Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) (12 page)

Unless
Port Town’s Renegades wished to end up like the Pirates of the Fractured Skull,
they would have to redouble their efforts to keep their activities a secret.

Or,
thought Elezar, we will have to strike first.

*
         
*
         
*

Horcalus
woke to the sound of waves plashing against the boat. The sun was on the rise,
though the tall trees surrounding the glen blocked much of the light.

They
had hauled the rowboat onto the sandy shore last night, and everyone but
Othello had chosen to sleep in the boat. The forester had found a spot farther
up the beach, lying on the long grass beneath the trees, longbow inches from
this hand.

As
Horcalus watched the sky grow brighter, it took all of his discipline not to
close his eyes once more, to sacrifice his responsibility for the blessed
oblivion of sleep. Instead, Horcalus strapped his scabbard to his waist and
climbed out of the boat.

Othello
was already up. He lingered on the edge of the woods, peering into the shadows.
They should have posted lookouts throughout the night, but Horcalus had been
too weary to worry about it at the time. And for some reason, he had trusted Arthur
when he said that no guards ever visited this area.

Glancing
back at the boat, Horcalus watched the boy’s chest rise and fall. Rather than
escape the moment they had pulled up onto shore, Arthur had chosen to remain
with them. Could it be that the young man was also on the run from the law? He
was certainly hiding something…

But
Horcalus wasn’t worried. Arthur was well-mannered and one hundred times more
pleasant than Plake. If the boy had a skeleton or two in his closet, it
couldn’t be worse than the Renegades’.

After
waking Plake and Arthur and calling Othello back to the boat, Horcalus said,
“Arthur, I need you to take Othello into Port Town to see what you can learn.
You are the only one of us who knows the city.”

He
hated involving the boy further, but what choice did he have?

“I’ll
have to stay away from the northern docks,” Arthur said. “I’m supposed to be at
work right now.”

“That
is fine. Try not to get too close to Oars and Omens either if you can help it.
Someone might recognize Othello from the brawl.”

“What
about me?” Plake demanded. “Why can’t I go along?”

Horcalus
took a calming breath. “You and I engaged the city guards in battle. They will
likely remember us. Leave your bow, Othello, and do not take too many risks.
Learn what you can of what happened to Ragellan and return as quickly as
possible.”

As
Arthur and the archer walked into the trees, Horcalus prayed that he was not
sending them to their deaths. Othello was a godsend in the countryside, but
would he prove as valuable in a crowded city?

Horcalus
needed something to take his mind off his worries and began to look around in
the boat for something to do. They still had the supplies Othello had bought
with Klye’s money, but the archer hadn’t bought any food. Klye had planned to
take care of that on their way out of the city.

Among
the contents of one sack were the swords Othello had bought for Plake and Klye
as well as a coil of rope and some small bedrolls.

“Hey,
do you know how to use these?” Plake asked, holding up a mass of nets he had
found on the floor of the boat.

Horcalus’s
stomach growled at the thought of roasted fish. “I’ve never fished with nets
before,” he admitted, “but how hard can it be?”

Pushing
all of his concerns for Ragellan and the others from his mind, Horcalus sat
down beside Plake and joined the rancher in untangling the nets.

Passage XII

Klye
had greatly underestimated Leslie Beryl.

While
he had been recovering from the arrow’s poison, Port Town’s Renegade Leader had
not been idle. She had devised a plan to disrupt Pistol’s execution, weaving
Klye and his band into her design whether he liked it or not. Oh, he might
refuse, but how would he find Horcalus and the others—not to mention rescue
Chester Ragellan—without her aid?

“We
both want the same things, Klye,” Leslie had said. “And my plan is solid.”

“I’ll
need to at least get a look at the jail,” he had said. “You don’t think I just
walked up to the Citadel Dungeon without doing some research first, do you?”

“It’s
very risky,” she had argued.

“You
don’t have to come along.”

That
had earned him a smug look—as well as her company.

Now
he, Leslie, and Scout were on their way to the prison. He tried to look relaxed
as he and his companions made their way through unfamiliar neighborhoods,
heading circumspectly toward the prison. But inside, he was on edge.

He
couldn’t afford to worry about Ragellan and the others. He had to think about
himself and keep his senses attuned to the here and now. Besides, Leslie had
assured him that her Renegades were searching the city for Horcalus, Plake, and
Othello. And he believed her.

“What
a mess,” Klye muttered.

Leslie
laughed. She wore a small cap that kept most of her hair off her neck and
shoulders. She still wore Veldross’s shirt but had abandoned the gray coat she
had brought from the Cathedral. It was too warm a day for the cloak not to look
suspicious.

Scout
walked up ahead of them, nonchalantly guiding around the patrols of city
guardsmen and toward mostly empty avenues. Since it was the middle of the day,
the man was unable to fit the black hood into his ensemble. Instead, Scout’s
unruly hair was trapped beneath a dark blue kerchief.

“That’s
a terrible disguise. He looks like a pirate,” he said to Leslie. “And if you’re
trying to look like a man, you’re failing miserably. You need a fake beard to
cover your smooth cheeks and padded clothes to hide your curves…not to mention
the way you walk.”

“What
about
the way I walk?” she snapped without losing her confident smile.
“Should I walk as though I have boulders in my trousers?”

Klye
smiled in spite of himself. Ever since Scout had interrupted their conversation
that morning, Leslie had once more donned the role of Renegade Leader, burying
her burdens beneath an act of bravado. Her playfulness was part of the charade,
a way to help her distance herself from the reality of all the danger they
faced.

Klye
didn’t blame her, though. He was doing the same thing.

“It
could be worse,” Klye said. “For the daughter of a mayor, your walk is not as
feminine as it might be, but you do still lead with your hips.”

“‘Not
as feminine as it might be’? And what the hell is that supposed to mean, Mister
Tristan?”

Klye
shrugged. “Some women practically dance as they move about. They have a certain
grace that you lack…which is a good thing, if you are in the habit of
pretending to be a man.”

Leslie
opened her mouth to retort, but at that moment, they spotted Scout walking
toward them.

“We’re
almost there,” he said, “but I don’t think we should go to the prison.”

“Why
not?” Klye asked.

Scout
lowered his voice. “I’m pretty sure we’re being followed.”

Klye
resisted the urge to turn around. Having been at odds with the law for
practically his entire life, he knew better.

“Who
is following us?” Leslie asked, keeping her voice low and calm.

“I
think there are only two of them, but I couldn’t get a good look at them.
Whoever they are, they’re good.” Scout scratched his head sheepishly. “But we
really should steer clear of the prison. If our pursuers are guardsmen, they’ll
be able to call for reinforcements at the jail. There’s an alley not far ahead.
We could ambush them there. If you two are up for it.”

“Let’s
do it,” Klye answered, before Leslie could beat him to it.

*
         
*
         
*

Arthur
tried to avoid the eyes of the other people walking up and down the lanes,
fearing that any one of them might somehow know he was not where he was
supposed to be.

He
was starting to have second thoughts about leading Othello through the streets
of Port Town. The tall Renegade was intimidating to be around even when the
others were around, let alone one on one. And if half of what Plake had told
him were true, Othello was a cold-blooded killer on top of being a rebel.

In
truth, Arthur didn’t really know where he was supposed to be taking Othello. He
knew the city’s layout to some extent, but he hadn’t the slightest idea where
they should go to learn about Horcalus’s friend.

When
he had agreed to be a guide, he had only wanted to impress the former Knight of
Superius. Now he felt lost.

“Stop.”
It was the first word Othello had spoken all day.

“Why?”
Arthur whispered.

Without
answering, Othello turned from the path Arthur had chosen and down a side
street. He had been planning to take the Renegade to West Market, but now
Othello was the one leading, Arthur had no idea where they were heading.

They
walked for a little while before Arthur realized that they were shadowing a man
and a woman. The couple was too far ahead for Arthur to get a good look at
them. Not that he expected to know them. The only people in Port Town that he
was acquainted with were dockhands and pier guards.

Othello
slowed when a second man joined the couple. Moments later, they disappeared
between two tall brick buildings. Arthur followed.

He
rounded the corner to find the three strangers waiting for them.

A
woman grabbed him by his shoulders and slammed her knee into his groin. He fell
to the ground, grasping for air and trying not to vomit. As he curled up into a
ball, he heard the sounds of a scuffle. Absently, he wondered if Othello was
killing the woman and her friends as effectively as he had killed the woodsmen
from the tale Plake told.

Then
someone was helping him back up to his feet. He did his best to stand, willing
himself not black out, as he leaned against the side of a building.

“Sorry,
kid. We couldn’t take any chances,” the woman said.

Blinking
back his tears, he studied her face and was surprised to find she looked
familiar. He didn’t know any women in Port Town, except for the trollops that
sometimes joined Two-Hands and the others in the glen. How did he know her?

“Leslie
Beryl!” he blurted. “You’re the mayor’s daughter…a…a Renegade!”

“Keep
it down!” she said, her brow creased in irritation. “Are you sure you know
these guys, Klye?”

Arthur
straightened up and saw the black-haired man pat Othello on the shoulder.

“I
should have guessed it was you when Scout said he couldn’t give you the slip,”
the man—Klye—said. “Don’t you remember Othello, Leslie? He was with me the
first time I came to the Cathedral.”

“Didn’t
recognize him without the priestly robes,” Leslie said with a dismissive shrug.

“Are
Horcalus and Plake alive?” Klye asked Othello.

Everyone
seemed to have forgotten Arthur, who was fighting the instinct to bolt.

“Yes,”
Othello replied. “They are waiting for us to bring back word about you and
Ragellan.”

Leslie
peeked beyond one of the corner walls. “No one seems to be around right now. I
suggest we go find your men, Klye. The prison can wait.”

“Agreed,”
Klye said. Then, addressing the archer, he added, “Take us to them.”

*
         
*
         
*

Crofton
Beryl’s eyes darted from one side of the page to the other, as he quickly
digesting the information before him.

The
paper detailed what had happened at Oars and Omens, including a list of the
casualties. Seventeen city guards and ten pier guards had been slain in the
battle at the inn. Moreover, half-a-dozen coastal guardsmen had perished in the
encounter with the pirate vessels.

It
was an acceptable loss.

Including
the buccaneers who had been killed during the battle at sea, the defenders of
Port Town had killed nearly sixty pirates. Setting down the report, Crofton
removed a blank sheet of parchment from a drawer and started drafting the
document that would make Harrod Brass the new Captain of the Three Guards.

The
mayor shed no tears for the late Roland DeGrange. He had anticipated the
Captain’s death—had, in effect, orchestrated it, by assigning DeGrange to the
frontlines. He had played the odds and let the pirates do the rest.

Lieutenant
Brass—soon to be Captain Brass—was a far better candidate for managing the
Three Guards. Brass asked fewer questions than DeGrange did. Good riddance,
Crofton thought, scrawling his sweeping signature at the bottom of the page.

Folding
the page in half, Crofton pondered the irony. No one, aside from the mayor
himself, had worked harder than DeGrange to keep the city safe, yet Crofton had
been forced to kill him as a precautionary measure.

Elezar,
meanwhile, was working against Port Town, siding with the Renegades over the
established government. He didn’t yet know
how
involved the High Priest
was, but the mayor was confident that he would gain that information in due
time. DeGrange had died, but Elezar would live. For now.

A
glance at the clock revealed that it was nearly four o’clock. He still had a
lot of work to do. Keeping his city’s many threats at bay took up nearly all
his time lately, but he wanted to take a look at the pirate king and the rogue
knight for himself. Soon, they would both be gone from his city: Pistol to his
grave and the traitor back to Superius.

He
called for his page to ready the coach. Minutes later, Crofton was riding
through the streets of Port Town. Citizens hurried out of the way, some waving
to him and others watching him pass with leering expressions. The mayor paid
them little heed, for his eyes were scanning the shadows and examining the
passersby who hid themselves in hats and hoods.

Any
one of them could be a Renegade…

He
spared the guards but a glance as he entered the prison. Although the prison
was nearly full—inhabited by all matter of villain—Crofton didn’t often have
cause to visit. If not for the weak-hearted sentimentalists who called Port Town
home, he would have executed each and every prisoner long ago. If death were
the only punishment for crime, there would be far fewer criminals, Crofton
believed.

The
mayor followed a red-striped guardsman to the lowest level of the prison. Two
torches ensconced near the stairway provided meager illumination for the entire
floor. While Crofton preferred to protect his city from behind his desk in the
comfort of his palatial home, he suffered the damp air and foul odors for the
sake of the greater good. He walked on until the guide stopped, waving a hand
at one of the cells.

Crofton
squinted at the men beyond the bars. How he wished he could stab them both and
be done with it. One of them will die tomorrow at least, he thought with a
smile, his hand resting on the pommel of the sword that identified his station.
The broadsword was more than a mere decoration. Crofton had fought in more than
a few battles in his forty-two years.

“Which
one of you calls yourself Pistol?” he shouted at the dark shapes. “For gods’
sakes, someone bring a torch over here so I can see.”

“What
do you want?” asked one of the prisoners.

As
Crofton took the torch from a guardsman and pointed it in the direction of the
cell, he saw the man who had spoken wore ragged clothing stained with blood and
dirt. His coppery brown hair was greasy, and a cloth patch covered one eye.

The
soldier at Crofton’s side took a step toward the bars. “Show the mayor some
respect, you filthy son of a dog!”

The
pirate king spat at him.

The
soldier went for his sword.

As
much as the mayor wanted to watch the blood flow from the pirate’s chest,
flooding the cell with a crimson deluge, he saw his hand dart out and grab the
guard’s arm. “That will not be necessary.” Turning back to the pirate, he said,
“So…you are the King of the Pirates of the Fractured Skull?”

“I
am,” Pistol replied, his single eye returning Crofton’s hard stare without a
hint of fear.

“No,
Your Majesty
!” Crofton shouted. “You are the sole survivor of a
worthless gang of thugs whose existence will be forgotten before the week is
through. You are nothing but a prisoner now, a common piece of rubbish.”