fourth of August in the twenty-third year of the reign of Francis.”

“Two months!” Corin groaned again. “Two more months lost while Dave Taker plays the tyrant here. While Ethan Blake slips through my fingers! While Iryana
…
”

Corin fell silent. He remembered all too clearly the fiery anger that had fueled him during his fight with Josef. Already the fire was stoking forge-hot again. No matter what he did, his enemies slipped further and further away. And the only ones he managed to hurt at all were his friends. He thought of Charlie Claire, his scalp split open in the scholar’s rooms. He thought of the poor young scholar Tesyn. And of the terrified look in the druid woman’s eyes when he confronted her. Even old Josef had been a friend once.

He’d spent too long silent. The innkeeper cleared his throat and, with a nervous edge to his voice, asked, “Is there something troubling you?”

“I have been blown about by stormwinds,” Corin said. “And it has gained me nothing. It is time I took the tiller.”

“Oh?”

Corin laughed darkly. “Aye. I have much work to do, and I will ask a thousand favors if I must. You say Marzelle is starved for news?”

“The Captain’s men are hanging Nimble Fingers in the streets. No one comes this way.”

“But you can leave? Even Raentz has roads, hasn’t it?”

The innkeeper puffed up behind the bar. “We have the finest post in all Hurope.”

“Then choose your finest sneak and send him down the road. If news won’t come to you, then go and fetch it.”

“But the Captain—”

“Will be busy soon. Too busy by far to catch your slinking messenger.”

“You truly mean to go to war with him?”

Corin shook his head. “No. He is no mighty foe. He
and his cre
w alike are wretched vermin, and I mean to exterminate them.”