The Wrath of a Shipless Pirate (The Godlanders War)

by Aaron Pogue

  Behind the modest façade lay a sprawling parlor. From the entryway, Corin couldn’t see the back of the room. Tables spotted the floor and closed booths lined the walls, but none of them were too close together, none too large to allow a whispered conversation. The lights were few enough, the shadows thick; it would have been easy for a man to visit here unrecognized and carry on his private business. The waiters wore tiny silver bells on their wrists and ankles, just loud enough to announce their presence.

  The arrangements were a marvel, but a Nimble Fingers tavern was only worth as much as the quality of its patrons. There too Aerome seemed ready to impress. The sprawling common room was packed, bustling with quiet activity, and even as he lingered in the doorway, Corin watched more than a dozen men arrive and melt into the crowd.

  It was everything a Nimble Fingers ought to be. Corin breathed a deep, contented sigh and waded down into the throng. He’d barely gone ten paces before a man in black stepped up to walk beside him. This one wore no silver bells, but on his left hand he bore the ring of a Nimble Fingers tavern keeper. He walked tall, eyes always moving as he tracked the movements of his patrons. They never quite touched on Corin, even as the tavern keeper addressed him.

  “You’re new to Aerome, but not here for the first time.”

  “I’ve been before, in my younger days.”

  “Oh, so careful. You can speak more plainly than that. I remember Corin Hugh, even before he was a pirate.”

  Corin glanced aside, but he couldn’t place the other man’s face. He shrugged. “Beg pardon, but you have my advantage.”

  “Oh, no pardon necessary. There are so many tavern keepers in the world, and none of them as famous as Corin Hugh.”

  Corin chuckled. “I’m hardly famous.”

  “You’re getting there. Especially among the Nimble Fingers. We heard what happened in Marzelle.”

  “Already?”

  “Already? Hah! It has been days.”

  Corin slammed a fist against his hip. Days?

  But the tavern keeper pressed right on. “But you should know that’s not all we’ve heard. We know you asked a Raentzman brother to bring you some information, and one of our noble countrymen…interfered with his task.”

  The messenger Francois. Corin growled. “Aye. I know it well.”

  “Then you’ll be glad to know the countrymen responsible have paid a dear price for their actions.”

  “The ones responsible? Or just the ones who swung their clubs.”

  The tavern keeper ducked his head in a bow. “You have me there. We are not so powerful as to punish those with names, but we can keep our own streets clean.”

  “We must do more than that.”

  The tavern keeper spread his hands. “We’ve heard rumors of this too. You are no longer satisfied with the Nimble Fingers’ mission. You think we should be warriors? An army?”

  “I think we should aim so high, if not precisely in that direction. We are a brotherhood—”

  “Dedicated entirely to private gain.” The tavern keeper forced a chuckle. “We cannot all be heroes, Corin Hugh.”

  “Then what purpose do you serve at all?”

  “We are a home. We are a refuge in the storm. That is a service I take great pride in providing. If some among us strive for greater things, they can do so in the knowledge that there’s always someplace safe to run.”

  “Oh, very well. I suppose that’s noble in its way. Do you think I ask too much?”

  “If you didn’t, if that weren’t in your nature, then I suspect I wouldn’t know your name.”

  Corin smirked. “You have me there. Then I will only ask for refuge here. I have some grim business in Aerome, and I fear I’ll find enemies on her streets.”

  “I fear you are correct. I understand the city watch have your description memorized, and they’re perhaps the nicest of the men looking for you.”

  “I appreciate the warning. Can I count on a room as well?”

  “Of course. No favors asked. I have a cousin in Marzelle.”

  Corin smiled. “You’re a good man, and I’m deeply grateful. I apologize if I didn’t seem that way before.”

  “From what I hear, you’ve seen hard times.”

  “And harder times ahead. It’s a pirate’s life.”

  “Well, trust your brothers in the Nimble Fingers. Even pirates need a soft bed and a warm meal from time to time.”

  “You’re a godsend, tavern keeper.”

  “And about the other matter?”

  Corin frowned, trying to recall. “Which matter is that?”

  “The messenger from Marzelle. You sent him for information. It’s my understanding that information was never gathered.”

  Corin spread his hands. “I have found some part of it on my own, but you’re correct. I could use some fresh intelligence.”

  “Then ask. I’d like to see that old debt paid.”

  “That debt was signed in blood, and it will be repaid before I’m done in Aerome. But here are the things I need to know. Where is Ben Strunk?”

  “The crazy dwarf?”

  Corin grinned. “Good man! In Marzelle, they didn’t know his name.”

  “Gods favor ’em.”

  “Hah! Yes. I owe him a minor debt, and I would like to get it paid before I die.”

  “He’s here in town.”

  “Truth? Thank Fortune for that.”

  “Thank the Vestossis! They’re paying him handsomely to mint their coins.”

  “And he does it?”

  “Something has to pay for all his gambling debts.”

  “Fair enough. Then I’ll forgive him that. Can you get him word that I’d like to meet him here? Quietly, I mean.”

  “I can, but it might not reach him before he comes here on his own accord. Check back tonight. He likes our common room.”

  Corin nodded. “He loves to lose to thieves. He says that saves him time. Otherwise he loses half his pot to honest men, then ends up paying the rest to thieves on his way home.”

  The tavern keeper laughed at that, though it couldn’t be the first time he’d heard it. Corin let his smile linger for a moment and then turned back to business. “After Ben, I need current information on a man. A powerful man from a powerful family in this town.”

  “The way I hear it, they’re a powerful family across Hurope.”

  “Then you already know?’

  “I know you bear some grudge against the Vestossis.”

  “Every one of them. But especially against one who used to sail under the name of Ethan Blake.”

  “Many nobles’ sons take to the seas at a certain age. It’s no easy task to unveil some particular fellow’s pirate name—”

  “Giuliano,” Corin said. “I’ve done that work myself and paid a handsome price for the information. Giuliano Vestossi was the pirate known as Ethan Blake. He mutinied and stole my crew and sank my ship with a justicar in it.”

  “Gods on high!” The tavern keeper reeled. “That…that was you? That was Blake? That was Giuliano?”

  “You’ve heard rumors.”

  “I’ve heard a lot of rumors. I never believed they all were attached to one man. The justicar? It’s true?”

  Corin nodded. “Buried beneath the sea, and Blake sent my ship down with him.”

  “Dreadful waste of perfectly good timber.”

  Corin chuckled. “Giuliano. He’s the one I’m after. What can you tell me about him?”

  “He’s relatively new to the city. Trying his hand at court intrigue, but he’s fumbling. He’s made more enemies than friends so far, and some of them have names. Vague as it is, that’s as much as I can tell you now. Give me an hour—”

  “Take a day. I’m sore in need of rest.”

  “Give me a day, then, and I can tell you everything you want to know.”

  “Make sure no one dies this time.”

  “We are not Raentzmen, Corin Hugh. You should know better. We are the true Nimble Fingers.”

&nbs
p; “Hah. You speak true. Good. I look forward to that report.”

  “And that is all?”

  “Aye. That’s all. Now show me to a bed and send me something stewed.”

  He made it halfway up the stairs before one other request occurred to him. He sprinted back down, scanning the busy common room in vain, but half a heartbeat later the tavern keeper appeared at his elbow once again.

  “Can I help you further?”

  “Aye,” Corin said. “I need another Vestossi.”

  “Oh, this town is rotten with them. It shouldn’t be hard.”

  Corin showed his teeth. “This one might prove a challenge.”

  “I am prepared to impress you, sir.”

  “I look forward to it. But I need more than information. I need a meeting.”

  “Even that should be within our reach. What is his name?”

  “Her,” Corin said. “I need to meet with Princess Sera.”

  It took less than an afternoon. Corin barely had time for lunch and a quick nap before the tavern keeper knocked on his door. As soon as Corin slid the bolt, the tavern keeper darted into the room and closed the door behind him.

  “Who are you, really? You must bear the favor of some powerful gods.”

  Corin spread his hands. “A dead one, actually.” He waved away the confusion in the tavern keeper’s eyes. “I am just the man you think I am.”

  “And yet you change the world wherever you go. You saved Marzelle from a tyranny, and now a humble thief can somehow demand an audience with Sera Vestossi.”

  Corin cocked his head. “You’ve done it then?”

  “Indeed. You have a meeting with the princess, but you must hurry. She expects you in an hour.”

  “That’s fast indeed!”

  “She grew anxious when she heard the name you gave me. Who is Auric?”

  “That is not my secret to share. Not yet. We’ll see how this rendezvous proceeds.”

  “Very well. Then you take this.” He produced a delicate handkerchief embroidered with a curling S in gold, of a fabric so fine it felt like water between his fingers.

  Corin stared at it a moment. “What’s this?”

  “It is at once your map and your passport to see the princess.”

  “Do elaborate.”

  “Of course. You see…I have a cousin who works at the palace.”

  “You have a lot of cousins.”

  “Cousins are a valuable resource to a tavern keeper.”

  “I believe you. Go on.”

  “This cousin has a daughter who works directly for the princess. She’s a linen maid.”

  “And a trusted confidante?”

  “Just so. So when you asked to meet the princess, I went to speak with my cousin, and he with his daughter, and his daughter with Princess Sera. When she heard I bore a message from this Auric, she sent back the handkerchief.”

  “And how am I to use it?”

  “Make your way to the palace. There is a servants’ gate off Prince’s Way. Tell the attendant there you mean to speak with Signor della Porta.”

  “Signor della Porta. Your cousin?”

  “Just so. When he arrives, speak no word to him, but deliver him this handkerchief, and he will escort you to your meeting with the princess.”

  “Such measures! Is this truly necessary?”

  “The Vestossi princess does not lightly meet with some vagabond off the street. She has more than a lady’s honor to concern herself with.”

  “Aye. I know it well.” Corin played the delicate cloth between his fingers, thinking. Then he nodded. “I understand. I’m ready. And have you gathered any news concerning this Giuliano?”

  “I have done naught but run from here to the palace and back. You did give me until tomorrow.”

  “That I did. Take no offense. I’m most impressed by what you have accomplished.”

  “I’d gladly take a secret as reward.”

  Corin waved an admonishing finger. “Not yet, I said. Let me meet with this Vestossi girl and see what she can do for me. When I am through with her, I’ll share her indiscretion.”

  The tavern keeper turned to go, but Corin caught his arm. “One thing more. Can I count this room secure?”

  “If there is any honor in the Nimble Fingers, you may trust this room. I will swear on behalf of this ancient chapter house.”

  “Then I will trust you,” Corin said. “See that no one enters this room unless I accompany them personally, no matter what they tell you. See that no one brings anything in or takes anything out unless I am here to supervise.”

  “You are a careful man.”

  “I am stalking lords. If I were not careful, I would not still be alive.”

  “I will do everything you’ve asked.”

  Corin dipped his head. “You set my heart at ease. Many thanks.”

  “You will tell me how your rendezvous unfolds?”

  “I will tell you all I can. It seems only fair.”

  “Then I will leave you to it. The palace is some ways from here. You should set out soon.”

  “I will. Do not fear on that count. I couldn’t bear to tarry.”

  The tavern keeper lingered a moment more, but seeing Corin meant to share no more, he ducked his head and went on his way. Corin waited until the door was closed behind him, secure, and then he went to the tall armoire against the outer wall. He prodded at the inside bottom panel until he found the spot that yielded, then searched with his fingers to find the hidden edge.

  Every room in every Nimble Fingers tavern had its secret hiding spot. They didn’t start out that way, but when a tavern’s only patrons are practicing thieves, they tend to follow certain patterns. Someone long before him had picked the armoire as the perfect hiding spot and carved a false bottom into it.

  Corin lifted the panel aside and dropped his purse into the cavity. It held perhaps a hundred livres in Ithalian silver. Not a fortune, but enough to catch attention. Enough to satisfy an idle pickpocket.

  Then he went to the bed and peeled up its mattress. It lay on a wooden frame—nothing more than a shallow box—and that served Corin’s purpose well. He fished inside his robe and drew out three precious artifacts. The druids’ dartgun went in first, and then the dwarven pistol. Finally, he drew forth the book—the cracked leather tome that the elf Maurelle had spent her final years filling with the memories of a dying god.

  It told of Oberon’s demise, and Jezeeli’s with him. It told of Ephitel’s betrayal in plain words. It was the long-forgotten history of Hurope’s men and gods. It was a precious thing, beyond any price, but it was more than that. It was a weapon.

  Corin stared at it for some time, unmoving, before he shook himself and tore his gaze away. With great regret he unbuckled his glorious sword, Godslayer, and placed it in the bed frame too. Then he dropped the mattress back over it all and surveyed his handiwork.

  It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t bad at all. He doubted he needed take any such precautions at all. There were few places safer in the Godlands than a Nimble Fingers tavern. But these goods demanded special care. He went back to the wardrobe and cracked the door just enough to catch the eye. If anyone clever enough get past the tavern keeper did come in to search the place, they’d surely be clever enough to find the purse. With any luck, they’d overlook the bed.

  He took a deep breath and realized his nerves were running high. Too much at stake. He didn’t dare take these treasures to a meeting with a Vestossi—a meeting in their very palace—but he hated leaving them. He paced the room three times, fighting with himself, and at the last he had to tear himself away. He ripped the door open and dashed through it, slamming it shut behind him, and all the way down the stairs he fought an urge to go back and grab the sword. Or just the book.

  He didn’t yield. He crossed the busy common room and left by the alley door. The evening met him, sharp and cool, and fresh air cleared his head somewhat. A brisk pace cleared it more. When he’d gone a mile, he no longer felt the urge to rush
back to his room. When he’d gone two, he forgot the treasures altogether. His attention turned completely to the task at hand.

  The princess. She was the key to his revenge. For she could do what Corin couldn’t hope to: She could cast down a Vestossi lord and keep him down. After all, she was Ipolito’s daughter and third in line to Ithale’s throne. And Ethan Blake—no, Giuliano—had made himself her enemy. It was a situation ripe for Corin’s purposes.

  She certainly had her own reasons to go after Giuliano. The man had killed her lover. Or…tried to. That’s the story he intended to tell. As soon as he caught sight of the palace, he found a quiet side street and slipped into its shadows. Aemilia hadn’t given him much hint how it would seem to people watching while he wove the glamour, but it seemed safest to keep the thing a secret. He made sure no one was looking, then closed his eyes and focused on a memory of the farmboy.

  He’d made Corin one request before he died. Warn Sera. That much, at least, he could do. Corin clenched his fists and focused on the face in his imagination. He held it a moment and murmured to himself, “The world’s a dream. It’s all a dream.” Then he blinked, and he was a gold-haired farmboy. He strolled back out onto the broad King’s Way and proceeded to his meeting.

  It wasn’t hard to find the servants’ gate, and the name “della Porta” drew a prompt obedience. Someone ran to fetch him, and a white-haired gentleman with a kindly face came in answer to the call. Corin stuck to his instructions. Without a word spoken, he presented the embroidered handkerchief.

  The old man looked Corin up and down. Then he beckoned and turned away. Corin followed him through the outer gates and into the palace courtyard, but they did not go far. Ten paces from the gate, a carriage waited. Big and black, without a crest or seal. Corin shook his head.

  “This again?”

  “Beg pardon?” the old man asked.

  “We’re not meeting in the palace?”

  Signor della Porta spoke volumes with a turned-down mouth. “You know better. You should not have come at all.”

  “I bear important tidings.”

  “I’m sure you do.” The old man shook his head, then waved impatiently toward the carriage. “Go. She’s waiting, and if it’s noticed she is missing, we will all regret this visit dearly. Do you understand?”