Rebel Song (9 page)

Despite the cooperative weather, the day dragged on for what seemed like a week. The throbbing in his head only worsened every time the tractors revved up; Tigg’s incessant chatter was driving him insane. He also couldn’t stop thinking about what Ben had told them.
If his bloodline dies off
. He couldn’t get the words out of his mind. What if it came to that? What if she was put in danger because of him? El wasn’t like her father and Pantone, he knew that. But the cause would never see that.

“Feeling all right, kid?”

Rogan’s thoughts broke and he turned to see Jasper walking toward him.

“A bit groggy. Might have imbibed a little too much last night,” Rogan admitted. Jasper laughed and placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder.

“I remember what it was like to be your age. All night pubs and pub girls were all I had a mind for.”

“If only Lorena was so open-minded.”

“Your aunt, she still thinks of you like a child, you know. She doesn’t mean to belittle you, but she just hasn’t accepted that you’re a grown man now.”

“She worries relentlessly.”

“That she does. The thing you have to understand about Lorena is, when your ma died it absolutely crushed her. Atlanna was more than just her big sister. She was her lifeblood—her best friend. She didn’t know what to do with herself. So she put every ounce of energy she had into raising you two.”

“I’m sorry she had to do that,” he tried to ignore the persistent images of his mother that still haunted him.

“Don’t be. We are all sorry for the loss of your parents. She never once regretted taking you in. Never. But honestly, you terrified her.”

“Me?” Rogan laughed.

“Yes. You were this sullen, introverted 12-year-old boy with a soul that anyone could see was old and aware. And be damned, you were the spitting image of your da. It’s not that she didn’t like him—most everyone loved him—it’s just Lorena never understood Theron, so she never really understood you. She was always afraid you’d follow his legacy.”

“Guess she has some valid concerns there.”

“Oh and Ari. She might be the spitting image of Atlanna on the outside, but that child has a devil in her that her sweet mother could have never imaged.” Jasper chuckled.

“Yeah, we’re all in for a terrifying ride with that one. She’s too damn smart for her age.”

“Well, she is your sister after all. Life hasn’t been the easiest road for her, either. She barely knew Theron and the poor thing lost her ma before she had a chance to teach her much at all. Lorena tried, but she knew it wasn’t the same. There has always been a wall between her and you both. But it’s not for lack of trying or love.”

“So what was this morning all about?”

Jasper pursed his lips.

“Just a stress-induced spousal bicker. Nothing to worry about.”

Rogan frowned, silently saying,
don’t patronize me.

“Now who’s treating me like a child?”

Jasper sighed.

“I went to a meeting. And she found out.”

“A meeting?”

Jasper scratched at his scruffy red beard.

“A meeting for the Cause.”

Rogan couldn’t prevent his eyes from widening in shock. He was sure he would have known if his uncle had been to a meeting.

“Cause?” Rogan tested the waters.

“Rogan, please. Don’t bother. But it’s all right. Your aunt doesn’t know about your involvement.”

Rogan averted his eyes and didn’t respond.

“She might not know, but I do. It was only a matter of time before you rose to the occasion, especially with your father’s ghost lingering on the walls of Rawdry’s.”

“Okay, so what’s your point?” Rogan’s defensive instinct kicked in.

“I’m not angry, or even upset. Frankly, I’m not even surprised.”

“How did you know?”

“It wasn’t that hard to figure out. I tried to keep you shielded, but I knew Donal would pull you in sooner or later. Even my influence could never beat out that of your da’s best friend. I’m guessing you’ve been involved for some time now. But I was concerned. I needed to know just how deep this ran.”

“So you, what, followed me?”

“Regrettably I did. Last week. Turns out, this is more serious that I thought. The things I heard,” Jasper shook his head. “It scared me a little.”

“They should scare you. So, now what?”

“Nothing. I don’t want to be involved in this. I can’t; there’s too much at stake for the family, for the vineyard. But I know I can’t stand in your way either—and I’m not trying to. You’re going to do what you’re going to do. I just need to know that you fully understand what you’re getting into.”

“I’m already knee-deep in it…But I know exactly what it is.”

Jasper gave him a reluctant smile.

“Then I just have one thing to ask of you Rogan.”

“Which is?”

“Don’t make the same mistakes Theron did. Keep it out of the home. Don’t let this come down on the rest of us. And don’t you dare drag Ari down with you.”

CHAPTER 13

They walked through the narrow, dank alleyway, their nerves on edge. The stench of urine and rotting fish seeped through his nose and he pretended not to hear the smacks and crunches as he stepped in the unthinkable. The only thing illuminating the alleyway was the dim red glow seeping through high windows in dark corners where even darker deeds unfolded. While he couldn’t see them, Rogan was sure he felt rats sweep past his feet. A short walk from the lavish city central—featuring extravagant restaurants, couture boutiques and wealthy tourists staining their teeth with local wine—the city quickly faded to a dismal underbelly most pretended wasn’t there. The dock alleys were a carnival of nightmares where the depravity of humanity ruled from a rotting throne. In the deepest alleys, there were worse things than nightmares in the dark.

Rogan and Benton kept their eyes and ears alert, fingering their daggers as they crept through the last alley, the darkest and most dismal of them all.

“Where you go? Where you go?” A raspy voice sang out in a disjointed melody. “Where they all go? Nobody here.” Rogan glanced down to see a rumpled man, fingers of scraggly gray beard dripping from his grimy leathery face, swaying back and forth from where he sat on a moth-eaten blanket. A smoldering opa pipe lay by his side, begging for a kiss. Rogan clutched his knife tighter, but kept walking past.

“Spare change,” a hoarse female voice scratched at his ears. “Just one, just two. Baby gotta eat,” she sang out with the same fragmented melody as the shriveled old man—the alley’s official anthem. Ben stopped for a moment to stare at the woman, whose frail body was wrapped in stinking rags. Her gaping mouth revealed a few decaying teeth, jagged and black. Thick bags enveloped her hollow eyes. She was in a dream, only able to mutter
spare change
. Rogan nudged Ben’s arm to signal “keep moving.” Ben sighed but followed. Anyone knew that as much as it broke your heart, the moment you opened your pockets to offer so much as a crumb of bread, the entire alley would be nipping at your heels.

They kept moving through the labyrinth of narrow, putrid walkways, taking care to avoid stepping on broken glass, delirious ranting street dwellers, rabid cats and near-lifeless bodies. Rogan slid through the shadows like a cat. He had learned to navigate the corridors by instinct rather than sight. He’d been diving into these depths for years on business for Cable. No one wanted to be associated with this side of town, but sometimes what they needed could only be found in the seedy underworld.

On this chilly night, they were making their way to see Jova Sante, the most notorious purveyor of black market items needed to arm a resistance: namely, guns, c4, intel and false papers—most useful when in need of a quick getaway. Rogan’s stomach twisted into knots thinking about it, but he took a deep breath and kept moving. The alley suddenly filled with a foreign energy and he felt a chill on his skin. His ear caught a footstep in the shadows. He stopped. Ben took three more steps and caught Rogan’s caution. He glanced behind. There was no one.

“Alley cats,” Ben whispered. Rogan nodded but wasn’t pacified. The instinctive prickles on his skin never lied.

A glint of steel flashed in the darkness. Rogan spun around and locked eyes with two hollow sockets belonging to something that used to be a man.

“I thought I recognized you, traitor’s son,” said a voice filtered through gravel. Through the darkness, Rogan tried to identify this shadow of a man—a ghost draped in tattered rags and broken shoes—but he didn’t recognize him.

“Do I know you?” Rogan asked. His hand instinctively crept toward his side knife. The man spat at Rogan’s boots.

“There’s no mistaking him, is there? You’re Theron Elwood’s boy or I’m the King. You seem to be doing just fine, don’t you?”

“Look, I don’t know who you are, but I have no issue with you. Walk away.” Rogan turned from the man slowly and started in the other direction, one eye lingering to the side. He took one step before a second figure blocked his way.

“You might not have an issue with us, but we have one with you,” the second figure growled. Rogan’s heart was  trying to escape his chest, but he clutched his knife tightly and willed himself to stay calm. They were thin and raggedy—no physical match for him at all. But they looked desperate.
The most dangerous kind of man. 

“Oblivious, just like his traitor father,” the first figure said. Rogan’s ears went back.

“My father was not a traitor. And he has nothing to do with whatever it is you want. He’s been dead for eight years.”

“That he has,” the figure said. “Where he belongs, the bastard.”

Rogan’s knife prepared for flight, but Ben grabbed his arm before he could raise it, shooting him a glance that said:
It’s not worth it.

“Theron never thought about what he was doing either,” the figure said. “All his rebellious schemes and planning…all it ever got us was a baton to the head and a traitor’s brand.” Rogan’s jaw clamped until he tasted hot metal on his tongue.

“My father died fighting for the cause,” Rogan hissed.

“Did he now?” The man mocked him in a high pitch. “I thought he killed himself in a pile of pig shit and left the rest of us to starve at the King’s hands. All he did was make the situation worse for us all.” Rogan felt a lump in his gut.
Lies
. Sure, he’d been hearing about how his father was a traitor and a coward since his death, but never from one of his own people.

“Theron fought to make your life worth living,” Rogan’s composed demeanor was cracking.

“Well then, he failed miserably, boy. But in his generous memory, I doubt you’ll object to unloading your pockets so we can have a drink in his honor.”

“Think again,” Ben stepped in, glaring at the two assailants. “Get lost.”

“Oh we’ll take yours too. We don’t discriminate,” the man raised a knife at least a foot long and diamond sharp. Ben snorted.

“You’re not the only one who plays with knives,” Ben said, slowly retrieving his own from his back holster.

Like a banshee, the man’s war cry shattered the silence of the coastal night. He swung his blade out toward Ben, but Ben dexterously shifted to the side, letting the man lunge into vacant space. Before Rogan could think, the second man sent his fist through the air toward him. His head rang as it crashed into his jaw, knocking him back in a wave of heat. Before he could regain clarity, he felt the slash of steel on flesh. Rogan jumped and danced, a force of pain gripping his side. The second man lunged for Ben again, his steel catching the moonlight. Rogan could hear the sounds of shuffling feet in the gravel as Ben and his opponent shuffled in a delicate dance. Rogan focused on his hands, his movements. The man revved back again but Rogan swiftly grabbed his knife and sliced through the air, catching the assailant in the arm. He yelped and snarled like a wild animal.

“You cut me, damn you!” He growled.

“Did you expect it to be made of rubber?” Rogan sneered. The man glared at him through those hollow dark eyes.

“You’ll regret that,” he hissed, swinging his knife again. Rogan caught the man’s arm and twisted it back until he howled. The smell of stale rum oozed from his pores as Rogan brought the point of his steel to his neck. Rogan glanced to the side and saw that Ben and his opponent were at a face-off, blades drawn, their feet shifting back and forth.

“Back down,” Rogan said, pressing the knife point a little firmer. The man squealed as a dribble of blood teased the tip of the blade. The second man stopped and stared at him hard but didn’t lower his blade.

“I said
back down.
Or I’ll show you what the inside of his throat looks like. Drop your blade. You two can crawl back into the shadows and we promise to let you keep all your appendages.”

The man on the end of his knife grudgingly dropped his weapon into the dirt. Ben’s opponent lowered his own. Ben  glared at the two men, keeping his own knife poised.

“You’ll be sorry,” the first man growled, pressing a hand to his bleeding neck.

“Not today, I won’t,” Rogan said, backing away. He sheathed his knife and turned from them, cocking his head to Ben. They turned and moved gingerly down the alleyway. They had taken four steps when Rogan’s neck hairs stood on end again. He grabbed his knife. Without hesitation, he spun and flung in one motion, sending the knife into the man’s boot, eliciting a yowl like a cat in a trap. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me when I said to back down.”

“You whoreson!” The man yelled, pulling the knife from his boot and throwing it aimlessly in Rogan’s direction. “I know who you are. I know where you sleep!”

Rogan smiled placidly.

“Come by sometime and I’ll be happy to even out the holes in your boots.”

With nerves still on fire and hearts pounding, they finally reached their destination. Jova lived at a dead end in a two story building that might have once been a decent inn. Now the decaying walls had been painted black and the windows were barred from the inside. The only light seeped out from the lower level, where Jova ran a not-so-legitimate shipping supply and hardware store, catering to the local fisherman and merchants braving the Western Sea. They made their way to the side entry and Benton rapped three times on the door. They waited. After thirty seconds or so, the door creaked open and a bronzed-skinned man so thick he had muscle rippling through his neck stood in the doorway.

“Yes?” He asked with a heavily accented voice, probably Romi. Jova loved to keep both dregs and outlaws in his employ.

“Here to see Jova,” Benton asserted. “He’s expecting us.” The large man narrowed his coal-black eyes.

“Is that so? Jova might be expecting you, but I am not.” He looked down at them from a good foot above and glowered.

They were used to this. Jova often rotated his doormen, giving them strict orders to never allow anyone in through the side unless they had been written down on the daily entry list. Even if Jova had asked you to come, he might not bother telling the doorman.  It was up to you to figure out a way past the guard dog. Benton nodded.

“I understand, my friend. Perhaps you can be so kind as to announce our presence to Jova. He will tell you that we are expected.”

“If you so important to Jova, why he not bother putting you on the list?”

“That is a very good question, Mr.….?” Ben trailed off, awaiting an answer. The man glared back in response. “Mr. Doorman. Our business is of a nature that absolute discretion is required. Jova cannot risk writing our names on any list. He will tell you as much if you announce us.” It was clear that the doorman wasn’t going to be persuaded by words alone, so Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out a fold of bills reserved for such a purpose.

“Perhaps a little added incentive to let Jova know we’re here,” Ben held up the bills with one hand, but let his long blade show to let the doorman know stealing it was not a good option. The man raised his brow, then nodded and shut the door. He was back a few minutes later and opened the door all the way.

“Jova is expecting you,” he said. Ben rolled his eyes but handed the bills over to the doorman.

“Pleasure doing business with you, friend,” Ben muttered as they swept past.

The side door bypassed the faux supply shop in the front and led into Jova’s actual business. The place was ornately decorated with an Eastern flare—gold vases, intricately woven tapestries in deep, shimmering jewel tones and two large golden cat statues with eerie, blood-red rubies for eyes. The flicker of candles and the dim glow of a vast golden chandelier illuminated their steps. Thin, hollow girls were strewn on the lavish couch outside Jova’s office. Their tanned legs were flung over the sides and their heads flopped back against the plush orange cushions. They were draped in gauzy purple dresses so sheer Rogan could see every inch of their skin through the material and he tried his best to look away. Their eyes were hollow and wistful—as though they were trapped in a waking dream—he only assumed an opa dream. Although they knew the way, the doorman escorted them into Jova’s office.

“Two men to see you, Jova,” he said. Jova looked up from where he sat behind an elaborately carved desk of purple wood. A fluffy Siamese cat sat on the desk, watching them intently with keen blue eyes as it flicked its tail.

“Valley boys,” Jova said with a wide grin, as if it were their official title. “Come in.” He motioned for them to sit.

“That will be all, Yori,” he said to the doorman. Yori bowed and exited, closing the office door behind him. The room was warm and intimate, with a brilliant fire crackling. A stick of incense burned on the corner of the desk, filling the room with the exotic eastern scents of allspice and musk. 

“Old Yori there wouldn’t let us in,” Benton complained as they took a seat in two plush orange chairs opposite Jova.

Jova smiled and stroked his long braided beard, which was dyed an absurdly bright shade of cherry red. It made his already long narrow face seem to go on for a mile.

“Did he now? I shall have a talk with Yori. He’s new to me, you see. Came down on the work barge last month. He’s from one of those Northern Romi tribes. Tough fellow.”

Rogan and Ben both smirked, knowing right well Jova kept them waiting on purpose. He never liked to make things easy on his patrons. It kept his operations mysterious and the cards stacked in his favor.