Blood & Stone: The Saboteur Chronicles Book 3

by J. V. Roberts

  “They let you be a soldier? Do you even know how to swing that thing?”

  “The blade has yet to taste blood.” Coen wrapped a hand around the grip. “Care to satiate it?”

  Darius dropped his eyes, considering the dagger at his waist. “Not tonight,” he sniffed. “Come on boys; let’s find somewhere else to drink.”

  As the men departed, Coen let loose a sigh of relief. “That could have gone a different way.”

  “Could have gone worse,” Dominic said. “Nice line, by the way.”

  “Which one?”

  “About satiating your blade’s thirst. No one appreciates a good pre-bloodletting quip more than me.”

  “Yeah, it just sorta rolled off the tongue, I guess.” Coen scratched at his beard.

  “You really never swung that thing?”

  “I’ve practiced.”

  “Well, then,” Dominic slapped Coen on the back, knocking him forward, “glad you’re quick with your words. You have a good night, Coen.”

  “Wait up,” he shouted. “Full name is Coen Callwen.” He beat Dominic to the door and held out a sweaty palm.

  “Nice to meet you, Coen Callwen. Shouldn’t you get back on patrol?”

  “Oh, no. I’m off. What do you say I treat you to a drink?”

  “Keeping me from having to kill those three fellas was enough.”

  “You really think you could have taken all three by yourself?”

  Dominic smiled. “I wouldn’t have bet against it.”

  “And you’re a merchant?”

  “Goodnight, Coen Callwen.”

  The tavern air was filled with smoke. Fiddle music played from some far corner of the room. Half melted candles burned overhead in a large chandelier. The tables served as drink coasters and stages. A single bartender, the meanest looking sonofabitch in the room, was pouring drinks for an endless stream of ravenous patrons. The place was the only familiar thing Dominic had seen in Anthena; it could have been any Wasteland watering-hole.

  Some things change, but not everything.

  He made his way to the bar with minimal fuss.

  “You the one folks been talkin’ about?” the bartender asked with a scowl.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You fit the description: scar down your cheek, beard, big as a damned house.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “You planning on starting any trouble in here?”

  “Depends on if you got any that needs starting.”

  The bartender croaked laughter. “Perhaps you ain’t as bad as folks said.”

  “Who are these folks you’re referring to?”

  “Never you mind that. The name’s Rinebart.”

  He accepted his hand. “Dominic.”

  “What can I get you, Dominic?”

  “Something strong and bitter and whatever the hell the rest of the room is smoking.”

  A hand slapped down on the counter next to him. “I’ll have whatever he just ordered. And it’s on me.”

  “Coen!” Rinebart shook the young soldier by the shoulder. “You’re late, boy!”

  “Just trying to make you miss me.”

  “Always on duty, is that the way of it?”

  “Aye, that’s the way of it.” Coen patted the sword on his hip affectionately.

  “You two know each other?” Rinebart asked.

  “We just met outside,” Dominic sighed.

  “Uh-huh,” Rinebart took notice of the tension, “well then, drinks and smokes coming right up.”

  Dominic waited until Rinebart departed before turning to face Coen, one elbow propped up on the bar. “You’re persistent.”

  “Told you I wanted to buy you a drink.”

  “And I told you I was okay drinking alone.”

  “If you’re planning on staying, shouldn’t you make some friends?”

  “What makes you think that you should be among them?”

  “I mean…why not?”

  Dominic leaned in close. “One of the Queen’s soldiers just-so-happens to turn up at the tavern the exact same time I do. I can buy that; it is the only place to drink, after all. But here’s where it gets suspicious. He offers to buy me a drink. And like a scarred up whore looking to score a hot meal, he keeps asking, even when rejected. Add in your questions about whether or not I’m a merchant and I’d say you’ve been sent to spy on me.”

  “But…I…no!” Coen was clearly panicked.

  “Chill out. You’re the low man on the totem pole; shit duty comes with the position.”

  “I swear…I’m no spy.”

  Dominic sighed and turned back to the bar. “Stop embarrassing yourself. The dance is over. Few impress their first time out.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “You got me.” Dominic threw his hands up. “I was a dancer. I’m here to imbue your people with grace and flexibility.”

  Rinebart returned and slid their drinks and smokes to them. Coen was quick with his coin-purse, dropping the required amount into Rinebart’s waiting palm before Dominic had a chance to start counting.

  “Like you said, I’m persistent.” Coen lifted his mug and smiled.

  Dominic shook his head and offered a toast. “Cheers.”

  They both took long pulls from their drinks and began working on the smokes.

  “You’re really not going to tell me anything?”

  “Why’s it so important to y’all. And where are the matches?”

  “Here.” Coen went into his pocket and came out with a half-used booklet.

  “My thanks.” Dominic lit the cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling.

  “You know,” Coen coughed; it was obvious his lungs weren’t used to the smoke, “the Queen…” he stopped and shook his head. “I still can’t get used to calling her that. We grew up together you know?”

  “Royalty dared to mix with the peasantry? The Queen is a rebel, indeed.”

  “That’s not how it is here.”

  “Bullshit. That’s how it is everywhere.”

  “Nah,” Coen shook his head insistently, “that’s not how Roserine…Queen Roserine…is. She’s spent more time down here listening to the people and trying to make things better for them than she’s ever spent in the castle. She’s not like her father, or her brother, for that matter.”

  “Her brother? When do I get to meet him?” Dominic swallowed a mouthful of spiced wine. “And why isn’t he on the throne?”

  “That’s…I’m not at liberty to really talk about the politics of all that.”

  “You’re a citizen, aren’t you? The shit that goes on up there,” Dominic pointed roughly in the direction of the castle, dripping ash from his cigarette, “that concerns you, especially now that you’ve got a sword on your hip. That’s the one damn thing that you should be at liberty to talk about; that’s life or death.”

  “Will you please keep your voice down?”

  “Sounds like I may need to insist you tell me what the hell is going on up there.” Dominic stubbed out the cigarette on the bar and leaned in aggressively.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If there’s some sort of civil war brewing, families fighting for power or some such shit, I need to know. I don’t like getting blindsided.”

  “No, no, no! It’s nothing like that. It’s just…it’s an open wound, is all. Some people are still rather sensitive about it, including the Queen.”

  “He die or something?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “So what is it?”

  Coen looked around as if he were hoping someone would save him from the conversation.

  “I’ve got an offer for ya: you tell me about the Queen and her brother and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  Coen snapped to attention. “So you’re not a merchant?”

  “One way to find out.”

  “Alright then, but you’ve got to keep it down.”

  The splintering of wood and the sound o
f screams filled the air; one of the tables had given way under the weight of the four burly men dancing on top of it.

  “I could fire a gun in here and it still wouldn’t shatter the mood; no one is paying attention to us.”

  Coen pivoted his body and leaned forward on the stool, his elbows between his knees. “The Queen had a brother named Byron. He was supposed to take the throne after their father died. Anyway, things happened and the long and short of it is that the Queen had her brother exiled.”

  “Exiled?”

  “Sent out. Never-to-return.”

  “I know what exiled means. I’m asking you to elaborate.”

  “He was working with the Eval. He was seeing one of them…intimately.”

  “I heard about the Eval from Niall. The Eval are your enemies? The reason y’all built that nice, fancy wall up there? The reason everyone and their children are carrying a weapon on their hip?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That deserves a drink.” Dominic emptied the mug and slid it back across the bar for a refill. “Fucking the enemy. Treason. Exile is sort of a slap on the wrist, don’t you think? Perks of the bloodline.”

  “Do you have to be so crass?”

  Dominic shrugged. “I don’t have to be. It’s a lifestyle choice.”

  “Here you are, my good man.” Rinebart passed a full mug to Dominic.

  Dominic paid for his own drink this time and threw in a little something extra. “For the table those assholes just broke.”

  Rinebart nodded his thanks and returned to his duties.

  “When did all of this go down?”

  “Few weeks before you and your people showed.”

  “And there’s been no word from him since.”

  Coen shook his head. “All has been quiet. Feels like things are starting to settle back into their normal rhythm.”

  “And what happened to the girl he was fucking?”

  Coen cringed at the profanity. “She…uh, she was executed.”

  “Perks of the bloodline,” he muttered over the rim of the mug.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Coen was eager to move past the subject. “So…I kept up my end of the deal.”

  “You did. And I am a man of my word.” Dominic lit another cigarette and took a few long drags. He pulled up his shirt. “See that tattoo?”

  Coen leaned in close. “I heard about it from Eirik.”

  “The mark of the Saboteur; the links represent our bond and the anchor is the weight of our duty.”

  “What’s a Saboteur?”

  Dominic dropped his shirt. “We were a special unit that played our part in a war you’ve never heard of. I was…am…a soldier.”

  “And the woman?”

  “Lerah is a soldier too. Different side, same war; it’s a long story that I ain’t gonna tell right now.”

  “What about—”

  “Hawthorne is just someone that needed our help. He’s a good kid. But he’s no soldier.”

  Both men swiveled back toward the bar, nursing their drinks and smoking their cigarettes.

  “Well,” Coen said, staring into the top of his mug, “why were you so intent on hiding it? With your scars and the way you beat up on Eirik, you had to know that people weren’t going to believe the story you were spinning.”

  “I figured it’d all come out eventually. But with the situation we came out of, there’s no such thing as being too careful. The truth is that we just want to settle down and live in peace.”

  “I can get behind that.” He held up his mug. “To living in peace.”

  “May we all be so lucky.” Their mugs clicked and they shared a drink.

  Just as they finished, Niall appeared. He leaned in between them and wrapped his arms around their shoulders. “You boys started without me I see.”

  “I reckon I can go a few more rounds,” Dominic said.

  “That’s what I like to hear!” Niall shouted enthusiastically. “You going to stick around, Coen? Or are you too good for the common rabble?”

  Coen looked to Dominic and he nodded an invitation. “Aye, why not.”

  “Alright, boys. Let’s get this night started. Rinebart, line up three drinks before these boys lose their buzz.”

  27

  Lerah and Roserine were lying on their backs in the courtyard. They were surrounded by waist-high hedges and pear-shaped trees. They stared up at the dimming sky, silver stars slowly popping through the surface. Unlike Byron, Lerah hadn’t been an easy opponent. Both of them were cut and bruised, but they were smiling, riding high off of the adrenaline. There’d been no clear winner; somewhere in the scramble, when they were locked together, mounting and rolling, having long ago tossed aside their weapons, they agreed to a truce.

  “You have no idea how bad I needed that,” Roserine panted.

  “Yeah,” Lerah’s heart was still hammering in her chest, “that felt…amazing.” She sat up on her elbows and looked down at Roserine; her red hair spread out beneath her head like a thick blanket. “You might need to put a few stitches in that one.” There was a cut across Roserine’s stomach, just above her belly button, drawn by a rogue slash from one of Lerah’s daggers; it’d gone right through the corset and blouse and had taken a considerable chunk of flesh with it.

  “You think so?” Roserine sat up to get a better look.

  “It’s still leaking pretty good.” Lerah pressed gently around the wound. “Doesn’t feel like it made it to the muscle; a few stitches should work. I can do them for you if you’d like.”

  “Oh yeah? You merchants are just full of tricks.”

  “You’ve got no idea.”

  “My Queen!” Eirik’s voice rang from across the courtyard. “Are you okay?” The sound of him running and the clank-clank-clank of his plate armor filled the air.

  “Yes, Eirik,” she stood and turned to face him, “I’m fine.”

  “What did this peasant do to you?” He drew his sword and pointed it at Lerah.

  “I could land this in your eye-socket from this distance. I’d advise you to sheath your cock,” Lerah said as she flipped a dagger in her palm.

  Roserine cleared her throat. “Lerah, let me talk to the Commander.”

  She flipped the blade once more and deposited it into one of the two sheaths strapped to her hips.

  “Commander, while I appreciate your enthusiasm, Lerah and I were simply training together.”

  Eirik looked at her as if she were speaking a different language. “My Queen, this seems highly inappropriate—”

  “You can stop right there, Commander. The only thing inappropriate right now is you dictating to me how I can and cannot conduct myself. I am the Queen. If I want to strip naked and roll around the meadow with the kitchen workers, I’ll do just that.”

  “My Queen, if—”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “No, my Queen.” He sheathed his sword. “Would you like me to have someone come and look at that wound for you?”

  “No,” she reached over and took Lerah’s hand, “she’ll be stitching me up.”

  ***

  Roserine was lying on the bed; her pants were undone, the corset had been removed, and her blouse was holding by a single button. Lerah sat at her side, threading a needle. Both of them were still coated in old sweat and dried blood, still laughing and telling jokes, still drunk on adrenaline.

  “You sure you don’t want me to fetch you a drink, my Queen? This is going to hurt…badly.”

  “I’m sure. And I want you to stop calling me Queen, at least when we’re alone. Call me by my name; that’s an order.”

  “Yes my…Roserine.”

  “Good. I prefer to hear my name on your lips. I understand the need for formality, but it’s lonely. It’s nice to have a few people you can breathe around.” Roserine’s head was propped on a pile of pillows. She was staring up at Lerah with soft eyes; mysteries rising to the surface and disappearing.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” She was struggling t
o hold the needle steady as she tied the thread.

  “You remind me of someone.”

  “I’m sure there are plenty of women like me.”

  “No, I assure you, there are not. Her name was Kristen. She was a ship captain’s daughter. She wore beads in her hair and she smelled of lilacs. Her disguise was thin, like yours. And like yours, it was easily stripped away behind closed doors.”

  “And what disguise do you think you see?”

  “I’ll tell you what I don’t see: you’re no merchant.”

  Lerah presented the threaded needle. “Ever had stitches?”

  Roserine shook her head. “Bumps and bruises, but this will be my first real battle scar.”

  “It’s going to hurt.”

  Roserine gripped the sheets. “Ready when you are, darling.”

  “Here we go.” The needle pierced the skin without resistance and came out clean on the other side.

  Roserine released her breath as a narrow stream of tears fell from the corners of her eyes. “Damn it! That hurt!”

  “Told you.”

  “How many more?”

  “Three or four more times; not many.”

  “You’ve seen worse?”

  Lerah nodded as she pulled the thread tight. “Much worse.”

  “So, let’s hear it.”

  “The wounds I’ve stitched?”

  “All of it. You made me a promise.”

  Lerah remembered. She was just hoping Roserine had forgotten. As she tied off the first stitch, she began telling her story from the very beginning: growing up in Genesis, her recruitment and training as a Shadeux, her partnership and mission with Dominic. She stopped just short of her capture by Silas and his men as she completed the final stitch.

  “I have to say, I think this is my best work.”

  Roserine sat up on her elbows and grunted her approval. “I shall wear this with pride.”

  “You better.” Lerah set the needle aside and began wrapping a small bandage across the freshly sealed wound.

  “So what brought you here? You and Dominic were successful in your mission, you’d fallen for each other; it sounds like your lives together were just beginning. I can imagine your father didn’t approve, but I can’t imagine his disapproval driving you across oceans.”

  She clipped the bandage and smoothed it down, hoping Roserine’s questioning would be brought to heel by the sight of her neatly wrapped stomach. But Roserine could see she was still holding something back and wasted no time pursuing it.