“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 go
lden 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.
“So, my boys,” Jova continued, removing his wire-rim glasses and brushing back his black hair. “Shall we get down to business?”
A flutter of pain nipped at Rogan’s side and he remembered his little dance with the knife in the alley.
“You have a bandage or something?” Rogan asked, lifting his tee shirt to reveal a shallow but bloody slice.
Jove chuckled and reached into his desk drawer to retrieve a small black medical kit.
“You boys do love to find trouble, don’t you? I can have one of my girls stitch that up for you.”
“Meh, it’s not so bad. Looks a lot worse than it is. Just stings like a son of a bitch.”
Jova laughed again and handed the kit over. Rogan proceeded to clean and dress the wound with antiseptic and gauze.
“All right,” Jova went on once Rogan was patched up. “Shall we continue?”
“Please,” Rogan said. Jova retrieved a key from his desk and walked over to a large safe in the corner of his office. He unlocked it and reached in to retrieve a securely wrapped package. He brought it back to the desk and handed it to Rogan. The precious contraband felt like bricks in his hands.
“Go on. Examine it for yourself.”
Rogan gently unwrapped the package and lifted out a set of documents with as much care as if it were an explosive.
“This is good. This is very, very good. Cable will be pleased.”
“He always is,” Jova said.
“And the rest?” Rogan asked, rewrapping the package.
Jova grinned, flashing a sprinkling of gold teeth.
“Yes, the fun part. It is in the back and ready for delivery.”
“All of it?” Ben questioned.
Jova pouted as if to say, you would question me? I’m so hurt!
“But of course, my friends. I play fair, you know that. It’s ready for your inspection and we can deliver it tomorrow morning first thing—before the break of dawn if you’d like.”
“Yes, that will work,” Rogan said. “Bring it to the cannery. Let no one see you.”
Jova smirked.
“Good thing for me you are so wise in the ways of the black market.”
“Well, let’s take a look,” Ben said.
Jova led them into the back storeroom and switched on the lights, revealing a vast, frigid garage filled with crates and barrels of all kinds. He led them to a stack labeled “ROPE.” Jova unlocked the top latch and opened it, revealing piles of basic utility rifles. Rogan sucked in his breath at the sight. He knew what he had been sent to pick up, but he couldn’t untie the knots in his gut at the thought of the blood that was sure to follow. Not to mention the vigorous training that was going to be needed if he ever expected anyone to be halfway useful with them.
“They aren’t the prettiest, to be certain, but you’ll not find more reliable or more solid machines. Completely untraceable. Not a single tracking number,” Jova boasted. “I’ve been selling these to the firms for years.”
“Of course you have,” Rogan muttered.
Jova narrowed one pale blue eye.
“Wipe that judgment off your mug boy,” Jova said. “I’ll earn my living however I see fit. I don’t judge your sorry lost cause; I just get you what you need for the right price.”
Rogan raised his hands in a signal of truce.
“You’re right. You do what you do and we’ll do the same.” He put the lid back on the crate.
“So. Tomorrow before dawn. You’ll have these to the cannery? Discreetly?”
“You have my word on it. Just some daily fishing supplies being delivered. My men know how to handle it.”
Rogan nodded approvingly. Jova examined them for an uncomfortable moment—he wasn’t a man you wanted examining you.
“I like you both,” Jova finally said. “You have the right spirit without the crippling arrogance that will bring so many of your comrades down before this war is over. Are you sure you would not rather come work for Jova? I can almost promise I pay better.” He grinned widely, then ran a pointed tongue along his gold front tooth.
“I think we’ll pass, but thanks,” Rogan laughed.
“Ah well, your loss. Well then, let’s have a drink before you’re off,” Jova placed a hand on each of their shoulders. Ben and Rogan looked each other warily, but Jova just grinned. “Come on now. We’re business partners. Can’t we share a drink now and again? I’ll keep the dogs off.”
“A drink would be good,” Rogan agreed.
They returned to Jova’s office where the cat had taken up residence on the chair Ben had previously occupied.
“Octavia, get on now,” Jova said to the feline. The cat didn’t budge so Jova scooped her up in his arms affectionately and carried it like a baby to his desk chair, kissing its furry head and scratching her neck.
“Found this little devil in my bag coming back from Rhodan. Little thing was just a kitten, mewing up a storm.”
“She’s precious,” Ben sneered, eyeing the cat suspiciously. Ben found cats untrustworthy. Sensing his reluctance, Octavia hissed and Ben scowled.
Jova set down the cat and poured three snifters of brandy, handing one to each of them.
“This comes all the way from Kittal, you know. Aged thirty years. I bet the fat king himself can’t get his hands on such good stuff. Now, a toast to a promising future, my boys!” Jova raised his glass. They clinked and sipped.
“I do not usually get too concerned about the nature of my clients’ business,” Jova sighed. “I am just here to deliver the undeliverable. But given the nature of your errand, I must ask you something.” His jovial mood turned suddenly serious.
“Go ahead,” Rogan replied.
“What do you suppose is going to happen to us all? Once this war begins?”
“Well, I suppose your business is going to skyrocket,” Ben answered half seriously.
Jova nodded pensively.
“That is true. The moral quandary of my profession.” He sipped at his brandy. “May I tell you a little tale, my heroes of war? I was born and raised here in the heart of Arelanda City. But my mother was not. She was part of a Romi clan that had broken away from the traditional nomads.” His eyes filled wit
h nostalgia. Rogan always figured he had something exotic in his blood. It would also explain his soft spot for Romi employees.
“She met my father when he was a soldier stationed in a little village in the northeast. He was no one high ranking, just a footman. Once the Northern War was over and he’d served his tour, they left that little village in search of bigger things for themselves. Ended up here in Arelanda, on the west side where they thought they’d raise their little brood of half-Romis. Mother was skilled with traditional eastern healing. Not like these western doctors who just cut you open and fill you full of pills. She knew about plants and different things. Had a connection to the spirit world of her ancestors. She could feel your energy and predict your fortune, if you believe in those sorts of things. Regardless, she was a good woman. Kind and thoughtful. Anyway, the fighting began to break out in the streets. The First Rebellion, they call it. Rangers began raiding daily. Dragging people in for questioning. Beating people down.
“Mother was in her little tent on the edge of the docks when a wounded man stumbled into the tent from off the street. He had been beaten nearly to death—his leg was gashed wide open. He would have died without assistance. Mother took him into her care and tended his wounds. He offered her a few pounds, but she wouldn’t take it. Healing was just what she did. Within a few days, he was able to move about again and he bid us goodbye. But no good deed goes unpunished, you see. The man was part of this uprising; he was wanted by the Royal Rangers for treason. She had unknowingly aided and abetted him. Of course, nearly everyone on the west side was wanted for treason, but no matter. When they came to arrest her, her Romi spirit would not let her be taken into chains. She fought them—fought very hard. But it was in vain. A ranger’s bullet took her, right in front of my sister and her young baby boy. They let my sister go, but not until after they raped her as her baby cried,” Jova paused and swigged his brandy.
“That is a terrible tragedy, my friend,” Rogan offered, nausea tickling his belly.
Rebel Song Page 10
