Skyrider of Renegade Point

by Erik Christensen

  Melissa laughed. “Will, you really need to leave Marshland once in a while. All the taverns in big cities use signs like this instead of written names because most of their customers can’t read. But you can tell your friends to meet you at the Frog and Turtle, and they’ll know which tavern to go to.”

  “Why don’t they teach everyone to read?” asked Oz.

  “That’s a good question,” said William. “But I don’t suppose that’s a tavern keeper’s problem to solve. Okay, let’s head in.” William pushed the door open and waited a moment for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight. Despite the early hour, all the tables were occupied by patrons in various stages of drunkenness, ranging from boisterous to comatose.

  Melissa sniffed as she viewed the dingy surroundings. “Not exactly Dan’s place, is it?”

  “No dogs allowed!” bellowed a voice from the back. “Get that mutt out of here!” A large red-faced man shook his fist as he approached.

  “This is a dragon,” said William, taken aback.

  The man stopped short, and a giant smile spread across his face. “Well, so it is. You must be that William Whitehall fellow people are carrying on about. In that case, welcome to the Toad and Tortoise.” He stuck out his hand for William to shake. “What will it be for you? My beer is plain enough, but I also carry wine fit for lords and ladies.”

  “Thank you, but we’re only here for information,” said William. “We need—”

  “We’re looking to import some goods from New Athens,” said Melissa, cutting him off. “And we don’t want to use the…traditional routes.”

  William turned to Melissa with a surprised glare, but the tavern keeper gave her a knowing nod. “Import taxes are high. Lots of people are looking to save a little money,” he said. “They don’t usually turn to me, though. I’m a little too close to the authorities for people in that business to feel comfortable here. Now, if you’re looking to sell property that wasn’t purchased through…traditional routes…then this is the place for you.”

  “Nothing like that,” said William. “Do you know who can help us?”

  “Well, my friend Baldwyn—he runs a little tavern called the Goose and Gopher—he’s always going on about this smuggler or that. Doesn’t name names, mind you, but he brags about the deals he gets on wine. Sold me a few barrels himself, though the price could have been better.”

  “Where is this place?” asked William.

  “It’s upriver, a little past the bridge. Just look for the sign with the—”

  “A goose and a gopher?” asked William.

  “Oh, you’ve been there?” asked the man with a look of surprise.

  William searched his face for any trace of humor and found none. “Just a lucky guess,” he said. “Thank you for your help.”

  The tavern keeper gave him a friendly wave as he turned back to his duties. “Any time, my lord, any time.”

  “Why did you do that?” asked William as they emerged into the sunlight. “You interrupted when I started asking him questions.”

  Melissa rolled her eyes. “You were about to ask him if he knew any smugglers. He said the Goose and Gopher was upstream, right?”

  “Of course I was about to ask him about smugglers. That’s what we’re doing.”

  She stopped and turned him by the shoulders to face her. “Will, my sweet, daft husband—you can’t blurt it out like that. He’ll think you’re investigating them, like the Guard.”

  “But that’s exactly what we’re doing.”

  “Yes, but you can’t let them know, or they won’t say a word. The last thing they want is to get someone in trouble. Think about it from his perspective. Someone—a smuggler or a thief—offers a tavern keeper a fee to find him customers. The tavern keeper listens to his own customers, and when he spots someone who needs the services of a thief or a smuggler, he arranges a meeting and collects his fee. What good does it do him if the smuggler or thief winds up in prison?”

  William pondered this for a moment as they walked. He turned to Oz who followed a few paces behind. “Did you have any idea Melissa is an expert in the ways of criminals?” he asked. “Almost makes me wonder if she was a part-time smuggler herself.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she said with a grin before Oz could answer. “I would never do it part-time. Look, I didn’t know a thing about smuggling before today. But I figured it out based on what Rachel told us. Will, everyone acts on their own self-interest. But you always assume your interests are the same as everyone else’s. Not everyone is as kind, or honorable—or judgmental as you.”

  “Uh, thanks—I think.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it. It’s like with Earl Forrester—I knew what he was looking for, so I knew how to deal with him.”

  “And what exactly did Forrester want?”

  Melissa gave him a look of incredulity. “You still haven’t caught on? He wants to tell people the great William Whitehall is a proud patron of Kolmo’s artists. With your endorsement, they stand to sell a lot more, because everyone wants to be like you, and that means more tax income for him.”

  William shook his head. “It’s so convoluted, so much to keep track of.”

  “It’s simple enough when you look at it one person at a time. Does that look like a gopher to you?”

  William inspected the sign over the door. “I’ve never seen a gopher up close. And I couldn’t swear that’s a goose, either.”

  “They need to hire better sign painters,” she said. “I could do a better job with my left hand—and possibly my left foot. Okay, let’s go in. But let me do the talking this time. At least to begin with.”

  Oz ran up to intervene. “Uh, sir? Should I announce you? I’m still not sure when I should.”

  “Not this time,” said William. “If there’s any rebels in here, I don’t want them knowing it’s me.”

  Melissa laughed. “Because the green dragon doesn’t give it away? You’re right though—we don’t want to be too obvious.”

  Eyes fell on them the moment they opened the door. The light was just as dim as the Toad and Tortoise, but the patrons were fewer and quieter. Most sat in shadowed corners, alone or in pairs, and did little talking above hushed whispers. The bartender said nothing, but remained behind his bar, staring at them as he polished a mug.

  “Friendly place,” whispered Melissa.

  “Do you still want to do the talking?” he whispered back.

  “Maybe not,” she answered.

  He nodded and approached the bartender. “Are you Baldwyn?” he asked the man.

  The man scowled at him. “What’s it to you?”

  “My name is Will—”

  “I know who you are,” the man shot back. “I asked what’s it to you?”

  William breathed deeply to calm himself. “I’m looking for some help. A friend told me to speak to you.”

  The man looked at him doubtfully. “What sort of help?”

  William glanced at Melissa for a second, then turned back to the bartender. “I’m looking to import some goods, and I’m told you know people who do that sort of work.”

  “We’re adults here,” growled the man. “We call it smuggling, and we don’t beat around the bush. Yes, I’m Baldwyn, but you’ll have to wait. It’s a busy day for people looking for smugglers. Come back tomorrow.” Baldwyn sneered at William and turned his back.

  “That was a bust,” said William as he returned to Melissa and Oz.

  “Will, who’s that in the corner over there?” asked Melissa. “No, don’t turn around yet. The bartender glanced over there twice while you were talking to him.”

  “He did? I never noticed.”

  Melissa nodded. “Whoever he is, I think he’s staring at us. Pretend you’re looking around the room, but stop at that corner.”

  William did as instructed, sweeping his gaze around the room until he reached the corner. Sure enough, a cloaked figure sat in the shadow, only a nose showing in the dim light.

  Not j
ust any nose. His hand went to his sword and drew it out as he strode toward the man. “Oz, cover the door,” he yelled. “Clyde, follow me.”

  The man in the corner jumped to his feet, the cloak falling from his head, exposing the unmistakable face.

  “Sit down, Bird,” yelled William. “You and I are going to have a chat.”

  Bird didn’t answer. He feinted left as William approached, then jumped over one table and careened into another, sprawling to the floor. William dove for him, the cloak slipping between his fingers as Bird jumped and sprinted for the door. William leapt to his feet just as Bird reached the door, where Oz stood blocking it. Bird’s fist flashed out, and Melissa screamed as Oz staggered backward into the street, out of William’s sight. William ran through the door to follow Bird, narrowly avoiding Oz, barely catching a glimpse of the rebel’s cloak as he bolted into a narrow lane. By the time William reached the corner, Bird had vanished.

  Cursing under his breath, he returned to the doorway to find Oz kneeling, his back toward him. Melissa stood at his side, her face contorted in fear. “Don’t worry,” he told Melissa. “He’ll be fine. A punch like that shouldn’t do more than wind him. Come on, Oz. Let’s get you to your feet.” He walked around to face him, then froze.

  Oz was clutching his chest, blood oozing between his fingers in pulses and flowing down his shirt.

  William hesitated only a second. His first thought was to not add to Oz’s fear by showing his own, so he calmed himself as much as possible. “Melissa—help me lie him down,” he said quietly. She took his cue, erasing the worry from her own face as they each took a shoulder and gently coaxed Oz onto his back. William reached into his jacket and slid out his handkerchief and pressed it against the wound to staunch the flow of blood.

  “Shouldn’t we elevate the wound?” Melissa whispered. “I think I read that somewhere.”

  “No, we need to apply pressure and stop the bleeding,” he whispered back. “At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what we need to do.”

  “What we need is Maya,” said Melissa, her voice quavering. She removed her cloak and rolled it into a pillow, slipping it gently under Oz’s head.

  William looked around. “Where’s Clyde?”

  “He flew away when you went chasing that man.”

  William swore to himself. What a time for Clyde to wander away. And he couldn’t go looking for him either—not with Oz bleeding so badly. “You’ll be okay, Oz,” he said, turning his attention back to the wounded butler.

  Oz stared back at him, his face pallid and eyes filled with fear. “I’m sorry I let him get away, sir,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. Small pink bubbles formed at the corners of his lips.

  “Shh. Don’t talk right now,” said William. “I’m going to press on the wound a little harder to stop the bleeding. This might hurt, okay?” Oz nodded, then groaned as William applied the pressure, but the blood continued to pulse through the handkerchief. “I need another handkerchief—anything,” he said to Melissa. She frantically searched her pockets, finding nothing.

  Without warning, Oz’s hand clamped onto William’s. “Will,” said Oz. “Are we friends?” His voiced rasped through the foam that filled his throat.

  William looked at Oz, startled. “Of course we are. Why are you—”

  Oz’s hand gripped tighter. “We weren’t always, though. Were we?”

  “Not always, no,” said William after a moment’s hesitation.

  “I did some pretty rotten things to you.”

  “Don’t worry about that right now, Oz. We need to get you patched up. Maya must be around here somewhere.” He craned his neck and scanned the street, looking across the river as well, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

  Oz squeezed his hand again, even tighter than before. “Am I a good person, Will?”

  “Yes, of course you are,” he said. He had to find a way to occupy Oz, to keep his mind from the path it was on. But what?

  “Are you sure?” Oz’s eyes pleaded with him, his hand wrapped around William’s, the blood still oozing in a faint but steady beat.

  William held his gaze for a long moment. If Oz didn’t relax, he wouldn’t survive long enough for Maya to treat him. He had to reassure him. “Yes—you are,” he said solemnly. “The Oz that I know today is a good man.”

  “Thank you, Will.” Oz shuddered and lowered his head. “Thank you for helping me become a better man. Please…tell people I did something good for once. They’ll believe you.” He coughed twice, blood spraying from his lips, then fell silent. William glanced down at the wound, and their hands interwoven on top of it. The pulsing had ceased.

  Chapter 29

  William squeezed the limp hand in denial, as though he might coax it back to life. He glanced hopefully at the fingers lying within his own, waiting for the least twitch to prove that Oz wasn’t really gone.

  No response. As the truth sunk in, pressure built inside him. This was his fault. He wanted to do something—anything—but the enormity of what had just happened froze him in place, like an angry bull held back by a heavy gate.

  Beside him, Melissa sniffed away her tears and caressed William’s shoulder for support. He didn’t look up, not even when running footsteps approached, not even when Maya and others cried aloud in shock at the sight. Not even when Clyde craned his neck forward to nuzzle William’s cheek.

  “What happened?” asked Jack.

  “It was Bird,” said William, forcing the words through his constricted throat. “He was waiting in this tavern, doing the same thing we were—looking for a smuggler. I recognized him, and he ran. I—I told Oz to block the door. I didn’t expect…”

  Melissa shook her head as she stroked his hair. “It’s not your fault, Will.”

  He whirled around to face her. “It’s not?” he asked, his voice sharp and desperate. “I told him to block the door. I ordered him into harm’s way. I couldn’t stop the blood flow. How much more responsible could I be?”

  “You weren’t holding the knife,” said Rachel.

  “I should have done more to close the wound,” he answered. “I should have remembered what Maya taught me. I should have done something besides watch him die!” He hung his head, shutting his eyes to the reality that was too much to bear.

  Maya squeezed past the others, kneeled beside him, and pulled his hand away from the wound. “Will, look how deep the wound is; I’m sure his lung was pierced. Nothing could have stopped him from bleeding out, not even my mother, and she’s the best surgeon on Esper. Melissa’s right—this isn’t your fault.”

  With ragged breaths, he forced himself to look at Oz again, to look at the wound through Maya’s eyes, desperate to share her certainty. “Why does it feel like it is?”

  The tavern door creaked open. Baldwyn clucked his tongue at the sight of Oz lying on the street. “You’d best be cleaning this mess,” he said as he shook his head. “The last thing I need is blood on my doorstep. It scares business away.”

  William stared at the man in disbelief, unable to process the tavern keeper’s callousness. Before he realized it, he was on his feet. The brick wall shuddered as William slammed Baldwyn against it. “Worry about the blood on your hands,” he said, his face mere inches from the bartender’s and his hand against his throat.

  “What’s this got to do with me?” asked the bartender, his voice choked with fear, his earlier insolence melting away in the face of William’s anger.

  Jack grabbed William’s shoulder and tried without success to pull him away. “Let him go, Will. He didn’t do anything. It’s not his fault either.”

  “Yes, it is,” said William, his voice shaking with rage. “It’s his tavern. He invited criminals into it, he should share the blame for the crimes they commit.”

  “And he will,” said Melissa, touching his other shoulder, but not attempting to force him off the barkeeper. “But not this way. You’re better than this.”

  William kept his hand at Baldwyn’s throat, imagining the man’
s life draining from him the way Oz’s had, but his muscles refused to cooperate. Dots swirled in front of him, and William tried to blink them away, without success. He fell back, crumpling to the cobbled street next to Oz’s body as Charlie grabbed the barkeeper. Melissa wrapped her arms around him, and he found her hand and squeezed it, clinging to it as Oz had clung to his.

  Rachel turned to Baldwyn with a humorless chuckle. “You have no idea how lucky you are. I didn’t want him to kill you, but I wouldn’t have denied him the right. None of us would. But you’re not out of trouble yet.”

  “But I haven’t done anything wrong!” whimpered the barkeeper.

  “Play it that way if you want,” answered Rachel. “But we’re dragging you to the Guard house to face charges of abetting murder. The duke will decide how long you stay in prison.”

  “But I didn’t help him at all! I don’t even know who he is.”

  “Then you’d better help us,” she said. “So there’s no confusion when it comes time to sentence you.”

  Baldwyn gave her a wary look. “Help you how?”

  “By telling us who was meeting him, and how we can find them.”

  The barkeeper’s eyes widened in fear. “I can’t do that—they’ll kill me faster than he would have!” His eyes flicked toward William as he said it.

  Rachel nodded in agreement. “I understand. Better to live in prison than die in freedom. Though they could send someone to kill you in jail, I suppose…”

  “They could?”

  “Without a doubt,” she answered. “What does a smuggler do better than getting in and out of places unnoticed?”

  “I never said he was looking for smugglers.”

  “The entire city knows you deal with smugglers,” said Rachel. “That’s why you’re in so much trouble now. But if you don’t want my help…Charlie, let’s take him to the Guard house.”

  “Wait!” yelled Baldwyn as the blood drained from his face. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. What should I do?”

  Rachel turned back to him, her face set in stone. “You can start by telling us who he was going to meet.”