Oberon's Dreams - By Aaron Pogue Page 0,25
and down the street like an amateur cutpurse. She kept one hand almost possessively on Corin’s sleeve, dragging him through the crowd, but she moved down the city streets in frantic little bursts, like a mouse crossing a scullery floor.
In one of these strange pauses, while Aemilia scanned the face of every elegant local on the bustling thoroughfare, Corin stifled a yawn. “What can you tell me about books?”
She shook her head.
“I only ask because the Jezeeli I found—”
“No!” she snapped. “Tell me nothing of Jezeeli. Tell me nothing! Save it for Delaen.”
“Why are you so afraid?”
“You do not belong here!’
Corin smiled. “You don’t have to tell me. But I have no intention of harming you.”
“Your intention matters little. Your existence here could ruin everything I’ve spent my life on. And, agh, even saying that runs counter to the strictures.”
“The strictures?” Corin asked. “Oberon’s law? Is he so terrible as that?”
Her lips pressed to a thin line. After a moment she said, “No. He is not terrible. And I will say no more.”
“But—”
“No. You, too, will say no more. Hold your tongue until I deliver you to Delaen, or I will hand you to Ephitel’s guards.”
She nodded across the busy street to a small knot of soldiers swaggering easily through the milling crowds. Everyone made way for them, careful not to catch the soldiers’ eyes or brush too close to their apparent path.
The Vestossis had guards like that, on the streets of Aerome and Meloen and Aepoli. They earned that careful respect through the frequent application of casual and unanswerable violence. The Vestossis’ guards had taught Corin some of his earliest lessons in villainy.
A thought struck Corin and he turned to Aemilia. “Why was Ephitel in your shop?”
“I told you—”
“Not to speak of my world,” Corin said. “But you can tell me of yours, if only to pass the time on our journey.”
“We will not be long,” she said. Corin watched her eyes while she watched the knot of strolling guards. When at last Ephitel’s soldiers turned a corner and slipped from sight, she began to move again.
There was a clue to her erratic movements, but it was not the whole story. Twice more she stopped short to avoid crossing paths with the uniformed guards, but other times…
It took Corin longer than it should have to understand, but in time it was the memory of home that showed him. Back in Aepoli, the brutal city guards had not been the worst of the Vestossis’ agents. That honor belonged to the investigators.
Surely this golden city had not sunk so low? But even as he thought it, Corin caught Aemilia watching one. Just a face in the crowd. Not a uniformed soldier. Not a grand, imposing figure. Just a forgettable face, just plain clothes, just an easy gait. But his eyes were dark and sharp and always moving. Like a rat’s. Like a spy’s. What kind of lord chose to spy on his own people?
His Majesty Ippolito Vestossi, for one. And Lord Protector Ephitel. Corin shook his head. Nowhere in the world—nowhere in time—was far enough for him to escape those wretched tyrants.
“If you had told me you feared Ephitel’s investigators, I might have saved you some time,” Corin said. Before Aemilia could respond, he caught her wrist and dragged her into the flow of the crowd. Jeff’s druid magic served him well. Corin felt no pain in his injured ankle, though the boot turned strangely on the cobblestones.
“What are you doing?” she yelped behind him. “If you draw their notice—”
He shook his head without slowing. “I know these men. They have a knack for spotting nervous eyes. Be bold, and they’ll ignore you.”
“This is a risky ploy.”
Corin flashed her a smile. “It is the only ploy I know. Come. Show me the way.”
She went more quickly then, acting on his advice, and some of the tension began to ease from her posture. In time, she even answered Corin’s question. “Food.”
He raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“The lord protector wanted a writ of provender for excess rations.”
“Oh.” Corin went several paces, weighing that, then said, “That does not seem so strange.”
“The lord protector thought so, too. But I know more than he suspected. He asked the same writ of me last month, and two months ago, and five months before that.”
Corin frowned. “That still—”
“He never executed them,” she said. “I would know. And now he has asked them of other scribes as well. We do talk among ourselves. In the last month, he has