Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) (3 page)

Pirates…hadn’t
Captain Toeburry said something about pirates? he thought.

Not
that it mattered much to Klye. He didn’t plan to stay long in Port Town.

Most
of the talk about the Renegades had been pure speculation, but at least Klye
had been able to confirm a few of the things he had heard back in Continae.

To
his relief, he had not heard a word about Chester Ragellan’s and Dominic Horcalus’s
recent escape from the Citadel Dungeon. Klye could only hope that the news
hadn’t reached the island yet.

The
road came to an abrupt end at an intersection with no less than six other
avenues from which to choose. Klye had no need for any of them. Now that he was
standing before the Cathedral, Klye saw that it for the architectural marvel it
truly was.

From
what he had learned in Port Alexis, this church was the largest temple
dedicated to the god Aladon in all of Continae and its territories. Come to
think of it, Klye didn’t know of any other Aladon churches, and he had
practically traveled from one end of Continae to the other following the
jailbreak at the Citadel Dungeon.

Those
in Port Alexis had also told him that the Cathedral was a place of pilgrimage
for Aladon’s followers. Most humans regarded Aladon as the elves’ god,
preferring to worship the other Gods of Good, Pintor in particular. Although
Klye had no use for any religion, he knew he was far more likely to run across
a shrine dedicated to Tristana or Feol—lesser deities to be sure—than to find
an Aladon church in Superius.

But
he had been told that the people of western Capricon had taken to Aladon long
before Superius had purchased the island from Glenning, which had happened long
before the Confederacy of Continae came into being.

History
wasn’t one of his favorite topics, but one never knew when some random bit of
knowledge would come in handy.

From
its archaic appearance, Klye did not doubt that Aladon’s Cathedral had been
there for some time. It looked out of place among the simple homes that had
sprouted up around it. The smaller structures were ordinary and dull in
comparison to the Cathedral, which was covered in woodcarvings and stone
statues of men and elves alike. Stained-glass windows stretched from the ground
floor up to the tall spires.

Klye
knew he was not an easy man to impress, but he did feel a little awed by the
place, if for no other reason than the amount of work and time that the
builders had put into constructing it. Unlike the Citadel Dungeon, which had
also been of mammoth size, Aladon’s Cathedral was a pleasure to behold.

He
glanced over at his men to find Plake staring wide-eyed at the church. Likely,
this was the largest building the young hayseed had ever seen. Othello did not
appear to be giving the church much thought, as he was watching Klye with a
blank expression. Klye wondered if the archer ever got excited. Othello seemed
always to be calm, unaffected by the world around him. Even when Othello had
first joined Klye’s band—covered in the blood of the men he had just killed—he
had walked away from his home without showing any regret.

“You
two wait here,” Klye told his companions. “I’ll take a look inside.”

“Wait
a minute.” Plake grabbed him by the elbow. “We’re supposed to just stand here
and scratch our asses until you get back? No way. I want see what it looks like
on the inside.”

Klye
narrowed his eyes and wrenched his arm away. Plake was precisely the reason why
Klye had wanted to enter the church alone. He did not want to have to worry
about Plake, who had been a simple rancher before throwing in with the band,
blaspheming inside the Cathedral or saying something too revealing to the
priests.

“You
can see the inside of the Cathedral after I check it out,” Klye told him,
trying to keep his voice civil.

“Don’t
you think Othello and I are going to look kind of suspicious just standing out
here in front of the Cathedral?” Plake argued.

“I’ll
only be a minute.” He bit back the other words that threatened to spill out.

“And
what if something happens to you? You’ll need our help.”

“It’s
a church for gods’ sakes!”

Plake
turned to Othello. “Don’t
you
think we ought to stay together?”

Othello
didn’t respond.

“Plake,”
Klye started to say, but the tolling of bells interrupted him.

The
brassy sound reverberated from the Cathedral’s highest tower, echoing off the
surrounding homes and shops. At the top of the wide stairway that stretched up
from the street to the church’s main entrance, two tall doors closed seemingly
of their volition. It was only then that Klye realized the sun had completely
dipped beneath the western horizon.

He
swore as ran up the steps, careful not to trip over the hem of his robe. He
reached the doors in but a few strides.

“Damn!”
he said again, though he caught himself before he said worse. When he turned
back around, he saw that Plake had followed him. He didn’t bother berating the
rancher, however, for it no longer mattered.

The
doors were locked.

Passage III

Arthur
groaned and slumped to the ground, leaning his back up against the side of the
warehouse. He had been working since early that morning, and now the sun was
almost completely set.

Having
transported all of
Stalwart Mariner
’s cargo to the warehouse, he almost
wished that pirates
had
looted the ship, for it was now a full two hours
past when he and the other dockworkers were supposed to be done for the day.
And the crates had been incredibly heavy, as though filled with rocks.

He
wiped his brow and peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt. The ever-present sea
breeze made his skin shiver, but it felt better than the heat of exhaustion.
Arthur looked at his hands and sighed. They were raw, cracked, and covered with
blisters. His whole body ached. He wondered how he would find the strength to
get up tomorrow morning to do it all over again.

They
would all be paid extra for working past their shift’s normal quitting time,
but a few extra copper coins hardly made much of a difference. His wages were
small and his days, long.

Then
again, it wasn’t so different from the farm back in Hylan. He, his father, and
his brothers were always up before dawn, feeding the animals and tending to the
crops. His entire family worked until sundown. Then they all gathered at the
supper table to enjoy the feast his mother and sisters had prepared.

Thinking
about the glazed ham, potatoes, and tall glasses of fresh milk made Arthur’s
stomach growl and his heart ache. At least when he was unloading cargo, he was
too busy to be homesick.

“Hey,
Spook, ya gonna join us at the bay tonight?”

Arthur
closed his eyes, wishing only to be left alone, but when he opened them again,
a large man loomed over him. He was called Two-Hands Henry, though Arthur had
no idea why. Arthur’s own nickname, Spook, was given to him because of his pale
complexion. He hadn’t even known what a spook was until Two-Hands had explained
that it was like a baby ghost.

Was
it his fault that his fair skin never tanned? He wondered what the others would
call him when the summer sun turned his skin as red as his hair. Luckily, it
was only autumn.

“I
don’t think so, Two-Hands.”

“C’mon,
Spook, ya know there ain’t no cure for a hard day’s work like the drink.” The
big dockhand leaned in and in a quieter tone added, “’Sides, you’ll never fit
in with the rest if ya don’t join in the fun.”

Arthur
saw nothing fun in sharing a barrel of hard liquor—likely stolen—with his
smelly and crass workmates. If he went along, he, being the youngest, would
surely find himself the butt of every joke and would probably end up being
tossed into the bay for one final laugh. At least, that was what had happened
last time.

Seeing
that the boy was not to be swayed, Two-Hands Henry shrugged and said, “Suit
yerself, Spook. Ya know where to find us if ya change yer mind.”

Arthur
stared blankly at the moving sea, hardly noticing when Two-Hands and the other
workers left. There was a kind of wisdom to Two-Hands’ thinking. Sooner or
later, the dockhands would get tired of picking on him, especially if he grew a
thick skin and pretended it didn’t bother him. His mother had given him similar
advice about his older brothers’ jests.

Without
his fully realizing it, Arthur’s thoughts were once more in Hylan, on the
opposite side of the island. He sat there for a while longer, remembering the
people he had loved and those who had loved him. He thought that if he could do
it all over again, he would never complain about his chores. Eventually, his
mind began to play through scene after scene until he was reliving the very events
that had led up to his running away.

Shivering
all over, Arthur grabbed his damp shirt and got to his feet. The last of the
sun’s rays had long since been swallowed up by the night. Gods, what time is
it? he wondered.

Guiltily,
he looked all around and spotted only a few pier guards, making their rounds.

Arthur
hadn’t the slightest idea what the punishment was for violating the city’s
curfew, but neither did he want to find out. He had little enough money as it
was. Two-Hands had said that thanks to Mayor Beryl’s newest laws, every
crime—big or small—had its own outrageous fine.

He
watched the guards in the distance and took a few tentative steps in the
direction of the road. Maybe he could dodge the pier guards and get back to his
ramshackle lodgings before any of them spotted him.

But
any tactics Arthur might have devised were ruined when he heard someone
directly behind him say, “You’re out rather late, aren’t you, boy?”

*
         
*
         
*

Klye
briefly considered banging on the doors. Whoever had just shut them was surely
near enough to hear it. That, of course, would attract some attention, and for
all he knew, the priests were already in the middle of some holy ritual they
wouldn’t want interrupted.

His
fingers reached for the doorknob, but there didn’t appear to be any keyholes—no
lock to pick.

“Why
don’t you just knock?” Plake demanded. “Once they see that we, too, are
priests, they’ll have to let us in.”

Not
agreeing with Plake’s reasoning or bothering to explain his own, Klye said,
“We’ll look for a back door.”

“A
back
door?” repeated Plake. “Won’t we look suspicious sneaking around
the Cathedral in the dark like a bunch of robbers?”

“Someone’s
coming.”

Klye
flinched at Othello’s ominous proclamation. He hadn’t even seen the archer
approach them on church’s steps—or the middle-aged man in the red-and-white
uniform embroidered with four vertical golden stripes, who was walking toward
them.

Klye
had avoided too many constables to not recognize trouble when he saw it.

“He’s
the man who spoke with Captain Toeburry on the docks,” Othello added softly.

Which
makes him either the harbormaster or the Captain of the Guards, Klye concluded.
“Let me do the talking,” he whispered, hoping against all odds that Plake would
comply.

The
man in the uniform walked right up the steps of the Cathedral and raised a hand
in greeting. He introduced himself as Roland DeGrange, Port Town’s Captain of
the Three Guards. Klye, in turn, told him that they were Brother Klye, Brother
Plake, and Brother Othello, priests of Gnuren from afar who hoped to meet the
High Priest of Aladon’s Cathedral.

There
was no need to invent aliases. Unlike Ragellan and Horcalus, none of them were
infamous. And Klye had always trusted in a popular proverb among thieves: “The
best lies are more true than false.”

“It
looks like you arrived a little too late,” DeGrange said with a smile that
might have been smug or sincere.

“It
would seem so,” Klye replied politely, stalling for time. What was this man up
to? Was he here to arrest
Stalwart Mariner
’s stowaways, or was he
unwittingly trying to help them?

“The
doors always seal themselves shut at sunset, and they won’t open until the
first rays of morning light touch the Cathedral’s tallest spire. It’s a
tradition,” DeGrange explained. “However, there is a garden through that
opening in the wall there. I fear it’s little better than a maze in there, but
you should be able to find your way to another entrance.”

Withholding
his sigh of relief, Klye thanked the man and bestowed upon him a made-up
blessing. When DeGrange started walking away, Klye started for the garden.

“Brother
Klye,” came the captain’s voice once more.

Klye
stopped in his tracks, resisting the urge to draw his dagger as he turned
around.

“Yes?”

“Port
Town has a curfew. After sundown, only people on official city business are
allowed to walk the streets. I tell you this only so that you can avoid the
inconvenience of an interview with my guards.”

“Thank
you for telling us,” Klye called back, though DeGrange was already on his way.

Klye
noted that the Captain of the Three Guards had turned down the street that led
to the marketplace and, beyond that, the northern harbor where
Stalwart
Mariner
was moored.

He
had no way of knowing the man’s agenda, but since it didn’t seem to pertain to
him or his band, Klye dismissed DeGrange from his thoughts. Plake was ready to
take his place, however.

“This
maze-garden sounds like the perfect place for an ambush,” the rancher declared,
peering through the entryway of the courtyard. “It looks like a small forest in
there.”

“Who
would be in there to ambush us?” Klye demanded. “No one knows we’re coming!”

But
Plake would not back down. “You spoke with the Renegades in Port Alexis. They could
have sent word ahead of us. For all we know, the Renegade Leader of Port Alexis
and the mayor’s daughter here are only
pretending
to be Renegades. Then
she goes and tells Daddy…”

“You’re
being paranoid, Plake.”

“It’s
not being paranoid when your leader is taking so many things for granted…taking
too many chances.”

Klye
made his retort between clenched teeth. “When you get out of bed in the
morning, you are taking the chance that any number of things could make this
day your last. If you want to stand out here, accusing your own shadow of
stalking you, be my guest.”

He
brushed past the scowling rancher and entered the courtyard. He didn’t even
bother to check to see if Plake followed. If Plake was going to question his
every order, the band would be better off without him.

Let
the damn fool spend the night on the streets of Port Town, he thought. Maybe
while he’s fending off imagined demons, he’ll wander off a pier and drown.

Klye
didn’t know why he let Plake get under his skin. Always priding himself on his
self-control and even-headedness, Klye wondered just what it was about the
arrogant, know-it-all rancher that made him lose his temper time and time
again.

Squinting
into the moonlit garden, Klye saw a variety of flowers, shrubs, and trees. A
path of flat stones wended through the collage of greens. To his chagrin, the
path split into three new avenues up ahead.

“Perfect
place for an ambush,” Plake muttered behind him.

The
three slowly made their way through the garden. Caution aside, something about
the place demanded reverence. Quite the contrast to Port Town’s bustling docks
and marketplace, the tranquility of the garden brought a sense of calm.

Klye
looked back at Plake, but the rancher did not appear to be enjoying himself in
the least. Plake peered into the brush as though it concealed jungle
predators—along with a squadron of city guards and some treacherous Renegades
to boot.

He
was surprised to find the usual impassive expression on Othello’s face. The
archer had spent most all his life in a forest, shunning cities and other
people altogether. Klye had thought Othello would feel at home there. As it
was, Othello was looking not at the trees on either side of them, but straight
ahead into the distance.

An
icy sensation ran down Klye’s spine when Othello said, “Someone’s coming.”

The
three of them stopped.

“Is
that all you ever say?” Plake groaned, looking all around them. “How can you
see anything but shadows and leaves in this creepy place?”

If
the rancher expected an answer, he was left disappointed.

Klye
saw nothing amiss up ahead, and aside from the wind blowing through grass and
branches, he couldn’t hear anyone else moving in the garden. Regardless, Klye
patted his hip to make sure his knife was still somewhere under his robe.

“Othello,
hide in that brush over there,” he said, pointing off to the left of the path.
“Make sure you can see me, but I don’t want to be able to see you. Wait for my
signal if there’s trouble. If Plake and I are led peacefully into the
Cathedral, wait here until we get back.”

The
archer did as he was told, disappearing into a cluster of evergreen shrubs.

“It’s
probably just a squirrel,” Plake said.

Klye
scoffed. “I think I’ll take the word of a forester over the theories of a
rancher who has spent more time in a tavern than the wilds.”

Plake
opened his mouth to say something in his defense but swallowed the words when
they saw movement in the distance. Both men watched as something flitted
between the big pockets of green obstructing their view.

Whatever
it was seemed to glow silvery white in the moonlight. Then Klye heard a soft
sound, like humming.

“It’s
a bloody ghost,” Plake whispered, his face growing as pale as the specter
coming toward them.

*
         
*
         
*