City of Rogues: Book I of the Kobalos Trilogy (5 page)

How could Randall find out that which he needed to know? Without the ring, there was only one other option. He would turn to the one man who knew his secrets, the one man who had helped him when he first arrived in Bond and who had helped him gain admission to the Swamps healing tower.

Randall pushed away from the chair and began preparations for Trelvigor’s next healing.

***

Despite his success and power, Belgad often found himself missing the simple days of the axe and sword.

To relieve that tension, the Dartague resorted to extremes.

He counted four of them. Then the tall, bald northerner with the thick, white mustache made note of their weapons. Two of the men in leather carried cudgels. One wore studded gauntlets. The last hefted a more dangerous weapon, a spear with a broad point.

Belgad placed his fists on his hips and grunted. “Are these the best Lalo could find?”

The four men kept serious faces as they stepped into the center of the long, tall chamber that was the main hall of Belgad’s fortress. They had been told they would be paid fifty gold apiece, a monstrous sum, if they could bring down Belgad the Liar. There was even incentive in that the Dartague would be alone, unarmed and unarmored.

The smirk on Belgad’s face turned into a full grin as he climbed down from atop the raised wooden platform that held his thronelike chair. These men were half his age, but Belgad could tell by their stances they were little more than thugs pulled from the streets with an offer of quick riches. They posed no real threat, but this was what Belgad had come to to keep his warrior’s skills intact.

The one with the spear lunged.

Belgad spun to one side and slung out a hand to grab the spear just below the blade, his other palm snapping down to crack the weapon’s shaft.

The Dartague found himself holding the head of the weapon and wasted no time turning the blade around and jamming it into the shoulder of the spear's original owner.

The wounded man fell away with a cry.

The next attack was better composed. The two with cudgels came at Belgad’s front while the third arced to the northerner’s flank.

Belgad did the unthinkable. He charged.

The two with cudgels were caught off guard and each took a step back.

Belgad used their hesitation. He crashed a fist into one man’s face, crumpling him to the ground. The other thug had time to raise his club before Belgad planted a bare foot in his chest, sending him tumbling, his club flying from his hand.

The Dartague turned to face the last man standing, the one with fists wrapped in studded leather. The fool swung early, missing Belgad’s chin by inches. The northerner stepped into the man and brought up a large hand that crunched into the turned elbow of his opponent’s swinging arm. The man screamed as his arm snapped and he dropped to his knees as Belgad punched him in the face, knocking him unconscious.

When that man fell, Belgad slowly turned to survey the damage he had done.

The only man still moving was the one who had been kicked, and he was crawling for the exit.

“
I should have hit you harder.” Belgad strolled toward the man, grabbed him by his hair and slammed his face into the stone floor.

Blood splattered the Dartague’s toes.

The big man bent over and wiped sweat from his smooth pate as he stared at his last victim. “There was a time when a little workout like this wouldn’t have made me sweat.”

The room was quiet.

The double wooden doors in front of the northerner eased open, pulled from the outside.

Belgad did not look up. “Were these four the best you could pull off the streets?”

“
They were trying to stir up another pit fight in Southtown,” Lalo the Finder said with his head slightly bowed. “I assumed, apparently incorrectly, they would know how to handle themselves.”

Beads of sweat still forming on his head, Belgad looked up at his employee.

“
Perhaps next time I should hire some foreign gladiators.” Lalo handed his employer a towel. “Maybe the latest champion of the week.”

“
Never again.” Belgad used the towel to wipe away the last of the sweat. “I won’t set foot in the arena again. Even if I wished to, politically it would be a nightmare.”

With the tips of two fingers, Lalo retrieved the towel. “
Will there be anything else tonight, my lord?”

“
Contact Fortisquo. I believe he still has a room at the Rusty Scabbard.”

“
It was my understanding Master Fortisquo has retired.”

“
He has. It was me who retired him. I’m sure he can become unretired.”

“
As you wish.” Lalo turned to leave.

“
One more thing.”

The Finder paused and glanced over his shoulder. “
Yes, my lord?”

Belgad waved a hand at the injured men littering the floor. “Have these four taken to a healer. Give them two gold apiece for their troubles.”

“
You are most generous, my lord.”

Chapter Six

Lucius Tallerus slipped into the dark gray jacket that marked his station as an Asylum guard and plopped on a black, floppy hat that was also part of the uniform. He did not care for the garb. It seemed silly. A uniform was necessary, of course, but the hat looked like a toadstool and the rough jacket was more restraining than a tabard or cloak.

What bothered Lucius more than the uniform, however, was the lack of weaponry he was allowed within the walls of the Asylum. A simple oak club was the only armament an Asylum guard was given. It felt unnatural to walk the streets of Bond without heavy steel hanging from his hip or on his back.

He reluctantly removed his sword belt and slid it and the sheathed weapon beneath his bed at the Rusty Scabbard. Then he picked up the club and stuffed it into the front of his tied latigo belt.

Ready for his first day of new employment, Lucius made sure to lock the door to his room behind him, then bounded down the stairs that led to the main dining room of the Scabbard. As was his habit, he scanned the room for weapons, but saw few other than a long, slender rapier on the hip of a tall man dressed in foppish silks near the bar in the back of the room and another thin rapier on the hip of the tall man’s companion, a young woman with long, dark hair. His eyes shifted to the usual morning customers, some with rooms on the premises and others who stopped in for breakfast and conversation, then he proceeded to make his way through the labyrinth of tables and chairs to the exit.

He was almost through the door when a youthful voice stopped him.

“
Master Tallerus!”

Lucius spied Wyck sitting on a stool next to the counter where customers signed for rooms. The boy clutched a half-eaten muffin.

Lucius approached the lad. “
I wondered when you would make an appearance.”

Wyck stuffed the last of the muffin into his mouth, swallowed it whole and trotted across the room to save the man the walk.
“
I’ve been waiting for you nearly an hour. I didn’t care much for it. I’m not used to being out of the Swamps.”

“
Walk with me,” Lucius said, strolling out the Rusty Scabbard’s swinging front door. “I start a new job this morning and need to be on my way.”

Wyck didn’t hesitate to follow. Soon they were walking side by side down the center of the dusty South Road that would take them to the Swamps and, eventually, the Asylum.

“
You told me to find you when I had news.” Wyck trotted to keep up with the man’s longer strides.

“
It’s been four days. I didn’t think you’d take my offer.”

“
You still have coin?”

The man patted a pocket in the side of his gray britches, a soft jingle coming to their ears.

The boy grinned. “
Then I’ve got news.”

“
Out with it.”

“
Word is the Eastern pontiff is building his forces along the mountain passes for another invasion.”

Lucius came to a halt.

The boy stopped a couple of steps in front and turned to stare at the man. “What?”

“
You’ll have to do better than that.” What the boy had told Lucius was almost a joke. There had been peace between West Ursia and East Ursia for nearly three generations, but rumors still flew that Pope Joyous III was gathering troops to invade the West and reclaim it.

“
It’s true, I swear it.” Wyck's feet danced a little as if he were suddenly nervous. “I heard it on the Docks from one of the Hiponese sailors.”

“
Wyck, I left the Prisonlands only a few months ago,” Lucius pointed out. “I think I would have seen signs of the pope’s army along the borders.”

A new look of respect came into the boy’s eyes. “You came from the Prisonlands?”

Lucius nodded and continued his walk, following the dirt road to Frist Bridge.

Wyck followed.
“
Were you an exile?”

Lucius glared at his companion.

“
Just asking,” the boy said, falling in beside the Asylum guard. “I know they say Belgad is the only exile to ever leave the Lands, but if it could happen once it could happen again.”

“
Not likely.” Lucius grimaced. “That was before my time, but I’ve heard Belgad had plenty of gold to buy his way out of the Lands.”

“
You were a guard, then?”

“
A border warden,” Lucius corrected as they passed through the open flood gates and crossed the bridge of stone, passing other denizens of the city about their morning tasks, “and aren’t you supposed to be telling
me
i
nformation?”

“
Oh, yeah, sorry. Since you mentioned Belgad —”

“
You brought him up.”

“
Well, since Belgad was mentioned,” Wyck gave Lucius an irritated look, “I heard some news this morning outside the healing tower in the Swamps.”

“
Go on,” Lucius said as they left the bridge behind and followed a curve between rows of brick buildings that led to Beggars Row.

“
There’s going to be a street war.”

“
Who would be brave enough to take on Belgad?”

“
Don’t know,” Wyck said, struggling to keep up with his fast-walking companion, “but it sounds nasty. One of Belgad’s informers was roughed up and a few of his soldiers killed. They say there’s sure to be blood in the streets, but I don’t know. There hasn’t been a street war since I was little.”

“
Is it a guild taking on Belgad?”

“
I said I don’t know.” Wyck shrugged. “I’m not even sure Belgad knows. But it’s got to be somebody powerful if they think they can bring Belgad down. Even the city guard won’t touch him.”

“
That’s only because of his considerable political might.”

“
Yeah, why doesn’t Belgad just run for Chief Councilor or something? I bet he’d win.”

“
He can’t. He’s nobility technically, even if it is only a knighthood.”

“
That's
how he got out of the Prisonlands!”

“
Yes.” Lucius nodded agreement. Under terms of the peace treaty signed between East and West Ursia after the war, it was unlawful to exile a noble to the Prisonlands, which was how Belgad had escaped his exile. The Western Church, the only power in Western Ursia with the ability to knight a commoner, had been in dire need of funds. Belgad had provided those funds, and he had been given a knighthood and property within West Ursia. He was the only man to have left the Prisonlands still alive. Belgad’s story had riled the border wardens of the time, Lucius had been told by his late uncle, but rules were rules, and there was little the wardens could do.

“
Can’t be a guild that’s trying to take over the streets,” Wyck went on as they continued to walk. “Belgad already controls all of them.”

“
What about an assassin’s guild, or thieves’ guild?” Lucius asked. He was curious on this point. Bond was one of the largest cities in the known world, and one of the most free. Thieves’ guilds were known to operate publicly in some towns, as occasionally were gatherings of assassins, but Lucius had not seen signs of such since he had returned to his home city.

“
Belgad wiped them out years ago. I think he just wanted to control everything himself.”

“
Any other news?”

“
There was a fire the other night.” Once more the youth was forced to jog to stay apace of his friend. “A wizard’s house burnt down up on Mages Way. And this wizard worked for Belgad, too. That’s why word on the street is there might be another street war. Something’s going on.”

“
It sounds so.” Lucius halted.

Wyck quit his march and looked ahead to the tall, dark walls that were the Asylum. The place, gloomy and covered in dull vines, seemed to suck any cheer from the boy’s bones.

“
We’re here.” Lucius drew forth another three coins.

The boy’s hand was already outstretched.

“
You’ve done well.” Lucius dropped the coins into the lad's hand. “Keep your ears open and there’ll be more silver for you.”

Wyck’s fingers closed over the coins.

“
Where can I find you?” Lucius straightened the floppy hat atop his head. “Not that I don’t trust you, but there may be a time when I’ll need your services before you’ll need my coins.”

Wyck's look was sheepish. “
The Frog’s Bottom.”

Lucius blanched. The place was a den of prostitution in the west end of the Swamps.

“
The madam lets me sleep in the basement in the winter,” Wyck said with a nervous grin, “but I rent one of the servants’ rooms when I’ve got the coin.”

***

Lucius’ interview for a guard’s position had been brief, a perfunctory questioning about his experience and background. He had been hired on the spot. Apparently the Asylum had a difficult time keeping help. Chief Guard Shaltros had told Lucius the mad stares of the inmates often wore at a man to the point he could no longer perform his duties without breaking into tears or pounding one of the inmates in the face with a club.

At the Asylum during the interview, Lucius had seen very little of the place. It set on ten acres, most of which was taken up by the building proper, a black fortress three stories tall with a tower in its southwest corner. The few windows were on the ground level and shuttered and barred. Adding to the brooding surroundings was a high wall around the grounds.

Lucius knocked at the front of the Asylum and watched as a wooden slat in the door slid aside to reveal a peephole.

“
State your business.” It was a gruff voice from beyond the portal.

“
Guard Lucius Tallerus reporting for duty.”

The slat banged closed and Lucius could hear the clankings of inner bolts being turned.

The door opened to reveal an old, stooped man dressed in the dark colors of an Asylum guard. “You’re supposed to come around back when you report for duty.”

Lucius stood there nonplussed. “
My apologies. The chief guard did not inform me.”

The old man motioned for Lucius to move forward. “Don’t fret it this time. Besides, you’ll have to have a tour of the place before taking over for me at lunch.”

Lucius entered the Asylum for the second time and found himself in the small entrance apartment that was a ten-foot square cage of iron bands. He stared through the bars at the giant vault of the front room of the Asylum. The wall across from the cage rose to the ceiling and housed three levels of walkways with handrails. Behind the walkways were barred rooms by the dozens. To the new guard’s ear, each of those cells seemed filled with hatred, anger and insanity. The screams and hollers explained why few guards remained long in this place. It reminded Lucius of the Prisonlands. It reminded him of home.

“
You’ll get used to it,” the old guard said as he bolted the entrance and removed a skeleton key from a pocket, “or you’ll join them in one of the solitary cells in the basement.” He chuckled while using the key to open the cage’s inner door.

Lucius and the old fellow exited the cage and entered the Asylum proper. Other guards, orderlies and healers in white robes rushed from one barred cell to another in attempts to calm or subdue one inmate or another.

Lucius could only stare at the chaos. “
Is it always this bustling?”

“
Not always.” The old man grinned, showing several teeth missing. “It’s morning feeding, and the nuts are well rested.”

The aged guard cackled as he motioned for Lucius to follow. “The jailing rooms is here,” he said, pointing at the three stories of cells, “but one of the healers will go over what you’re supposed to do there. Just don’t trust the healers too much.”

“
Why is that?” Lucius followed the man down a stone hallway lit by torches.

“
They’ll get you killed.” The old man plodded along. “They’re all about saving these nuts. Just let your club do your talking for you.”

The words were harsh, but made a certain sense to Lucius. In the Prisonlands,he had dealt with any number of dangerous men who were not mentally stable, and he had seen more than a few border wardens mutilated or killed because they had tried to deal in a logical fashion with such a prisoner.

“
I didn’t get your name,” Lucius said as they turned to the right down another hallway.

“
Vitman.” The old man stopped at the end of the hall before a heavy oak door covered in bands of iron. Using his skeleton key, he unlocked the door and grunted as he pushed it forward.

Lucius followed into another dark hallway.