The Wrath of a Shipless Pirate (The Godlanders War) (4 page)

Corin nearly lost his own balance, startled as he was by her agility. She fell back a pace and watched him through a smoky veil. Her head was covered, her garments plain, but once again he got the eerie feeling that he
knew
the stranger watching him.

Corin brushed the dust from his knees and elbows,
unthreatening
, and offered her his most disarming smile.

“Are you stalking me? A pretty little thing like you—”

Too late he remembered she was armed. Her right hand came up, lost within the folds of her robe, but he didn’t doubt she held a pistol of her own.

“Age of Reason!” he screamed and turned on his heel. “Does everyone in Khera have a gun?”

He had no wish to lose more time to Oberon’s dream travel, and the city streets gave him more room to maneuver than the crowded inner chamber had offered before. He vaulted an abandoned fruit cart, feinted to the left, then sprang and rolled to the right. He went half a block down the next street, then took another alley. Three quick jogs—left and right and left again—and half a mile separated him from that strange woman.

He slowed, but only to a trot. He
did
have somewhere to be, and time was precious. He had to catch Tommy and Billy before they left the city. But as he headed for their most likely point of exit, he thought back on that strange encounter. Who
was
this woman following him? It couldn’t be coincidence that he had met two such figures under such circumstances. And yet, how could she have found him? Hours apart, the timing made more random by his strange magic movement. Yet twice she’d
stumbled
on him. She’d seemed surprised both times, but she’d been quick enough to draw her gun.

And yet, she hadn’t fired. He had no doubts she had the skill—not after that martial display—but she clearly meant her arms to pacify him, not to injure. That was something, anyway.

For a moment he regretted leaving her. He glanced back
to se
e if she had followed, but flight came as easy as breathing to a boy grown in the dark streets of Aepoli, and Corin had truly lost her.

It was likely for the best. The girl was some kind of
mystery
, but Corin had a purpose. Ethan Blake. And all his hopes for revenge were likely leaving with the tide. Corin ground his jaw and sprinted harder despite the searing sun. There was
somewhere
he had to be.

K
hera had no Nimble Fingers; the elite network of thieves and fences kept themselves to more civilized climes. But Khera’s next best thing was Ahmed the Fig. Ahmed ran a dirty little brothel outside the city. He was famous for it, though no one seemed much interested in hiring his women.

But
…
perhaps it mattered that his fine establishment backed right up to the river. Perhaps his private jetty saw an inordinate amount of traffic—mostly by the sleek, fast ships so suited to smugglers and slavers. Perhaps the caliph’s guards were well rewarded for overlooking Ahmed’s business.

Every pirate on the Medgerrad knew of Ahmed the Fig, but Corin almost always kept away. Old Grim hadn’t liked the man, and Corin knew better than to doubt his mentor’s judgment. Still, Corin knew the way as well as anyone, and he was willing to bet everything that Billy Bo and Tommy Day would be at the Fig’s place now—if they were not already gone.

The sun was sinking low when Corin reached the brothel. A hard-packed footpath curled past wild dunes in an empty stretch of desert. As he approached the run-down clay building, Corin searched the horizon carefully, but he could spot no other signs of life. The river’s floods never touched this high spit of rocky land, but it was likely Ahmed’s reputation, more than the challenging agriculture, that kept him short on neighbors.

The only other structure in sight was Ahmed’s camel pen. In busier times it served as much as a horse stable as a proper camel pen, but it seemed poorly suited to the task. The thin, cracked wooden slats that made up the pen’s walls were sun bleached and sand blasted, and fully half of them hung loose or slapped against their posts. Yet somehow no one had ever heard of Ahmed losing one of his patrons’ charges.

As Corin approached the pen, a shape that he’d mistaken for another of the loose fence posts peeled away and revealed itself to be a child. He’d have made a fine street urchin in Aepoli—thin as a post, hip-high to Corin, and missing all but a handful of teeth. His eyes were sharp, though, and he
carried
himself
with a bobbing reticence that probably passed for respect. Corin recognized it as prudent caution. This was a child after his own heart.

“Take your horse, Effendi?” the urchin called, hand extended.

Corin chuckled. “As you can see, I have neither horse nor camel.”

“No, but you can see I
would
have served you well if you had. That must be worth a coin or two.”

Corin barked a laugh. “Here’s my offer: Tell me who has come by here today, and when, and
that
will earn a handful of silver.”

The child spat. “That would cost you good king’s gold, and me my hand. Effendi.”

Corin took a knee to face him on a level. He pressed a heavy silver coin into the boy’s hand and met his eyes. “That’s yours regardless. But all I need to know is if my shipmates passed this way. If they’re still here. Three Godlanders like me. Likely wounded. It would have been this afternoon.”

The boy spent a moment idly prodding one of his remaining teeth with the tip of his tongue while he considered how he’d answer. At last he shrugged and looked down at his feet. “I guess they wouldn’t have horses, either.”

Corin frowned. “I don’t—”

But it hadn’t been a question. The boy went right o
n. “Ju
st tw
o m
en wa
lking through the dunes, one carrying another on h
is shoulder
l
ike a bag of grain.” He shrugged again. “If they had no
ho
rses, they wer
e no concern of mine, so I couldn’t tell you anything.”

Corin grinned, but kept his voice solemn. “I can hardly fault you for that. Keep your coin all the same.”

The boy ducked his head and turned to resume his place in the shade, but Corin caught his shoulder. Voice cast low, he asked, “Are they still here?”

The boy tore free of Corin’s grasp. “I told you I can’t answer questions like that.” He went three paces, plopped down by the fencepost, and closed his eyes against the sunset glare. Almost idly, he said, “But I can say the tide has not yet changed. That’s no one’s secret, right?”

“Exactly right,” Corin said. He flipped the boy another coin, loosened his sword in its sheath, and pushed through into Ahmed the Fig’s Fine Brothel for Weary Desert Travelers.

It looked considerably more impressive on the inside. The same high, rocky soil that made this spot so bad for farming had allowed Ahmed to dig down and build a stable structure below the sun-seared earth. From the outer door, Corin descended a dozen steps into a wide, dark pit of a common room. Low tables stood here and there in an apparently random arrangement. Cushions surrounded the tables, but at the moment they were all unoccupied. One glance was enough to show Corin his old crewmates weren’t in the common room.

That didn’t rule out the private rooms around the edges of this one, hidden behind heavy curtains, but Corin had his doubts that Tommy Day would spend that kind of coin. No, far more likely they were waiting on the jetty out back or already aboard some smuggler’s ship and simply waiting for the tide to turn.

That last possibility seemed like the greatest risk, so Corin headed straight toward the storeroom and the jetty. But he’d barely taken a step before Ahmed appeared to intercept him. The seedy little man barely came up to Corin’s chin. He was thin and greasy, with a fringe of tight, graying curls and deep-set eyes that never stopped moving. They barely touched on Corin, but the Fig effortlessly interposed himself on Corin’s path and c
orralled him
.

“Isn’t this that Corin Hugh, once captain of the
Diavahl
? Some call you Old Grim’s heir—don’t bother to deny. You do me great honor!”

“You do me too much. I’m just a humble sailor looking for safe passage.”

“But first you will enjoy my hospitality! Stay a night. No charge for you, and I’ll see you have no cause for complaint.”

Stay a night at the Fig’s brothel? He’d be lucky if he woke to find that only his possessions had been stolen. He’d be lucky if he woke at all.

He was careful to keep such thoughts from his expression, though. It was dangerous business offending someone like
the Fi
g. Shadows shaped like men lurked around the edges of the room. Large men. Corin had no wish to tangle with them. So h
e b
owed his head and offered his regrets.

“I hate that I must pass up such a generous offer, but my
business
calls me urgently away.”

“Surely you can spare one night!”

“Alas, but there are affairs more pressing than the comforts of one poor sailor. I cannot spare a minute. I must catch the very next ship that passes your jetty.”

So saying, Corin tried to push past Ahmed, but the little man slapped a firm hand on Corin’s chest, and two of those menacing shadows solidified as quickly. Hulking guards came forward, and they wore long, curved knives the way a courtesan might wear strings of pearls.

Corin swallowed hard and fell back a step. He moved his hand slowly toward the purse on his belt and spoke plainly. “I’ve no quarrel with you, Fig. We are both businessmen. Name your price, but I
must
be on the next ship sailing for the sea.”

Ahmed grinned, gregarious as ever. “The tide won’t change for an hour yet, and I am a host before I am a businessman. Come and have a drink with me—”

“Ahmed,” Corin interrupted, begging, but he cut short when the hulking guards started forward, fury in their eyes.

The Fig clapped his hands lightly, and the guards fell back. Then he caught Corin’s elbow and guided him toward a private room on the back wall. “Show honor, Corin Hugh, and we will return every favor. But please show honor. Godlanders’ blood leaves such a cruel stain.”

Corin smiled, lips tight, and went meekly along. He strained for a glimpse through the jetty door as he went, but it was all smoke and shadow. Distracted as he was, Corin misplaced a step. His foot landed in some slick spill on the hard stone floor, and he went to one knee before he caught himself. The hand that caught him landed in the same spill that had tripped him—something thick and sticky and warm. The stink of it was a metallic tang.

“Ah, you see?” Ahmed cried. “Just as I was saying? What kind of host am I?”

He clapped his hands again and barked, “Fetch Corin Hugh a rag to clean his hands. Godlanders’ blood!” He spat, every bit disgusted with himself, but his gaze never left Corin’s face, and there was immense satisfaction in his eyes.

Corin fought to hold his grin. The blood was drying on his hand, congealing into a too-tight glove. It was warm, but not warm enough, and it had lain thick in that pool.

Whose was it? That was the question. Corin would shed no tears to learn that Tommy Day’s belly wound had bled out on the floor here. Especially if he could compel Billy Bo to point him toward Ethan Blake.

But if it had been Charlie Claire, if Tommy Day had
murdered
him here while this greasy Fig stood witness
…
well, Corin had a list of men who needed killing. It would be no extra effort to add one more name.

But first he had to learn the truth. Corin fought down his anger and disgust to answer with a quiet calm. “Godlanders’ blood is no strange thing for me. Perhaps I could share a trick or two.”

Ahmed gave a grin. “I would be forever grateful. But come! Our drinks will lose their chill. This way! We have been waiting.”

Ahmed strolled ahead, chatting amiably about local
politics
and weather. Corin followed after, bracketed by the hulking guards. They hadn’t asked him to surrender either of his visible weapons. That thought didn’t comfort him at all. It only meant they knew that they were faster.

Ahmed was first to reach the outer wall. He caught the
curtain’s
edge in one hand but, like a true showman, waited until Corin stepped up close before pulling it aside. Corin tensed
himself
against the surprise. He clenched one hand tight around his sword’s grip, the other on his dagger’s, and braced himself to spring out of the guards’ reach. Then he took the final step, so close that his nose nearly brushed the heavy textiles, and rolled his eyes toward Ahmed. “Well?”

Ahmed frowned, grumbled something, and whisked the
curtains
back. They revealed a private room like others Corin had seen—a low dining table and cushions, a pile of heavy
blankets
in one corner—but this one held a liquor cabinet too, and a great mahogany writing desk. There was a chair as well, out of place here, though it matched the desk nicely. It looked to be
master-cra
fted woodwork and fine Ithalian leather.

And bound and gagged in the chair was Charlie Claire.

Poor Charlie looked ghastly, his face and chest caked with mostly-dried blood from the scalp wound. He had new bruises too, on his face and hands and forearms. There’d clearly been some struggle, but he was subdued now. His hands and feet were all tied tightly to the heavy chair—so tightly the cords were
cutting
deep into his wrists and ankles. His face was pale, from the pain or from the loss of blood, but his eyes were open and alert. They widened as they fixed on Corin, and some new terror gripped the man. He struggled anew despite his bonds, despite the hulking guard who stood behind him, and he received a brand new blunt trauma to his skull as punishment.

His head snapped violently forward at the blow, then lolled limply, though his eyes still fluttered with some trace of
consciousness
. The sight of him so unsettled Corin that it froze him in place. Ahmed said something that Corin didn’t catch, and again louder; then he clapped his hands, and one of the hulking guards shoved Corin between the shoulder blades hard enough to send him staggering into the room.

At the motion, Corin’s mind started working once again. He caught his balance on the second step but took a third anyway
, with thoughts of flinging himself on Charlie’s wa
rd
en. The
slithering whisper of steel on steel stopped him, and he turned to find more guards in the room. Three on Charlie, two for Corin’s escort, and Ahmed himself was said to be a
ruthless
killer with a bit of cord. Corin’s heroism flared up hot and bright when he saw what they’d done to a battered member of his old crew, but overwhelming odds rushed in and doused it like an ocean swell.

So Corin drew up short. He buried any indication that he’d ever meant to fight, and with a wholly disinterested expression, he turned to Ahmed. “It seems this room is already in use. I’d hate to interrupt these men before they’re done. Perhaps another?”

Ahmed laughed. It was a grating cackle. “You do nothing to deceive me, Corin Hugh. You try and try and try and try again, but I can see beneath your skin. I can peer into your coward’s heart. I know that you know this man. I know that you were once his captain and that you would not much like to see him dead.”