Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) (10 page)

Othello
did not reply. He merely stood there, peering back the way they had come. He
reminded Horcalus of a hound hearing something beyond its master’s ken. Not for
the first time, he considered that Othello might be more than a little mad.

Perhaps
the archer’s unwavering apathy was not a result of faith at, but a grim
acceptance of the hopelessness of it all.

Shrugging
off the thought, Horcalus squinted into the mist. All he could hear were the
sounds of discord and confusion from the inn, voices rendered unintelligible by
the distance and the fog. He could no longer even make out the shape of Oars in
Omens. The inn was nothing more than a dull, flickering luminescence that
reflected ghoulishly in Othello’s green eyes.

“It’s
Plake.” Othello’s voice was low, barely audible.

“What?
Where?”

Othello
did not clarify but started moving to the other side of the wide road.
Impatiently, Horcalus followed, praying that a squadron of pier guards wouldn’t
come upon them before the hound found what it was looking for. But then Plake
came running through the mist, calling out their names, yelling for them to
wait.

“We’re
here, Plake,” Horcalus called as loudly as he dared, hoping to stop Plake
before he alerted half the city to their presence with his shouts. He looked
past the rancher, waiting for a second form materialize out of the coalescing
fog.

“I
thought I saw you two making a break for it. Hell of a fight, eh?” Plake said
between quick breaths. “Hey, where’s Ragellan?”

Horcalus
clenched his fists so tightly they hurt. “He stayed behind to save you! If your
stupidity leads to Ragellan’s…” He let his words trail off, not wanting to
consider it.

“Should
we go back for him?” Plake asked, and Horcalus wondered if the insubordinate
rancher was actually feeling guilty. More likely, Plake simply hadn’t had his
fill of brawling.

The
fact that Plake wanted to go back to Oars and Omens convinced Horcalus it was a
terrible idea Besides, if he, Othello, and Plake returned to the inn, they
might well find that Ragellan took a different route to the docks—where his
friends wouldn’t be waiting.

“No,
we will stick to the plan and rendezvous at the docks,” Horcalus said. He was in
charge now, responsible for keeping them all alive.

“You
there, halt!” came a cry from a guardsman somewhere out in the fog.

The
three of them might have been able to overpower a few soldiers, but they had no
quarrel with the city’s defenders. Evasion was the more prudent option.

Heading
north on the only road in Port Town that he had ever traversed, Horcalus and
his companions began to run once more.

*
         
*
         
*

Arthur
watched the fog glide over the sea and engulf the wharves. The sun itself was
lost from sight, and the boy wondered how the guards would know when to begin
enforcing the curfew. Strange sounds drifted through the fog, and once in a
while, he saw shapes moving about, looking like wayward ghosts—spooks, he
thought gloomily.

As
much as Arthur wanted to run back to the barracks and be done with the day, he
couldn’t take his eyes off of the ships at the docks, his deliverance from
Capricon.

He
hated traveling by ship, though. He had stowed away on the voyage that took him
from one coast to the other, though he had been caught right away. The captain
of that ship was a mean man, and Arthur was certain he was going to be thrown
to the sharks and whatever other vile creatures lurked beneath the ship.
Instead, the captain had made him the ship’s slave. He cleaned, mended clothes,
helped the cook, and did any other odd job the crew came up with. He had been
seasick the whole time.

Memories
of vomiting over the railing several times a day made Arthur hesitate now. He
wanted—no, needed—to get out of Port Town. He was still too close to home. If
any of Hylan’s constables were looking for him, they’d find him eventually.

Going
to the continent was a step in the right direction, he decided. He could start
over there and would probably find better work then his backbreaking job as a
dockhand.

“If
not for the seasickness, I’d be safe already.”

With
a sigh, Arthur decided his flight from the island would have to wait for
another day. It was not as though any ships were going to disembark in this
weather anyway. He felt tired, but then again, he was always tired lately.
Weary to the bone, he would collapse in his bunk night after night, though he
would end up staring at the ceiling for hours. When he finally fell asleep, he
was haunted by nightmares that left him sobbing until morning.

Slowly,
careful not to fall off the docks, Arthur started walking back to the
dockhands’ quarters. He doubted he would find sleep anytime soon, but at least
he could get out of his clothes, which were damp from sweat and the thick mist
swirling around him. Maybe some of the other workers had already wandered back,
and he could distract himself by listening to their boasting and insults.

That’s
when he heard the footsteps. They were coming in quick succession and growing
louder by the minute. Someone—or more than one someone, by the sound of it—was
coming right for him.

Three
shapes emerging in the fog. Arthur told himself it was Two-Hands, Clyde Dovely,
and Ogre, but the lie didn’t stick. None of the three figures matched Ogre’s
behemoth silhouette.

“Gods
above, it’s the guards. They’re coming to get me.” Fear chilled his body and
clouded his brain. He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think.

He
began backpedaling and almost ended up stepping right off the dock. He looked
around frantically, but the nearest warehouse was too far away. There was no
time to get there, and there was nowhere else to hide.

Then
he heard their voices.

“There’s
someone over there,” Arthur heard someone say.

He
jumped for it.

Instead
of plunging into the cold, dark waters, he landed on something hard and
unyielding. A quick look around revealed a rowboat, probably one of the small
vessels that fished harbor every day.

He
was relieved to find the boat unoccupied, but the voices were getting closer.
With his heartbeat pounding in his ears, he couldn’t make out what they were
saying anymore.

Arthur
knew nothing of piloting a boat, not even a small one. There was a big tarp
lying on the bottom of the boat, so he wasted no time in covering himself with
it. Clenching his eyes closed, he curled up in a corner of the boat, as far
away from the docks as he could. The smell of blood made his nose twitch.

He
lay there, cowering like a frightened child. He didn’t care. By now, the three
men would have reached the end of the docks. At that very moment, they would be
searching the water for him and find the boat, just as he had.

Would
they notice the bundle of quivering tarps?

When
the skiff began to rock beneath him, Arthur stifled a cry. They had seen him
and were coming aboard! He was doomed!

Arthur
leapt up and, unable to free himself of the thick material, threw himself
awkwardly at the nearest man.

Passage X

Although
she, Scout, and Klye were out of the sewers, Leslie had no time to catch her
breath.

The
basement sat beneath a small shop, Leslie discovered, as she quietly climbed
the steps to the ground floor. Fortunately, the place was empty. The storeowner
had already ascended to the second story, where he and his family were, at that
moment, enjoying their dinner. Leslie’s stomach grumbled at the sumptuous
aromas wafting downstairs.

Then
they were outside once more, moving as stealthily as they could down the
street. They would have been completely out in the open were it not for the
thick fog that had invaded the entire city. By Leslie’s estimations, they were
not far from the northern harbor, a short walk from Oars and Omens.

At
least it
would
have been a handful minutes if they didn’t have an
unconscious Renegade Leader on their hands.

“Set
him down,” she said to Scout once they were a good distance away from the shop.

“Should
we take him to Elezar? Maybe he can do something for him,” Scout said.

Leslie
shook her head. “If the Cathedral is being watched by guards, our presence
would only bring Elezar trouble. He’s been too good to the Renegades for us to
put him at further risk. We’re not that far from Pintor’s Cup. I’ll take him to
Veldross. He’s a man of many talents.”

“Don’t
you mean a
half
-
man
of many talents?” Scout joked, but he became
serious again when he added, “Wait…you said ‘I,’ not ‘we.’ Don’t you want me to
help you get him there?”

“No,
I need you to find out what’s happening at Oars and Omens. Don’t go to the
Cathedral unless absolutely necessary.”

“Understood.”
Scout bounded into the mist. As he disappeared, he added, “I’ll meet you at the
Cup later tonight.”

Leslie
wished him luck and silently prayed no harm would befall him. She knew Scout
could take care of himself, yet she had a bad feeling about today.

Had
Maeve made it to the Pirates of the Fractured Skull before the attack? Leslie
could only hope the pirate king, a man called Pistol, would trust her and that
loss of life—on both sides—would be kept to a minimum.

Leslie
said another prayer to Aladon, Pintor, and any other deities who were listening
for Maeve Semper and added another for the Renegade Leader at her feet. Klye
lay shivering on the damp street, his teeth chattering. She put a hand to his
forehead. He was burning up.

She
removed her coat and wrapped it around the man. “Come on, you,” she said,
hoisting Klye to his feet. “We’ve got to take a little walk. Then you can sleep
all you want.”

Draping
his uninjured arm over her shoulder, she half carried, half dragged Klye along.

When
somebody hurried by in the fog, she said, “You’ve really got to learn when
enough is enough, my love. What will your mother say when she sees you in this
condition?”

“I’ll
never drink again,” Klye promised, slurring his words. She couldn’t be sure if
he was playing along or delirious.

After
what felt like miles, they came upon Pintor’s Cup. Small but comfortable, the
entire pub was about half the size of Oars and Omen’s common room. It didn’t
boast grand accommodations for weary travelers, and it was seldom busy, even at
suppertime, but Pintor’s Cup was one of Leslie’s favorite places in all of Port
Town.

As
she lugged Klye into the tavern, she received a few stares from the patrons.
She recognized a few of them and saw concern in their eyes, but none of them—Renegades
and Renegade sympathizers, all—came to help her. One never knew when one the
mayor’s spies might wander in.

Her
Renegades wouldn’t t risk blowing their cover or her own, no matter how badly
they might have wanted to aid her.

One
man did come to her—the “half-man” Scout had mentioned. Veldross was Pintor’s
Cup’s only barkeep as well as the owner of the establishment. Leslie didn’t
know how long he had run the place or even if he had been its first owner.
Despite the fact she had known Veldross for years, she knew precious little
about him. He was more of a listener than a talker, guiding their conversations
to her troubles and never his own.

Veldross
was one of a handful of half-elves that called Port Town home. Leslie didn’t
know whether Veldross was religious or not, but she thought his calling the bar
Pintor’s Cup was characteristic of the half-elf’s wry sense of humor. Most
elves and their half-human offspring worshipped Almighty Aladon, not Pintor,
who served as the patron god of Superius and its Knighthood.

Veldross
reached her before she could make it to the bar. “Now hold on, miss. You can’t
bring this man into my bar. By the looks of him, he’s had enough to drink.”

As
he forcefully led her back the way they had come, a guiding hand on her hip,
Leslie felt him drop something into her pocket. She protested and cursed at him
as he all but pushed them out the door.

When
she and Klye were outside once more, Veldross whispered, “Use the back door.
I’ll be up shortly.”

With
a wink, he shouted, “And don’t come back, you little hussy!”

*
         
*
         
*

Horcalus
led the way into the boat, ordering Othello and Plake to follow him. What
happened next almost sent them all into the sea.

When
Horcalus saw a shapeless thing leap up at him, he fell back a step or two, hand
reaching for his longsword. Plake was right behind him, though, and Horcalus
stepped hard on the rancher’s foot, which sent Plake jerking back, nearly
knocking Othello off the end of the boat.

Rather
than draw his weapon, Horcalus stretched out his hands to protect his body from
the strange menace. Plake shoved into his back, perhaps trying to dislodge
Horcalus from his foot. This sent Horcalus crashing into his unexpected
assailant, and the two of them fell.

His
face inches from the creature’s rough, brown hide, he suddenly realized that it
was not an animal at all, but a man covered in a tarp.

“Please
don’t kill me,” begged the voice beneath the tarp.

“What
the hell is it?” Plake asked, peering over the knight’s shoulder. “Where’s my
sword, Othello?”

Horcalus
straightened up, glaring back at Plake as he did so. “It’s a man, Plake. Would
you have me skewer him without cause?” Back on his feet, he used the tip of his
longsword to uncover the man in question.

The
terrified expression of a red-haired youth met his gaze, and never had Horcalus
felt like such a knave. He quickly sheathed his blade.

“We
did not mean to startle you,” he said, extending his hand down to boy. “I am
Dominic Horcalus, Knight—” The words caught in his throat. He had been
denounced as a Knight of Superius, labeled a traitor. Now he was just another
man with a sword.

“We’re
Renegades,” Plake added, causing the young man’s eyes to grow even wider. “You
shouldn’t have told him your real name, Horcalus.”

“He’s
not our enemy, Plake.”

The
awe and fear in the boy’s eyes made Horcalus feel sick. He wanted to explain
everything, to ease the boy’s mind and clear his own conscience. But then
Othello grabbed an arrow from his quiver.

“They
found us.”

“What?”
Plake and Horcalus asked at the same time.

Horcalus
craned his neck and saw a group of guards cutting a swath through the fog,
heading right for them. He thought he heard the twangs of crossbows.

“Untie
the boat,” he told Othello. To the boy, he said, “You’ll have to come with us
for now.”

He
couldn’t risk sending the boy into the crossfire, though on top of all his
other crimes, Horcalus could now add stealing a boat and kidnapping to the
list. Gods above, what am I doing? he wondered. If not for the fact that
Ragellan was counting on him to get the others to safety, he might have dropped
his sword and surrendered right then and there, confessing all his sins to gods
and men alike.

After
cutting the rope that bound them to the docks, Othello nocked an arrow and was
aiming at the oncoming soldiers. The forester’s movements spurred Horcalus into
action. He grabbed an oar and told Plake to take the other one.

Plake
did as he was told but muttered, “Why not make the kid row?”

They
heard the splash of bolts missing their mark and hitting into the sea around
them. Othello fired arrows of his own, and Horcalus prayed for the souls of any
guardsmen who found death that night by the forester’s bow.

“Are
they following us?” Plake asked breathlessly a few minutes later.

“No,”
Othello replied.

“They
don’t have to,” Horcalus said. “We cannot cross the ocean in a fishing boat.
They know we must return to shore sometime.”

Horcalus
was out of ideas. He knew nothing of Port Town’s layout.

“There’s
a glen not far to the north of the city,” the boys said. “It’s surrounded by
shallow water, so the coastal guards can’t get close to it. If you want, I’ll
show you where it is.”

“We
would appreciate that.” Horcalus hadn’t thought the young man was paying them
much attention, aside from staring at their weapons. “From there, you can go
where you will. Tell the authorities that we took you by force if they trouble
you.”

“I
don’t think I’ll be coming back to Port Town,” said the boy so quietly that
Horcalus almost didn’t hear him. Louder, he added, “My name is Arthur Bis—just
Arthur.”

“Well
met, Arthur,” Horcalus replied.

Behind
him, Plake snickered. “That’s rich. You, a rogue knight, tell him your full
name, but the kid conceals his surname. What have you got to hide, kid?”

Arthur
didn’t reply.

“Less
talk and more rowing, Plake.” Horcalus wiped the sweat from his brow. “The
sooner we get to safety, the sooner we can begin our search for Ragellan.”

Although
he was exhausted, having eaten nothing since the meager breakfast early that
morning, Horcalus pushed his oar through the water with as much force as he
could muster. Tired though he was, he doubted he would be able to sleep until
he learned what happened to Ragellan.

*
         
*
         
*

Leslie
had never been inside Veldross’s apartment before. She knew the half-elf lived
above Pintor’s Cup, but all the time she had spent in his company had been in
the bar, usually after the tavern closed.

The
upstairs apartment consisted of a small kitchen, a sitting room, and a bedroom,
which was where she took Klye. She hoped Veldross wouldn’t object to her
putting the Renegade Leader in his bed.

She’d
owe Veldross big after all of this was over. Though Leslie was the city’s
Renegade Leader, Veldross was under no obligation to put his establishment and
his home at risk to help her. Truly, she could count him as a friend.

It
turned out Klye was, in fact, delirious. As she covered him with blankets and
ran a cool washrag over his forehead, the man muttered scattered phrases. At
one point, he spoke of a dream that wasn’t a dream, using names of people and
places Leslie didn’t recognize. He then said something about the Renegades in
Port Alexis, but she could make no sense of it.

Leslie
took the opportunity to really look at Klye Tristan. She had to admit that he
was handsome—in an ordinary sort of way.

She
gasped when his eyes opened to stare directly at her.

“I
bought something for you, Les,” he said, his mouth turned up in a slight grin.

He
opened his fingers, and she saw a necklace resting atop his palm. She took it
gingerly, examining the hematite ankh. Had he really bought this for her, or
was it the fever talking? She looked back down at Klye, hoping to gain a better
understanding from his expression, but the man was unconscious.

“Well,
aren’t you just full of surprises?”

“Who
is he?”

Leslie
had not heard Veldross enter the apartment, and she jumped at the sound of his
voice.

“You’re
as bad as Scout, sneaking up on people like that. This is Klye Tristan. He’s a
Renegade Leader from Continae. He and his band are going to Fort Faith, though
I have no idea why. He’s been shot by an arrow, and I think it was poisoned.”

Veldross
didn’t ask any more questions. He left the bedroom and fetched some things from
the kitchen. “I’m no apothecary, and not every elf knows as much about plants
as humans assume, but I do happen to know of a salve that might help.”

“Thank
you, Veldross, for everything. I don’t know where else I could have brought
him.”

Veldross
grunted an acknowledgement and then went to work in silence. Leslie held Klye
as still as she could while Veldross removed the arrow from his arm. He cried
out in agony before passing out again. After dipping a homemade bandage into
the concoction and wrapped it around Klye’s arm, he told her he must return to
the bar. He had left his one and only barmaid in charge.