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.
CHAPTER EIGHT
But what was this place? By every indication, this was the same Jezeeli he had found. Moved somehow by mystic arts or madness, this was the place he’d found behind the cliffs. He knew the shop. He knew the street. But it was not a tomb. It was alive and in the open, apparently as rich and powerful as it had been in the legends.
How many legends had he read? All of them with different names for the city—he’d found Gesoelig and Gesaelich, Jesalich and Jazil—and different locations all around the Meddgerad Sea, but all of them had spoken of its wealth and grandeur. All of them had spoken of the king, mighty Oberon, who’d conquered hells and made the gods his loyal vassals. They’d spoken of forgotten magic and powers lost to man, of scholars who held secret understandings of the dreams behind the stars.
But they had all been stories. They’d painted jeweled Jezeeli as the city of the gods, but not…not a real place. Not a sister city to Aerome in Ithale. Not full of heavy-handed shopkeepers and curious bystanders and spoiled gentlemen. Even as he thought it, Corin remembered the gentleman downstairs. He remembered the sword. Now there was a piece of legend. There was something out of story. It cried to Corin’s thieving soul and overwhelmed everything else.
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
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.
CHAPTER EIGHT
But what was this place? By every indication, this was the same Jezeeli he had found. Moved somehow by mystic arts or madness, this was the place he’d found behind the cliffs. He knew the shop. He knew the street. But it was not a tomb. It was alive and in the open, apparently as rich and powerful as it had been in the legends.
How many legends had he read? All of them with different names for the city—he’d found Gesoelig and Gesaelich, Jesalich and Jazil—and different locations all around the Meddgerad Sea, but all of them had spoken of its wealth and grandeur. All of them had spoken of the king, mighty Oberon, who’d conquered hells and made the gods his loyal vassals. They’d spoken of forgotten magic and powers lost to man, of scholars who held secret understandings of the dreams behind the stars.
But they had all been stories. They’d painted jeweled Jezeeli as the city of the gods, but not…not a real place. Not a sister city to Aerome in Ithale. Not full of heavy-handed shopkeepers and curious bystanders and spoiled gentlemen. Even as he thought it, Corin remembered the gentleman downstairs. He remembered the sword. Now there was a piece of legend. There was something out of story. It cried to Corin’s thieving soul and overwhelmed everything else.
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
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