like a lute. The nature of the man was utterly transparent. This prince had arrogance enough to drown a whale; he was a bully well accustomed to his privilege. Just another posturing Ethan Blake.
But Blake had won. The thought caught Corin broadside, but he shook his head. Blake had been even more a fool than Corin had believed. And when the darkness had cried out, Corin’s crew had let him down. They’d answered stupid confidence instead of reason. It wasn’t Blake who’d won, but Corin’s crew who’d failed him.
He’d learned a lesson there. That was the key. He knew Ethan Blake, and he knew this prince. Down to the core. All Corin needed now was an audience. With ten minutes’ time, he’d be a trusted confidant. With half an hour, he’d have some way back home. The man had mentioned the magic of his people, hadn’t he?
Corin rolled onto his side as a shadow fell over him. The figure looming there was unimpressive. Not one of the lords and ladies so common on the street, but…plain. An average height and build for any Godlander, but dressed in fine, strange clothes like the shopkeeper.
Was that what the gentleman had meant by “outlander”? Corin had thought of the graceful townsfolk as alien, something like the legendary elves from the Isle of Mists. But perhaps they were the natives here. Perhaps Corin’s own people had come from somewhere off.
Or perhaps these outlanders were something else altogether. In size and shape, this new arrival might have fit in on the streets of Aerome, but his clothes were strange. His tunic and trousers alike were made of some flat, untextured blue, and over all he wore a long white coat. His shoes were strange, as was the bracelet on his wrist. He lingered for a moment in the door, then glanced back behind him to the money changer.
“He isn’t one of ours?”
“I sure don’t think so.”
“Then what’s he doing here?”
Corin called out, surly, “He’s wasting away while you ignore him.”
The new outlander turned back to Corin. He knelt beside him at the bottom of the stairs, all the while watching Corin like he was some wild beast. Resting on his heels, elbows on his knees, he showed Corin a big, bright smile.
“How you doin’? My name’s Jeff.”
Corin waited for more. When the stranger didn’t offer it, Corin frowned. “I have never known a name like Jeff. Although…there was a Geoffrey Kirkwood at the university…”
Jeff laughed. “Just Jeff. Plain old Jeff. And you are?”
“Corin. Corin Hugh. Captain of the Diavahl.”
“Yeah. And Jeff is weird.” Still chuckling, Jeff slipped a knapsack off his shoulder and tore it open, rummaging within its contents until he brought out a broad white box, an extraordinary pen, and a small book. He flipped through to a blank page and scratched at the page with his pen. Then he glanced up at Corin again.
“Can you read, by any chance?”
“Not a lot.”
“Uh-huh. Where are you from?”
He said it casually, but Corin spotted the tension in his wrist and across his shoulders, the pinched lines around his eyes. Still…he could think of no good reason to lie. “Born in Aepoli. Sailor these last nine years.”
“Nine! You’re lying! You don’t look a day past eighteen.”
Corin didn’t answer.
The money changer stepped up close behind him and mumbled something in his ear. Jeff whistled softly and scratched something else in his book. “One more question, then I’ll see you right. Got it? Good. What year is this?”
Behind him, the money changer gasped. Jeff threw an irritated look over his shoulder, and that gave Corin half a heartbeat to think. What year? Was that the secret to this place? Had he stepped out of time?
Again, he couldn’t guess what would make a useful lie, so he reluctantly settled for the truth. “It’s the ninth of Ippolito.”
The outlanders both looked puzzled.
Corin bit his lip. “It’s…I believe the twenty-third of Francis. And something in the thousands south of the Meddgerad, but they don’t count by kings.”
The money changer frowned. “You do?”
Jeff said, “How many thousands? Two? Or ten?”
Corin shook his head. “One. One thousand, two hundred and…eight? Eighty? I don’t know. I only heard it once.”
Jeff leaned back. “Twelve hundred years. We’re already past that now, so they must be counting from some other date.”
“Gesoelig’s founding?” the money changer guessed.
“No. That wouldn’t give the northern nations time to adopt a new time scheme.”
“Then what?” the lady asked.
“I don’t know,” Jeff said. “I suspect it hasn’t happened yet.”
Corin said, “Perhaps it’s