City of Rogues: Book I of the Kobalos Trilogy

by Ty Johnston

  Markwood also rose from the floor. “I will contact you in a day or two with whatever I discover.”

  “Thank you again, Maslin.” Randall thrust out a hand.

  The wizard pulled the younger man to him and hugged his shoulders. “Don’t get yourself into trouble, you hear me?”

  Randall hugged the man in return. “It’s not like I’m rushing off to war, or returning to Kobalos,” he said with a lopsided grin.

  “I suppose it isn’t,” Markwood said, easing the younger man back to look at him, “but you’ve been safe here for three years. I would like to see it stay that way.”

  “I will be on my guard.” Randall turned to leave.

  As the young healer exited, the wizard’s eyes upon him were full of concern.

  Chapter Eight

  A river at his back, Kron Darkbow knelt on the ledge of a warehouse rooftop as he stared at the city stretching below. For blocks were hundreds of smaller buildings, some with glowing windows and others remaining dark.

  The night’s wind stirred, bouncing the edges of his cloak in the air. The minor tumult brought him to his senses once more. After dealing with Trelvigor he had been running on instinct, but it was time to act on the plan he had put together since discovering Belgad the Liar and not the burned wizard had been responsible for the deaths of those he would avenge. Kron did not know why Belgad had had Marcus and Aurelia Tallerus put to death, but words from the wizard Trelvigor had been enough to convince him Belgad was his primary target.

  Dealing with Stilp and his three guards had been a simple matter of watching Belgad’s fortress in the Swamps. He had noticed Stilp leaving with the others, and all he had had to do was follow by rooftop. He only hoped the Docks guild had not suffered for his actions.

  Seeing no one on the streets below, Kron eased a small grappling hook from a pocket of his cloak and latched it to the edge of the roof. Connected to the hook was a spool of dark silk which Kron promptly tossed over the edge. He was quickly over the side and sliding down the cord as fast as his arms and legs would allow.

  As soon as his boots touched cobbled stones, Kron jerked the rope and watched the grapnel twitch, jump off the ledge and fall into his waiting gloved hand.

  He eased into a shadow provided by the warehouse and glanced around.

  There was still no one on the streets.

  Kron slid from the blackness and trotted to his left toward another warehouse and the darkness it provided. He wound the silk cord into a tight ball and returned it and the hook to a hidden pocket.

  It had taken a good bit of coin for Kron to study Belgad the Liar. The man had his hands in everything legal and illegal within Bond, but he had little real property other than his mansion fortress and whatever gold and silver he kept locked away. The only exception Kron had discovered were three sailing vessels tied up at the Point, the eastern most portion of the Docks where the North and South rivers ran into one another to form the Ursian River. From drunken sailors in several taverns, Kron had learned Belgad rarely used these ships but wanted them for personal reasons. Apparently those personal reasons involved smuggling.

  Darkbow drifted into another shadow and paused, again keeping his eyes on the street. His fingers walked over his body to assure him his weapons and tools were in place. The bastard sword was slung on his back, as was his bow and a soft leather quiver filled with arrows. A dagger was stuffed into the front of his belt and another sheathed deep within his right boot. Three small throwing darts hid in the back of his left glove and another three in a leather pouch at his waist. Attached to the back of his belt was a small satchel holding various tools he had found useful. Hidden among pockets of his cloak were the grappling hook with rope and his favorite weapons, three flame-spewing grenados of hard clay.

  Everything was in place.

  Kron eased out of the shadow and stared further east to a point between a pair of smaller warehouses. He could make out a wooden quay with three small sailing vessels tied to it. There were no torches lit, but the moon showed some movement on the dock. Belgad wouldn’t leave his only ships unguarded.

  The man in black trotted across an open area to one of the smaller warehouses near the ships. The moon splayed its light across his side of the warehouse, giving him little room to hide, but he flattened against the building as best he could and hoped his dark garb would blend in well enough with the graying wood of the building.

  He paused to listen but heard no cries of alarm or marching feet. Sensing no threat, he stole across the front of the warehouse to a corner and spied around the edge.

  His brief glimpse told him there were three guards chatting among stacked barrels on the dock. None appeared armored but one wore a heavy sword on his hip while the other two had iron clubs stuffed into their belts. There was no sign of anyone aboard the ships, but that wasn’t anything Kron would count on.

  He strained his ears again, hoping to hear what the three men were saying, but the slight breeze was blowing the wrong direction.

  Kron worked to control his breathing. Excitement and tension had been known to kill more than one man. He had not had as much time as he would have liked to form a proper plan to destroy Belgad, and now he was faced with going ahead or backing off.

  Kron Darkbow was many things, but patient was not one of them.

  He slid his bow and two arrows from their places on his back. One hand gripping the bow and an arrow, he laid the other bolt against the bowstring.

  He took a step around the corner of the warehouse and let the arrow fly.

  A voice went up. “Archer!”

  The arrow thunked into a guard’s chest, dropping him.

  The other two dove behind barrels.

  Kron put his second arrow to his bowstring and sauntered forward. The two foes he had left appeared to have no weapons of distance. He did not need to hide from them. And if there were others aboard the ships, they would make themselves known soon enough.

  Sure enough, soon there were the thumpings of running feet from a vessel. A man appeared at the top of a gangplank.

  An arrow took his life.

  Kron took another arrow from his quiver and placed it against the bow.

  The two men behind barrels were talking again, but Kron could not make out what was being said.

  Suddenly, one of them took off at a sprint for the gangplank.

  Kron turned his aim toward the man.

  From behind the barrels, the other guard sprang up, a large crossbow in his hands pointed at Kron.

  The man in black had no place to hide.

  Kron’s mind turned to foreign men he had known, men who had brought the philosophy and fighting styles of their faraway homelands to Kron, who had studied under them and learned much. It was to one of those lessons he turned now.

  His eyes closed and his mind tuned out all his senses except hearing.

  There was a twanging and suddenly something was rushing at him. It whistled as it sliced through the wind.

  Kron lashed out with a hand.

  When he opened his eyes he saw he was gripping a short arrow.

  “That's impossible.” The guard with the crossbow stood nearly dumbstruck.

  The other guard whimpered as he lay on the ground trying to yank Kron’s arrow from the back of his left calf.

  The man in black dropped the crossbow bolt and slid another arrow from his quiver.

  The crossbowman tugged on his weapon, but its pull was too strong to reset an arrow quickly.

  Kron walked forward slowly, aiming at the man.

  “Run or die.”

  The guard stared at his dark foe. His hands stopped fussing with the crossbow.

  “I give you my word no harm will come to you if you leave now.” Kron’s aim was straight and true. There was no way he could miss his target. “And take your friend. He needs healing.”

  The guard glanced back at his hurt companion.

  “I’ll give you until the count of three, then I’m killing you both.”
Kron raised his arrow so it pointed at the standing man’s head.

  Both guards’ eyes locked on the man in black.

  “One.”

  The crossbowman dropped his weapon and ran for his wounded companion.

  “Two.”

  The man with the bad leg was tugged to his feet.

  “Three.”

  Both men shuffled away from the dock, the injured one nearly dragged by his fellow.

  Kron lowered his bow and watched until they disappeared down an alley across the street.

  Once he was sure they were gone, Kron took his time examining the dock and the ships from a distance. It was unlikely there would be anyone left on board after the tumult that had just taken place, but he did not want any surprises.

  The only persons he saw were the two men he had killed.

  He put away his bow and arrow and made his way to the ships. He paused at one of the barrels to flip its top open to reveal its contents.

  It was oil, barrels and barrels of oil.

  The grin on Kron’s face would have done a demon proud.

  Chapter Nine

  Black smoke clawed its way through a thin layer of river fog to grasp at the early morning sun. For miles the inhabitants of Bond could see the belching imprint in the sky that marked the ruin of Belgad’s ships.

  The bald man himself stood on the street of the Docks, staring up at the inky line of smoke rising above his small, ruined fleet. He faced the remains of his ships, husks of wooden hulls floating on the North River, with fists on hips and a crowd of riffraff at his back. A group of his personal guards kept the morning onlookers at bay while Belgad fumed.

  He could hear the chatter amongst the masses. Some were wondering who would be stupid enough to do such a thing. Others were wondering who was so powerful as to do such a thing. Still others kept their mouths closed because they knew better than to draw out the rage that was building in the breast of the large man before them.

  The cloppings of an approaching horse caused Belgad to turn.

  Sergeant Gris dismounted at the edge of the masses, handing the reins of his steed to one of Belgad’s men.

  “I heard as soon as I started my shift,” the sergeant said as he walked forward.

  Belgad glared at the other fellow. “Out of your jurisdiction, isn’t it?”

  Gris ignored the question. “Captain Chambers will speak with you later, but I wanted a word before his interview.”

  Belgad was silent as he turned back to watch the remnants of his ships bouncing in the river’s flow.

  “That fire at Trelvigor’s a week ago,” Gris said, counting off on gloved fingers, “then I hear some of your men were killed several nights ago, and now this. I’ll be blunt. What is happening?”

  Belgad’s brow creased, framing his eyes in anger. He owed nothing to the sergeant, even as good a man as Gris was. Belgad was technically a knight, thus he had to answer only to the Western church. Besides, it was not in Belgad’s nature to confide in those outside his inner circle.

  He grunted. “Nothing with which I can not deal.”

  “That’s fine for you,” Gris said, “but word is spreading there is a street war brewing. If that’s the case, the guard doesn’t need it spilling over to innocent citizens.”

  Belgad glared at the man again. “There are no innocent citizens.”

  It took every ounce of inner strength Gris had not to step back from those brooding eyes and the menacing voice.

  “There is no street war.” Belgad turned his gaze back to his burnt prizes. “There is only some fool with a thirst for vengeance.”

  “Do you know who it is?”

  “I have no idea,” Belgad lied, “but my own people are asking questions. Once they discover this devil, I will deal with him.”

  “Lord Belgad, let me be of aid.” Gris tried a different approach. “My men could be of much service to you, and I know a man who is a fine tracker. ”

  Belgad’s dark eyes were flat and steady on the blackened remains of his ships. “I have no need of your services, sergeant, and as a Knight of the Western Church, I can call upon my own authority in dealing with this matter.

  “You may go now.”

  Sergeant Gris knew he would get no further with the big man. Belgad did not act much like a knight, but a knight he was, and he had his own authority under the law of the land.

  Gris nodded and backed away. “I’ll make Captain Chambers aware of the situation,” he said as he retraced his steps to his horse.

  Belgad said nothing and did not bother to watch the sergeant climb into the saddle.

  Soon after Gris rode off, the crowd began to thin. Many of the gawkers had to be to work or to breakfast. It didn’t pay, watching a rich man’s fortunes go up in smoke.

  “Master Belgad.” The voice came from the crowd.

  Belgad wouldn’t have moved if he had not recognized the speaker. He turned as Lalo the Finder eased between two armed guards and approached his employer.

  “Fine of you to join me.” Belgad waved a hand toward the remains of his ships. “You see what a fine gift master Darkbow has left?”

  The Finder frowned at the vision before him. “Are you sure it was him, lord?”

  Belgad nodded. “I questioned Gossimer and Fortrude. They described him the same as Stilp.”

  “Did this Darkbow speak with them?”

  “A little, but his purpose is apparent. He wishes to ruin me.”

  “And perhaps more than that.”

  Belgad turned to stare at his man. “What do you mean?”

  “This Darkbow has no qualms about killing. And he’s rather bent upon revenge against you. It seems likely to me he will eventually make an attempt on your life.”

  Belgad’s eyes remained brooding. So what if his enemy wanted him dead? Plenty of men had wanted Belgad dead. He did not fear death, as was the custom among the men of his Dartague homeland, but that did not mean he would greet finality with open arms.

  Belgad turned back to glare at his dead ships. “Cancel my meeting this afternoon with the economics forum.”

  “What of Fortisquo?”

  “I still want to meet with him. Fetch him yourself if you have to, but I want him in my hall before the day is done.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  ***

  Adara Corvus wasn’t sure what woke her. Perhaps it was the light steps of Fortisquo as he tip-toed away from the bed. Perhaps it was the jangling of his belts as he slipped into a pair of pants. Perhaps it was the soft metallic click of the bedroom door as he opened it and stepped through. Or perhaps it was simply that Adara no longer felt his warmth next to her in the bed.

  No matter. The tall, slender form of the man with the goatee was gone, like many men in Adara’s life.

  She opened her eyes and stretched, running a hand through the place Fortisquo had been sleeping only minutes before. Her eyes roamed the room and came to rest on the chair next to the bed. Two long, thin swords with stylish pommels leaned against the chair, while a pair of black boots sat crumpled in the seat.

  Adara’s eyes darted to the bedroom door as she realized Fortisquo was not, in fact, leaving her. The man wouldn’t have gone anywhere except the privy without his weapon.

  The door stood open an inch and Adara could hear soft voices beyond.

  The curiosity was too much for her.

  Gathering silky sheets around her slender body, Adara slunk from the bed, each toe of her feet settling gently on the thick rug beneath the bed. She was halfway to the door when she heard Fortisquo speaking with someone who expressed a feminine voice.

  Jealousy did not build itself in Adara. She felt no man was worth the effort. But she did grow intrigued.

  Stepping to the open door, Adara stared into the apartment’s entertaining room, which bore padded furniture and more expensive rugs on the floor.

  “Where is he now?” Fortisquo reclined on a couch while lifting a glass of red wine to his lips.

  To Ada
ra’s surprise the person who sat in a chair across from Fortisquo turned out not to be a woman, but a man nearly as slender and tall as Fortisquo himself. His body was at an angle so Adara could not see his face, but still she could make out the man’s expensive blue robes and the traveling cloak that covered his shoulders. She could also see the stranger’s casual movements. Adara knew a man trained in the arts of diplomacy when she saw one.

  “He is still at the Docks,” the newcomer said, motioning toward a window. “He is waiting to hear word you will meet with him this afternoon.”

  Fortisquo set his glass on a table next to the couch. “I see no reason to meet with Lord Belgad.”

  The robed man leaned forward as if to add gravity to his entreaty by closing the space with Adara’s lover. “He means you no disrespect and no harm.”

  “In the past—”

  “The past is of little concern,” the man interrupted. “Lord Belgad is only concerned with the present.”

  Fortisquo's eyes sharpened. Adara recognized the look. It was the same stare Fortisquo gave an opponent at the start of a duel.

  The stranger eased back in his seat. “Will you meet with him?”

  Fortisquo shook his head. “No.”

  “Lord Belgad does not enjoy disappointments.”

  The slender fencing artist held his ground, saying nothing.

  “Very well, then.” The robed man stood, his cloak and robes swaying about his feet. “I will inform Lord Belgad of your refusal. Let his reaction be upon your head.”

  “Tell Lord Belgad I have already played my part in his play.” Fortisquo’s voice was cold.

  The robed man opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. He stopped himself from saying more and exited the room.

  Once he was alone again, Fortisquo drained the glass of its wine.

  Adara silently turned to go back to the bed.

  “How long have you been there?” It was Fortisquo’s voice from the entertaining room.

  Adara thought to play quiet but realized that would not do. Fortisquo was an excellent fencer with superb senses. He was trained to notice small details and to take advantage of them. He would know if she were there or not, now that she had been detected.