Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) (7 page)

“What?”

His
mind had been wandering as he tried to piece together the information she was
giving him. Could the person behind framing Ragellan and Horcalus be connected
with Crofton Beryl and his clandestine plans for Port Town? Or was Crofton
Beryl acting on his own?

“Why
did you become a Renegade?” Leslie clarified.

Though
he should have expected her to ask for his story in fair exchange, Leslie’s
question took him by surprise. Maybe a part of him had hoped she would ask, but
now, thinking how crazy it all sounded, he couldn’t bring himself to tell her
the truth.

“Oh,
you know…the usual…riches and glory,” he jested, hating himself when he saw the
hurt in her eyes. She had opened up to him, and he had returned the favor with
a bad joke.

Behind
him, the door flew open. Klye jumped to his feet and reached for the dagger he
had tucked inside of his boot. But his eyes did not meet those of a city
guardsman.

A
lean fellow in a short-sleeved shirt and baggy trousers walked right up to the
vacant chair next to Klye and plopped himself down. The man had a knife at his
belt and wore a black hood that completely covered his hair but left his face
revealed.

Not
sparing Klye a glance, he said, “Hi, Les. Did ya miss me?”

*
         
*
         
*

 
“Come on, Ragellan,” Plake pleaded. “You said
Klye told us to stay
here
. I’m sure he meant the inn in general. If we’re
leaving Port Town tonight, what difference does it make if we all have a few
drinks in the common room before hitting the road?”

Horcalus
gritted his teeth. Plake had been pestering Ragellan for the past ten minutes.
The rancher, having slept well past noon, had missed the frugal breakfast his
four companions had consumed and was now ready to start his day with mug of
ale.

Before
Ragellan could repeat any of the numerous points he had already made, the door
to the small room opened. Using his foot to shut the door behind him, Othello
said nothing by way of a greeting as he deposited two large sacks on the bed
next to where Ragellan was sitting.

How
different Othello looked without his leathers and his bow, Horcalus thought.
Despite his great height, the forester was not a bit lanky. A lifetime in the
woods had hardened all muscles in view, including the ones in his face.
Horcalus mused that it was this stiffness that prevented Othello from adopting
any expression.

With
the addition of another person in the room, Horcalus felt a bit suffocated, but
he ignored the discomfort, eager to see what the archer had bought. How he
wished he could have picked out his own sword, but Klye and Ragellan had agreed
that, although word of their escape from the Citadel Dungeon apparently hadn’t
reached Port Town yet, it was better to on the safe side.

As
tired as Horcalus was of staring at the room’s four peeling walls, he preferred
doing that to getting arrested.

Plake,
who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, hurried to his feet and over to
the burlap sacks. Disgusted with the rancher’s audacity, Horcalus frowned and
looked to Ragellan, who, as second-in-command of the band, should have been the
one to inspect the contents of the sacks first.

But
Ragellan said nothing as the rancher began rummaging through one of the bags.
As Othello tossed a small pouch containing what was left of their coins to
Ragellan, Plake began pulling out sheathed blades of varying length as well as
a plain, wooden bow.

The
cache of arms must have cost a small fortune, and not for the first time,
Horcalus wondered where Klye had appropriated the funds for his mission. But he
decided, as he always did, that he would rather not know.

When
Plake removed a long scabbard from the sack, Horcalus rose to his feet and took
a tentative step forward. Seeing Ragellan reach for a shorter, thicker sword,
Horcalus stepped over to the bed and picked up the one that matched the length
he had described to Othello.

“Which
one is for me?” Plake asked. After he and Ragellan had chosen their blades—a
longsword for Horcalus and a broadsword for Ragellan—there were only two left.
One was long and thin with a cupped hilt. Klye’s rapier, he concluded.

The
remaining weapon was at least half the length of any of the other swords.
Horcalus couldn’t quite repress a smile when Ragellan picked up the short sword
and handed it to the rancher.

“This
one? I get the smallest one?” Plake demanded, his face reddening.

Ragellan
turned his attention back to his own blade—probably so he wouldn’t laugh,
Horcalus thought—and said, “Had you been awake when we described our respective
weapon of choice to Othello, you might have gotten something else.”

Horcalus
doubted that Plake had ever used a weapon other than his fists. He thought Othello
was wise to have gotten the rancher a blade both short and light so Plake would
not accidentally cut off his own foot when trying to wield it.

Ignoring
the rancher’s cursing, Horcalus slid his new sword out of its sheath. It had
thin, straight quillons and a perfectly round pommel. Its hilt was wrapped in
tanned leather. Horcalus regretted that he had been forced to leave his own
sword, the one his father had had forged especially for him, back in Superius.
But the new weapon was well balanced and it’s blade, keen. It would do nicely.

He
only hoped that he would not have to use it.

Horcalus
watched as Ragellan, having inspected his broadsword and apparently finding it
suitable, pushed the blade back into its scabbard and placed it back inside the
sack. Horcalus followed suit, sheathing his longsword and returning it to the
bag.

Realizing
that no one was listening to his complaints, Plake ceased his grumbling and
began swinging the short sword at imaginary foes. He reminded Horcalus of a
squire upon first finding himself alone with his master’s gear. The rancher
tapped his thumb on the tip of his sword, quickly sticking it into his mouth
when the blade drew blood.

“Hey,”
Plake said suddenly. “Now that Othello has brought back the money, we can go
down to the tavern and eat a decent meal. What do you say, Othello? Did you
work up an appetite hauling these heavy sacks back to the inn?”

But
Othello was already seated on the floor, his back against the door. His long legs
were stretched out before him, practically touching the closest bed, and his
eyes were closed.

Ragellan
sat back down on the bed and sighed. Horcalus wondered how much farther Plake
would have to push Ragellan before his old friend lost his temper. He had seen
Commander Ragellan reprimand foolhardy Knights at Fort Splendor and eagerly
waited to hear the speech that would put the rancher in his place.

Instead,
Ragellan simply said, “We are not going anywhere until Klye returns.”

“Until
Klye returns,” Plake repeated with a snort. “Why should we be cooped up in this
gods-forsaken inn while High and Mighty Klye Tristan comes and goes as he
pleases? Who made him our leader anyway? You used to be in charge of a fort,
Ragellan. Why are you taking orders from a self-made Renegade Leader?”

Horcalus
glared at Plake, but in truth, he wanted to hear Ragellan’s answer more than
Plake did.

“It
is true that I am older and perhaps more qualified to lead a group of men than
Klye, but that is beside the point,” said Ragellan. “Klye has more experience
than any of us in living at odds with the law. Thus far, he has proven to be a
competent and capable leader. He rescued Horcalus and me from the Citadel
Dungeon, and I will not dishonor him by second-guessing his perfectly reasonable
orders just so that you can go and get drunk, Plake.”

“This
is just great,” Plake groaned. “Here I am, finally away from my uncle’s boring
ranch, finally out of Param, and I can’t even enjoy it.”

“Why
don’t you shove that short sword into your chest if you are so miserable?”

Horcalus
seemed as surprised as everyone else to hear the words explode from his mouth,
but that didn’t stop him continuing. “We are all stuck here for the time being,
Plake. You should be grateful that you were able to see some of the city last
night. Clearly, your bellyaching isn’t making you feel any better, so why don’t
you do everyone a favor and still your belligerent tongue?”

The
room was silent for a moment while Plake returned his glare.

“When
I want your thoughts on a subject, I’ll ask for it, knight!” Plake flung
himself at Horcalus, short sword still in hand.

Although
shocked by Plake’s sudden advance, Horcalus was ready for him. He did not know
if Plake was planning on using the weapon he happened to be carrying, but he
was not going to take a chance. First, Horcalus struck out at Plake’s sword
arm, his hand connecting with his opponent’s wrist and sending it, and the
short sword, out wide. The sword flew from Plake’s grasp.

Next,
Horcalus ducked the wild swing Plake aimed at his head and quickly sprang
forward, striking the rancher in the chest with an open palm. Off-balance,
Plake could only howl in frustration as he fell backward, landing
unceremoniously on his back.

Not
sure whether or not the rancher was going to try his luck again, Horcalus
remained in a fighting stance, his eyes locked on Plake’s. But the rancher just
lay there, looking as though the wind had been knocked out of him.

After
a moment, Plake got to his feet, and, with a final glare at Horcalus, stomped
past Ragellan and Othello—who had gotten up to retrieve Plake’s short sword—and
wrenched open the door. Plake slammed it behind him without saying a word.

Passage VII

His
face warm with embarrassment, Klye sank back down into his chair. Instead of
looking at Leslie, who, he was certain, would be smiling at his expense, he
kept his eyes on the newcomer. The intruder posed no threat to him and “Les,”
yet there was something about the man’s casual air that irked him nonetheless.

“I
would have been here yesterday,” the man was saying, “except the guards in the
Port of Balancia are at heightened alert. Apparently, they spotted a couple of
pirate ships near the coast a few days ago. So now they’re being very cautious,
which makes sneaking in and out of the gates all the more challenging.”

The
man’s smile widened as he said the last part, as though the additional
challenge wasn’t a bad thing at all. Leslie’s face, on the other hand, had lost
some of its color, and Klye wondered if it was out of fear for the man’s
safety. Klye rolled his eyes. In the past few months, he and his band had faced
far more danger than a few wary guardsmen.

“We’ll
have to talk more about that later, Scout,” Leslie said after a moment of
silence. “I want to introduce you to Klye Tristan. He’s a Renegade Leader from
the continent. He and his men need a guide, and while I realize that you’ve
only just returned from a mission, I could think of no one better to take them
to Fort Faith.”

“That’s
because there isn’t anyone better,” the man said to Klye. “Nice to meet you.”

Klye
accepted his hand in greeting, an awkward gesture given that they were sitting
side by side. “What did you say your name was? Scott?”

The
man laughed. “No, no, no. Scott? That’s a good one. If I ever need an alias in
the future, I’ll have to remember that one. What a silly-sounding name,
Scott
.”

Not
appreciating the man’s laughter one bit, Klye clenched his teeth in order to
stop himself from saying something he’d regret. Speaking of silly, he thought,
what about that hood you’re wearing?

“His
real name is Solomon Aegis,” Leslie told him, “but everyone calls him Scout.
He’s been with Port Town’s Renegades from the start.”

“So,
when do you plan on leaving for Fort Faith, Klye?” asked Scout. “If I’m not
needed for anything else in Port Town, I’ll go with you…haven’t been past the
mountains in ages…but I would like some time catching up with Les here before
hitting the road again.”

“Actually,”
said Klye with a genuine smile, “I had hoped to leave tonight.”

“Oh,”
said Scout, crestfallen.

“You
couldn’t hold off just one more day?” Leslie asked. “I need to ask Scout a few
things about the Port of Balancia, but I also have to finish this letter to
Domacles before sundown, before Port Town’s gates are closed for the night.”

Klye
thought he should have been happier at having the advantage, at being the one
in control, and was surprised to find that he wanted to help Leslie out. But he
couldn’t.

“I’m
sorry, Leslie, but every day brings the Knights that much closer to Fort Faith.
If we want to get there first, we can’t spare even a single day.”

“I
suppose you’re right,” she said, sounding more resigned than disappointed. “You
don’t mind if Scout and I have a little chat before the two or you are off to
make your plans, do you?”

“It’s
still early afternoon. I have time. Did you want me to give you two some
privacy?” Klye asked, letting Leslie infer what she would from the word
“privacy.”

“I’m
not sure how long this is going to take, so maybe you ought to stay,” she said.
“As long as you swear to all the gods that you won’t repeat what you hear, I
don’t have a problem with you being here.”

Klye
held up his right hand. “I don’t know how useful such an oath would be since I
don’t believe in the gods. But you have my word I won’t betray you or your
Renegades.”

Apparently,
that was good enough for Leslie, for she nodded and proceeded to ignore him
completely.

“First
of all,” she said to Scout, “I want you to tell me everything you’ve heard
about the pirates.”

*
         
*
         
*

When
he didn’t find Plake in the other room they were renting, Ragellan was faced
with three possibilities.

The
first was that Plake might still be somewhere in the inn, having a drink in
spite of Ragellan’s express orders. Or the rancher may have left the inn altogether.
If that were so, Plake might be out of their lives forever, for which Klye
would probably thank him.

The
third scenario, however, concerned Ragellan the most: Plake, suffering from
injured pride, might already be on his way to tell the city guard about two
rogue knights hiding out at Oars and Omens.

“We
have to go after him,” Ragellan decided aloud. “If he wants to quit the band,
that is all well and good, but we must make sure that he will not compromise
our secrecy in any way. Horcalus, you and I will check downstairs first.

“If
he has left the inn,” he told Othello, “I’ll need you to track him down.”

“What
about weapons?” Horcalus asked as he followed Ragellan to the door.

“No
weapons. We do not want to draw any more attention to ourselves than necessary.”

The
two of them, looking like simple townsfolk thanks to the clothes that Klye had
stolen for them in Superius, hurried down the hall and to the stairway. From
the vantage of the second step, Ragellan scanned the inn’s spacious common
room.

Considering
it was but mid-afternoon, Ragellan was surprised to find the place as busy as
when they had arrived the night before. Klye had mentioned a citywide curfew
that began at sundown, so the knight supposed it was reasonable for patrons to
drink and dine at a relatively earlier time.

With
the place so crowded, it made it nearly impossible to see anything through the
wall of bodies.

“Come,
we’ll check closer to the bar.” Ragellan nearly had to shout to be heard over
the din of the common room.

Leading
with a shoulder, the older knight cut a path through the throng of customers.
He wondered if all of the pubs were so lively or if Oars and Omens was just a
popular place to drink. Ragellan could see that very few of these men and women
had ordered anything from the kitchen. Instead, they contented themselves with
tall flagons of ale and full bottles of spirits.

He
and Horcalus received more than a few stern looks from those people they
jostled. It looked to be a pretty rough crowd. Mostly sailors, Ragellan figured,
for they wore the garb mariners preferred—loose-fitting shirts and pants,
kerchiefs to cover unkempt hair and protect a shaved head from the sun’s
merciless rays. Some of the men and women sported gruesome tattoos and colorful
scars. Most, Ragellan noted with surprise, were armed with weapons that ranged
from wooden clubs and belaying pins to fancy cutlasses and curved knives.

Ragellan
wondered what honest sailors would need with all those weapons. He was not too
concerned, however, for
Stalwart Mariner
’s mates had sometimes carried
curved swords and daggers. Maybe these men and women were pirate-hunters,
warriors who made their money by dispatching the various clans of pirates that
roamed the Aden Ocean.

Or
perhaps he and Horcalus were now surrounded by one of those very clans.

The
two knights were about twenty paces from the bar when Ragellan caught sight of
Plake. In his left hand, he held a tall stein that overflowed with white foam.
He appeared to be talking with one of the mariners, laughing and throwing dice,
as though he had been the black-haired, stubble-chinned sailor’s friend for
years.

Ragellan
breathed a sigh that simultaneously expressed his relief and frustration. With
renewed vigor, he began pushing his way up to the bar. Horcalus was right
behind him. They were but ten paces from Plake when the inn’s main entrance was
kicked open and the common room was thrown into chaos.

*
         
*
         
*

Arthur
was more than a little surprised when he saw the three battleships sail past
the harbor, hugging the coastline as they continued southward. He was even more
surprised when the harbormaster announced that all the dockhands were freed
from their duties for the remainder of the day.

He
looked around in confusion. The sun had only just begun its decent from the center
of the sky. As much as he hated his work, Arthur was, after two months on the
job, accustomed to the routine. Something was surely amiss.

“What’s
going on?” he asked Two-Hands Henry, who always seemed to know what was
happening in the city.

A
small crowd of dockhands began to gather around Two-Hands, though Arthur
recognized only a few of them.

“Those
coastal guard ships we saw go by are newly returned from Fort Honor. They’re
goin’ after some pirate ships that were spotted t’ the south of the city last
night. The guards prob’ly sailed all night t’ get here and chase ’em away.”

One
of the other dockhands snorted. “I heard that the two pirate ships’ve already
gone, takin’ their chances with the B’lancia guards further south. DeGrange is
wastin’ his time. They’re long gone,” Clyde Dovely assured them.

“Naw,”
argued Two-Hands. “Word is, some of the pirates’re already in the city. The
ships wouldn’t’ve left without ’em. Honor among thieves, an’ all that. The
guards’re clearin’ the docks because they expect there’s gonna be a scuffle.”

While
the other dockhands grew excited at the predication, with some of them placing
bets, Two-Hands’ expression remained matter-of-fact. Arthur felt his heartbeat
quicken.

Pulling
out a flash from somewhere, a giant of a man—dubbed Ogre by his friends—said,
“Can’t say I care who wins. I only hope Lieutenant Brass gets what’s comin’ to
’im. I sure do hate that guy.”

“Brass
won’t be there,” Two-Hands told Ogre with a sneer. “DeGrange’ll lead the
soldiers while Brass waits for the smoke t’ clear ’fore he comes out of
hidin’.”

“Don’t
listen to him, Ogre. There ain’t gonna be no fight,” Dovely said. “Them
pirates’re half-way to B’lancia by now, you mark my words.”

Ogre
nonchalantly socked Dovely in the arm, which almost knocked the smaller man to
ground. The group of dockworkers guffawed boisterously at his expense, but
Dovely knew better than to physically retaliate against Ogre. Dovely got to his
feet and muttered something under his breath. Ogre took another swig before
passing the flask to Two-Hands.

“You
don’t know nothin’, Dove,” said Two-Hands with a grimace, the contents of
Ogre’s flask dripping in his beard. “There’s gonna be a brawl today, or I’m the
King of Superius. Ain’t that right, Spook?”

Arthur
mumbled something incoherent and didn’t even notice as the flask passed him by,
sparing him the obligation of taking a drink—or pretending to. His attention
was drawn to Captain DeGrange, who was giving orders to the harbormaster and
his pier guards on the other side of the wharves. The Captain of the Three
Guards was in full uniform, looking less like the man who had escorted him home
last night and more like a debonair swashbuckler from a bard’s tale. The curved
blade of DeGrange’s sword shone brightly in the sunlight, and even the bronze
hilt gleamed as though it had been recently polished.

Arthur
watched as Lieutenant Brass appeared on the scene, directing DeGrange’s
attention to something down the main road, back in the direction he had come.
Brass, too, looked more professional than usual. Like Captain DeGrange, he wore
a black, three-cornered hat that Arthur had never seen either man wear before.

Lieutenant
Brass was no stranger to the northern harbor. In fact, the Guard’s
second-in-command delighted in tormenting the dockhands. Once, after being
pushed too far by Brass’s cruel words, a fed-up worker had stood up to him,
inventing his own colorful vulgarities when he had used up all of the
well-known curses used by dockhands and sailors alike. Irate beyond reason, the
man had even pushed Brass, sending the officer back a few paces.

Brass
had skewered the man on the spot, and rumor had it that the mayor hadn’t done a
thing to reprimand the lieutenant afterward.

“We
oughtta stick around and see what’s goin’ on. This could be more fun than
drinkin’,” Arthur heard Clyde Dovely say.

The
other dockhands agreed, and then they must have wandered off somewhere because
he didn’t hear them anymore. Arthur continued to watch DeGrange, Brass, and the
harbormaster, though they were too far away for him to make out what they were
saying. He found that his body had become tense, though he did relax a little
when the Captain and Lieutenant made their way into the city.

It
wasn’t Brass’s presence alone that made him so nervous. Even though he had
decided that Captain DeGrange was a good man, there was something about the
red-and-white uniforms of the guards that kept him on edge. The law frightened
him, especially the law in Port Town. Whenever he saw a pier guard or city
guard headed in his direction, he imagined they were coming to arrest him.