farmers, sailors, or servants. Every sign of wealth belonged to those elegant creatures, larger and sleeker and prettier than ordinary men, who so densely packed the streets. For just a moment, Corin recalled the ancient carvings on the sandstone cliffs, of Oberon and Ephitel and dozens more like them. This city was crowded with lords and ladies who looked like living gods.
Another wave of pain bent Corin double, his gut a knot of stabbing cramps. A groan escaped between his teeth, and then the angry woman was kneeling over him. She thumbed back his eyelids, staring close, then pressed a finger to his throat. She tried to help him up, but the agony in his ankle drew another cry, and she let go. Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment she just stared, then she rose again like a mainmast sail and grabbed two strong men from the curious crowd.
“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
Another wave of pain bent Corin double, his gut a knot of stabbing cramps. A groan escaped between his teeth, and then the angry woman was kneeling over him. She thumbed back his eyelids, staring close, then pressed a finger to his throat. She tried to help him up, but the agony in his ankle drew another cry, and she let go. Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment she just stared, then she rose again like a mainmast sail and grabbed two strong men from the curious crowd.
“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
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