Oberon's Dreams - By Aaron Pogue Page 0,46
that one manling vagabond and the worthless daughter of a dishonored house might have overcome a squad of my best men. Not without some aid.”
“I would never—”
“Nonetheless,” Ephitel said, “this matter bears close scrutiny, and I will not risk your liberty before it is settled. Find a cell.”
Ephitel nodded to the wardens. They turned a heavy key and swung wide the landing’s gate. Kellen stood for a moment, jaw working without words, then turned on his heel and slunk through the open gate. Beyond, a narrow passage separated half a dozen tiny cells, all empty. Kellen chose the second from the left, trudged inside, and slammed the heavy iron door behind him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ephitel turned to the other prisoners. “And these,” he said. “Before you see them in cells of their own, strip them of whatever tools they may possess. They have proven themselves resourceful to a surprising degree. You may leave them their clothes, but nothing more.”
The jailers immediately set to the task, one of them searching all the many pockets inside Corin’s cloak. Ephitel watched with an apparent hunger, but the most interesting thing the warden found was Parkyr’s lockpick set. The soldier offered it with a victorious flourish, proof of Corin’s villainy, but Ephitel dismissed it with a wave.
Red-faced, the younger jailer suffered Maurelle the indignity of a close search. Avery snarled to see his sister groped by such ungentle men, but one raised eyebrow from Ephitel was enough to silence him. Avery was searched as well, though he clearly had been disarmed before his prior arrest. Then a jailer pointed toward Kellen’s cell. “And him?”
Ephitel laughed. “Kellen?” He approached the soldier. “Yeoman! Yield to me your sword.”
Utterly defeated, Kellen unbuckled his sword belt and passed it through the bars. Ephitel tossed it aside to clatter against the stone floor near the wardens’ station. “Even that was probably unnecessary,” he said. “I’ve never seen this one draw blood. He is lucky his father served Oberon so well, or he might have to find some useful occupation.”
Ephitel turned back to the jailers. “Lock them up. But not this one. I would have a word with him yet.” He caught Corin by the collarbone and dragged him some short distance back toward the stairs. There was no room for privacy—this place was not designed for such things—but Ephitel cast an imperious gaze around the landing, and the wardens at least pretended not to be listening.
If Ephitel was even talking to him, Corin had a chance. But even absent Kellen’s sad display, Corin knew better than to play the meek prisoner. Strong men were always brash, and Ephitel’s sort had no respect for any other kind. Corin gave a weary sigh. “What do you want of me?”
“I want you to understand the cost of defying me. Do you see how vagabonds are treated in my city?”
“Your city? I understood it was Oberon’s.”
“The king has tasked me to keep the peace. In this regard, at least, it is my domain.”
“And you show so much attention to every vagabond?”
“Not at all. Most are beaten senseless and left outside the city walls.”
“Hospitable.”
“But most do not walk around with a thousand livres of dwarven powder in their pockets. And none would dare employ it against the innocent patrons of an honest tavern.”
Corin shook his head. “I know of no such powder. But if I did, I would have employed it against you, not the innocent patrons.”
“A dangerous statement,” Ephitel said. “You would not want me for an enemy.”
“And yet I seem to have you all the same.”
Ephitel stepped closer and lowered his voice. “But perhaps you may find another way to employ the dwarven powder.”
Corin frowned. “How is that?”
“For all the threat you pose, for all the damage you have done, I could yet be willing to turn you loose, if you prove useful to me.”
“I have heard offers like this before.”
“Not like this,” Ephitel said. “And never from such as me.”
“What do you require, then?”
“A large supply of dwarven powder.”
“But the city, as you say, is your domain. Can you not acquire that supply yourself?”
“There are…limitations,” Ephitel said. “These same limitations should make it impossible for a manling like you to acquire any such powder at all. And yet you carried a full bag.”
“Did I? I don’t recall.”
“Don’t toy with me. I know you had a hoard of powder. That tells me one of two things: you have a compromising friend among the dwarves, or you have the skills and knowledge to acquire the