Oberon's Dreams

by Aaron Pogue

  The lady’s question brought Corin back to himself. He shook his head. “Useful friends, again. I was well connected back home.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Connected to what?”

  “The city’s darker element. There are those who trade in secrets—”

  “Oh, thieves,” she said, in the same way she’d dismissed the thought of dwarves before. “You’ll certainly find more of them here than you would hiding in some manling farmer’s barn.”

  “Yes, but only if I’m at liberty,” Corin said. “This is delicate work. It takes time.”

  “Not really. Just meet with the Nimble Fingers. They call themselves thieves.”

  This time it was Corin’s turn to stare. His mouth worked for a moment before he found his words. “Nimble Fingers? Jezeeli has a Nimble Fingers?”

  The lady frowned. “Are there others? I thought it was Avery’s own idea.”

  “Avery? Avery of Jesalich?” He blinked. “I never made the connection.”

  “What connection? You’re a bit obsessed with connections.”

  “Avery of Jesalich is a legend. He founded the Nimble Fingers.”

  “He’s a bore,” the lady said. “But if that’s the sort of folk you want to spend your time with—and more importantly, if that will keep me out of the country—I’ll be happy to introduce you to him.”

  “You know Avery of Jesalich?”

  “Gesoelig,” she said. “And yes. He’s my brother.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Corin found himself in another furtive dash through streets a bit less crowded now that night had fallen. The lady led this time, picking a path with easy familiarity but little care for stealth. At the third turn, Corin had to catch her waist and drag her back behind a wall while half a dozen guards passed on patrol. Instead of thanks, she grunted her indignation, and set off again a moment later.

  Corin struggled to believe this reckless girl could be related to the legendary Avery. Founder of the Nimble Fingers. According to their lore, Avery had robbed kings and pickpocketed the gods. Corin nearly missed a step as the words struck him. Gods walked these streets, after all. It could very well be true.

  But Avery had built a network of thieves and fences that spanned the world. He’d laid out the rules that governed life outside the gods’ law, and those rules had governed Corin’s world until the day he took to sea.

  Every city in the world had some shady tavern where the Nimble Fingers met, but Corin had not expected one in this time and place. It seemed too practical a thing for this strange city. Too real. Even Aepoli’s small Nimble Fingers had far more to offer Corin than the druids could, and now he went to meet the very founders of the organization. To meet Avery himself!

  Corin had to contain his excitement as the lady led him out into a courtyard very much like the Piazza Primavera. This time his eyes slid past the gaudy meeting halls and sought the shady alleyway that might lead to the tavern.

  But the lady led him straight to the doors of the gaudiest of meeting halls. Black silk banners adorned the carved marble facade, and manling servants dressed in rich black livery lined the wide marble stairs. Corin glanced nervously over his shoulder as he followed her up the stairs, then ducked his head respectfully—and concealed his face in the process—as he passed the private guards stationed outside the doors.

  He needn’t have bothered. More guards stood at attention just inside, looking sharp in their tailored uniforms. Corin caught the lady’s elbow and hissed, “Are you mad? What is this place?”

  At the same time, a fresh-faced young lord came bustling up the hall toward them, his eyes locked on the lady. “Are you mad, Maurelle?” he called. “What are you doing here?”

  The lady raised her chin and fixed the newcomer with an icy glare. “I am not, Parkyr! I’ve brought someone to speak with Avery.”

  “But…you haven’t even heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Avery is gone. Ephitel’s men just came for him.”

  Corin laughed. “That won’t last long.”

  The lord and lady both turned to Corin, confusion clear in their expressions. Parkyr asked, “Maurelle…who is this manling?”

  “He’s the one Ephitel wants,” she said. “He bumped into me on the street.”

  “This is the one Ephitel wants?” The fancy lord gave a sniff. “I thought he would be taller.”

  “Whatever size I am, I am a threat to Ephitel’s treachery,” Corin said. “But I have need of your organization. How many do you have?”

  “How many what?”

  “Nimble Fingers!”

  Parkyr spun on Maurelle. “He knows about that?”

  “I do, and you have nothing to fear. How many are there in your organization?”

  “Well…we’ve only just started. So there’s…well, Avery and me.”

  The lady rolled her eyes. “Yes, but you’re connected, right? You know the criminal element?”

  “We will…in time.”

  Corin stared, stunned. “You are the Nimble Fingers. You and Avery.”

  Parkyr shrugged. “Just me now. Won’t be much of a club.”

  “A club?” Corin raised his eyes to consider the hall. The foyer opened down onto a sprawling room furnished with high-backed chairs and low, heavy tables. A barman dressed in livery waited at his station against the far wall, and here and there around the room were servants—manling servants—dressed in uniform and waiting patiently.

  Everyone was dressed in black.

  “The Nimble Fingers was a club,” Corin said, awestruck.

  Parkyr sighed. “It could have been glorious, but without Avery—”

  “You speak of him as though he’s lost,” Corin said, with less confidence than he’d felt before. “But he’s Avery of Jesalich—”

  “Gesoelig,” Maurelle corrected.

  Corin ignored her. “Don’t you expect him to escape?”

  “From Ephitel’s men? Are you mad now?”

  “Perhaps I am,” Corin said. He rubbed his forehead, thinking. Avery of Jesalich was more than some nobleman’s son. Even if the Nimble Fingers had truly started like this, it became one of the world’s most powerful political forces, and it did that under the guidance of Avery of Jesalich.

  Corin needed Avery. His only way home seemed to pass through the palace, and if he hoped to slip past Ephitel’s guards, he needed help. If anyone could help him, it would be the Avery of legend.

  Corin turned to Parkyr. “Where are they taking him?”

  “The palace, probably.”

  “Of course. How long have they been gone?”

  “Moments. I’m surprised you didn’t see them on the plaza.”

  “Then we can catch them?”

  “Catch them?” Parkyr asked, his voice rising. “You’re lucky they didn’t catch you.”

  “Even so, I can’t allow them to keep Avery. I need him.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Ephitel has him. You can’t defy Ephitel.”

  “I have been defying him for years.” Corin frowned. “Why didn’t we see them on the plaza?”

  “We did,” the lady said. “They rode right past us, but I never imagined they had Avery with them.”

  “Rode?” Corin’s heart sank. He’d seen no soldiers on horseback. “They took him in a wagon?”

  “A coach,” Maurelle said. “The blue one with—”

  “Curtains drawn,” Corin said. “I should have spotted that. And they were moving fast. Parkyr, please tell me you know the back roads through this city. Can we catch them?”

  “Not on back roads,” Parkyr said. “But on the main streets—”

  Corin shook his head. “That won’t do. I can’t afford to show my face.”

  “Then we draw our curtains, too,” Parkyr said. “What’s good for the goose, eh?”

  Corin turned slowly back to Parkyr. “You have a coach?”

  “Just a little hansom my father bought me, but it should carry us all.”

  “Then sh
ow the way!” Corin snapped. “Gods’ blood, we have to hurry!”

  Parkyr disappeared to speak some brief word with his servants, then returned a moment later to lead Corin and Maurelle back to the stables. Impatient, Corin darted on ahead and entered the stable just as the driver finished hitching two gorgeous horses into their harness. The beasts were worth a fortune, and though the carriage was a small one, it looked sleek and fast and worth just a fraction less. Maurelle and Parkyr paid them all no mind. They swept swiftly past the patient driver and settled fussily into facing seats.

  Corin climbed in just behind them. Three times he’d ridden in carriages, in all his years. Twice it had been in chains, and never in a coach as fine as this. The pirate settled on a black silk cushion, feeling more out of place than he had at any time yet in this strange city. Outside a whip cracked, and the carriage slipped into motion.

  The chink of dishes caught Corin’s attention, and he turned to find Parkyr offering him a china cup, brimful of gently steaming tea. Maurelle sipped at one of her own.

  Corin shook his head. “You can’t be serious.”

  Parkyr frowned. “Is something wrong?”

  “We do not have tea on a jailbreak!”

  Maurelle barked a laugh. “I told you!”

  The gentleman’s face fell, and he shrugged wretchedly. “I didn’t know. I’ll throw it out.”

  Corin snatched the cup from his hand with a deftness usually reserved for richer treasures. “I will overlook this instance. Do you have anything to eat?”

  “Sh—should I?”

  “In this instance, yes.”

  Parkyr groaned. “Maurelle made me leave the scones.”

  “Of course she did,” Corin said. He gave a groan and took a long gulp of the hot tea. “Perhaps this isn’t such a sin.”

  Parkyr’s face lit up. “You see? The thieves’ life doesn’t have to be a base one. I’ve always said as much.”

  “But you do try to be a thief?” Corin asked.

  “Oh, yes! Two hours every Sunday, and whenever I can get away.”

  “Ah.” Corin licked his lips. “And—and Avery?”

  “Almost as often.”

  Corin hid his disappointment. He set aside his teacup and met Parkyr’s eyes. “What talents have you learned?”

  “I’ve been working on picking locks!”

  “That is a worthwhile start. What manner of locks?”

  Instead of answering, Parkyr rummaged in an inner pocket of his coat and produced a small bundle in a washed-leather bag. The bag bore a craftsman’s seal and boldly proclaimed, “Beginner’s Set.” Below that, in block letters, “Opens any lock.”

  “Any lock at all,” Parkyr said.

  Corin sighed. He peeked inside the bag, hoping for some work of elven genius, but the contents were precisely the sort of crude, stylized toys so often peddled to the bored sons of noblemen.

  Corin closed the bag again, bouncing it in his hands. “Have you tried them against manacle locks, by any chance?”

  Parkyr shook his head. “So far…it is mostly conversation.”

  Conversation. This was not the Nimble Fingers Corin had hoped for. “I understand. Can you fight at all?”

  “Not well.”

  “No. No, why would you?”

  Before Parkyr could try to answer, Corin shook his head. “It barely matters. I will find a way.” He reached once more toward his cup, but just then the carriage slammed to a hard stop, spilling what was left of the tea across the floor.

  “Oh, dear!” Parkyr cried. “Driver! What’s happening?”

  Corin didn’t wait for an answer. He spun to the nearest window, twitched aside the curtain, and recognized an angry mob as soon as he saw it. Parkyr’s coach had traveled perhaps a couple of miles from the Nimble Fingers hall. The palace shone like silver moonlight, nearer now than Corin had seen it yet.

  But the streets and plazas between here and there were packed with angry men and women. Torches raised in anger lit the night, and the shouts and jeers of the crowd made a hornets’-nest buzz.

  Parkyr’s coach could not have gained another pace, so densely was the plaza packed. To Corin’s delight, theirs was not the only carriage trapped by the press of angry men and women.

  “We may be in luck,” Corin said over his shoulder. “Is that the jailer’s coach?”

  Maurelle pressed in close beside him. She smelled of nervous sweat, but her voice thrilled with excitement. “That’s him! See, at the window? That’s Avery!”

  “Fortune has delivered us an opportunity,” Corin said. His gaze touched on Parkyr. “And one we dearly needed, I should say. Parkyr, speak with the driver. Find some place clear of the crowd to wait for me, that we may leave quickly when I return.”

  “When we return,” Maurelle corrected.

  Corin shook his head. “No. Stay with Parkyr. It’s far safer—”

  “And this is my brother,” Maurelle said. “In the hands of my family’s enemy. I want to help.”

  Corin could find no easy answer to that, and time was short. Resigned, he turned to Parkyr. “And you as well?”

  The young lord paled. “Me? I…uh…I’d planned to help from in the carriage.”

  “Good,” Corin said. “A noble sacrifice. We will make you proud. Maurelle, are you ready?”

  “Not in the least! What is our plan?”

  The buzz outside the carriage was rising toward a roar now, and the jostle of the crowd set the light cab rocking like a boat upon the swell. Corin shrugged and answered the lady’s question: “We get Avery and we get out of here.” A rock smashed against the outer wall with a bang that made Maurelle and Parkyr both jump.

  Corin grimaced. “And we do it fast.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Corin raised his cloak before him almost like a shield as he cracked the coach’s door, but no more stones seemed to be aimed in their direction. He gripped Maurelle’s trembling hand and led her swiftly down from the carriage and into the press of the angry crowd. She’d scarcely left the coach’s step when the driver cracked his whip and bulled a way out of the mob.

  In a strange way, moving through an angry riot proved easier than navigating the normal throng that packed this city’s streets. The crowd’s attention was all focused in the same direction Corin wished to travel, but no one in the crowd seemed particularly anxious to rush to the front. Agitated as they were, they all seemed perfectly content to let someone else run on ahead.

  As he went, Corin tried to gauge the source of the crowd’s ire. The shouts and jeers were more noise than rhetoric, but Corin felt a flash of hope when he heard more than one angry objection aimed at Ephitel’s name. The prince’s fierce investigators usually kept close enough watch to prevent the organization of a mob like this. How had this one come to pass?

  As quickly as he thought the question, Corin found an answer. A flash of gray hair within the youthful crowd caught his attention. The woman quickly turned away, but Corin recognized Jeff’s form two paces away from her, conspicuously silent and sharp eyes watching. They stood at the very heart of the riot. Perhaps directing it. A little help from the druids at last!

  Corin had scarcely turned toward them before Delaen shook her head in a definite no. Jeff raised his hand to shoo Corin toward the jailers’ carriage. A little help, anyway. Corin cursed and dragged Maurelle on.

  “What is the plan?” she asked. “We can’t just charge up and open the door!”

  Half a dozen soldiers had emerged from the trapped carriage, and now they stood in a loose circle around it, keeping the angry crowd at bay with bared blades and blows from their heavy truncheons. Some of them looked angry, some regretful, but every one of them seemed ready to do violence to protect their charge.

  “Only six,” Corin mused. “When he brought a regiment to the tavern. He must not have expected us here.”

  “There would be more within the carriage.”

  Corin shook his head. “There’s scarcely room for more. But who wou
ld sit inside a box with such a threat outside? I think they’d much prefer the room to swing a sword.”

  “Even so, we cannot conquer six of them.”

  “Three,” Corin said, circling toward his right. “See? We’ll let the carriage block the view of those on the other side, so now we only need to worry—”

  “Three is as bad as a regiment!” she snapped. “You cannot hope to best three of Ephitel’s men in combat.”

  “Not by myself.”

  She laughed. “I will not serve you any better than Parkyr there.”

  “I don’t need you to,” Corin said calmly.

  “Then what—”

  “Charge up and open the door,” Corin said. Before she could object, he raised his arm high and pointed to the guard standing near the carriage’s front axle. That one had a blade already wet with blood. Corin made the gesture big and glanced over his shoulder to see if the druids were watching. Jeff gave a little nod.

  Corin turned back to Maurelle. “In a moment, that guard is going to fall.”

  “How?”

  “With some help from the people of Jezeeli, I think.” He raised his arm again, pointing to the guard right by the carriage door. This one, too, was using his saber against the crowd, but he had managed with threats what the first had done through pain. “Then that one will fall,” Corin said. “As soon as he goes down, run to the door.”

  Maurelle watched the third soldier swing his truncheon and drop a man senseless. She whimpered. “What about that one?”

  “Leave him to me,” Corin said. “Just get inside the coach.”

  Maurelle clenched and unclenched her fists and stood bouncing on her toes, nervous but excited. He squeezed her shoulder and asked, “Are you ready?”

  She nodded.

  Corin turned his head, making sure the druids could see his profile clearly. Then Corin nodded once. “It should be any moment now.”

  His eyes fixed on the forward guard, and he hoped for a well-thrown stone. A coordinated push might work as well, but there was greater risk of bloodshed. He watched, waiting, and even as intensely as he stared, he almost missed the strike. Not a stone, not a forward charge, but a tiny dart that glinted glass and steel. Corin had never seen the like. The delicate thing zipped through the air and buried itself in the soldier’s neck. A heartbeat later, the guard collapsed.