City of Rogues: Book I of the Kobalos Trilogy Page 9

“No more.” Lucius stepped into the lunatic’s reach.

  The killer’s eyes grew broad. He gripped the knife and slashed, but Lucius sucked in his stomach to avoid the cut.

  The killer screamed and lifted the knife over his head.

  Lucius planted a fist in the man’s face, knocking him back against his bunk where he dropped his weapon.

  Lucius scooped up the blade. He stared into the killer’s eyes and saw no remorse, no feelings at all.

  The knife sank deep into the man’s stomach.

  As the murderer crumbled to his knees and his blood flowed onto the floor, gurgling noises and bubbles of red escaped from between his lips.

  Lucius twisted the knife and jerked it free of the body.

  The killer dropped to the stone, cold floor. His eyes blinked and his fingers twitched, then he died.

  Lucius sat on the edge of the bunk and stared at the dead guard’s face.

  Three other Asylum guards burst into the cell.

  ***

  Lucius sat on a bench in front of an apothecary shop. His hands in his lap squeezed the dark floppy hat he wore for his job at the Asylum.

  Across the street, Lucius could spy the Frog’s Bottom. The wooden structure was a three-story house that had probably belonged to one of the wealthier inhabitants of Bond a hundred or more years earlier before the Swamps had become a refuge for the poor. Occasionally someone, almost always a man, would come or go from the place, marching hurriedly up its front steps or stumbling drunkenly down the same stairs. In the half hour Lucius had sat on the bench, he had counted thirteen men entering and seven men leaving. Twice he had seen some of the women who worked at the Bottom, one looking out a window from the second story and another helping one of her more sloven customers out the front door.

  So far there had been no sign of Wyck. Lucius had not seen the boy in several days and thought it time to hunt him down. Lucius wanted the boy’s company. Wyck cheered him, reminding him of his young days on the streets of Bond when he too had lived alone with only his wits. Wyck’s life seemed similar to Lucius’s when the man had been that age. The main difference was Lucius had found sleeping quarters in his abandoned home after his parents had been killed. There had been no servants or family or friends who were available to take in the young Tallerus, so he had lived on his own, surviving on the streets until his uncle Kuthius had arrived from the east and taken him along on the return trip.

  “I wondered when you’d show.” The familiar voice came from behind.

  The Asylum guard craned his head around to see Wyck standing nearly at his heels, gripping a sweet roll with several bites missing.

  Lucius gave a weak grin. “Thought I’d find you here.”

  Wyck plopped down next to the man. “Only at night. By day I stay away. The madam wants to put me to work if I hang around too much.”

  Lucius watched the boy take a bite of his food, then pointed to the roll. “I’m sure you paid for that.”

  Wyck nodded as he swallowed. “Of course, though my purse is getting a bit light. I’m glad you showed up. I’ve got more to tell you.”

  “Such as?”

  “I heard there was a killing at the Asylum this morning.”

  “It was me.”

  “What?”

  “I killed an inmate.” Lucius lowered his head. “It was after he murdered a guard.”

  “Remind me not to make you angry.” Wyck finished the last of his breakfast as if the man’s admission had no effect upon him.

  “It’s against regulations.” Lucius looked up. “The other guards said I had no choice. But they didn’t see it happen. I didn’t have to kill that man.”

  “Then why’d you do it?”

  “He was too dangerous to live.”

  The youth plopped his fingers into his mouth and sucked off the remaining stickiness. Hearing Lucius’s tale of death was just another story to him, one he would pass along to another street urchin when the opportunity presented itself.

  “What other news have you?” Lucius asked.

  “The Eastern pope is still raising an army.” Wyck glanced at Lucius out of the corner of his eyes.

  “Old news, and not true. What else?”

  “Some of Belgad’s ships caught fire down at the Docks.”

  “You told me about Belgad last we spoke.” Lucius twisted the beret in his hands. “Is the man always in trouble, or do you enjoy talking about him?”

  “Don’t look at me,” Wyck said with a shrug. “You’re the one wanting to know the word on the street. I just let you know what I know. Also, Belgad’s planning a party.”

  “A party?”

  “Yeah, he’s announcing some new deal down at the Docks.”

  “When is this party?”

  “About a week.” Wyck shrugged again. “I don’t know the exact day. But there’s supposed to be a ton of people there. All the local gentry are invited, and the Ruling Council and Chief Councilor himself is expected to show up.”

  “You know a lot about politics for a kid off the streets,” Lucius said, opening the leather money purse tied to his belt.

  “Hey, I know who runs this town. That’s what you pay me for.”

  Lucius offered the boy two silver coins.

  Wyck frowned. “Only two this time?”

  “I’m running short. I’ll make it up to you. I get paid at the Asylum in a few days.”

  Wyck took the coins and stuffed them inside his tattered shirt.

  Lucius twisted in his seat to face the boy. “Would you like to attend Belgad’s party?”

  “How? They’re not going to let me in.”

  “Leave that to me.” The man smiled.

  Chapter Eleven

  One of Stilp’s duties as a client was to make a monthly remittance to Lord Belgad in the form of twenty gold. Some months Stilp was short, but as long as he was close to the twenty gold little was said, at least as long as he could make up the loss in a week or two. In the rare month Stilp was far short of the twenty gold, he took on additional tasks for Belgad, which was how he came to be a fixer, a lobbyist who dealt with lesser government officials and the various workers’ guilds.

  To raise the twenty gold he needed, Stilp had a string of businesses throughout the city that supplied him a monthly stipend of varying amounts depending on the type of business and how profitable things had been of late. In return for the monthly payments, these businesses received insurance. When they paid, their employees and customers went unaccosted and their buildings and goods went untouched; when they didn’t pay, employees would receive a thumping during a late shift, customers would be threatened, goods were damaged or stolen and warehouses were broken into or set ablaze. The culprits behind these acts always remained a mystery. Stilp swore he had no part in the deeds, and that the monthly payment would allow Stilp, through Lord Belgad’s resources, to protect the businesses. The city guard rarely intervened, mostly because they were more a military presence within Bond than a policing force.

  As Stilp cruised down an alley in the middle of the night, his money belt beneath his tunic weighted down with ten silver and four gold, he had few worries. He had feared he would not be able to make his rounds because of his limp, but it had been nearly a week since he had been wounded and the healers at the Swamp’s tower had done a good job treating him.

  Despite his lack of worries, Stilp occasionally glanced at the rooftops while his short sword remained on his left hip. Until the incident with Darkbow, he had not worn a sword on his rounds, but now he felt safer having the weapon available. Overall, he felt fairly secure. Only bad luck would have Stilp fall into Darkbow’s hands again.

  A swishing noise from behind made Stilp look back.

  A nightmare of black dove at him from the night’s sky.

  Stilp took off at a run. He didn’t know what was after him, but he wasn’t going to let it catch him to find out.

  “Good evening, master Stilp.” The speech was hauntingly familiar.

  T
he dark form engulfed Stilp, grabbing him around the waist and lifting him off the ground.

  Stilp screamed, hollering for Ashal or any other god to save him.

  “Quiet,” the dark thing said as they swung through the air.

  They came to a stop on a roof and Stilp went stumbling, rolling to the edge of the building and almost going over before a black glove caught him by the collar.

  Stilp looked up to see a dark hood with grinning teeth beneath.

  It was Kron Darkbow. “We meet again.”

  Stilp shivered, speechless.

  Kron released the man and began to roll up the silk rope attached to his grappling hook.

  Stilp put his face in his hands. “I thought you were some night terror come to suck all the blood from my body.”

  “Who says I won’t.” Kron returned the hook and rope to their hiding spot in his cloak. He pointed at the sword on Stilp’s belt. “Why do you carry that thing if you’re not going to use it?”

  Stilp glanced down at the sword. “I figured you would kill me if I touched it.”

  “I might kill you anyway.”

  Stilp looked up at the black figure. “I know you don’t like me, but your fight is with Belgad. I’m nothing to you.”

  “But you are something to me. You can provide information.”

  Stilp saw a glimpse of hope in what he had thought was a bleak and short future. He wouldn’t knowingly betray Belgad, unless it was maybe at the point of that big sword Darkbow had on his back, but he had no qualms about providing a little information if it meant he wouldn’t have another arrow in his leg.

  The night’s wind twirled the black cloak around Kron’s stout figure as he stood tall. “I’ve already learned much just by watching you tonight.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been on you since you left that little hole you call a home in the Swamps It’s a nice racket you have going. I’ve counted six places you’ve stopped. You must have a goodly amount of coin on you.”

  Stilp winced. He didn’t like where this conversation was going.

  “In fact,” Kron said, nodding to the belt around the other man’s waist that had been revealed when Stilp’s tunic was yanked up during his tumble, “I am in need of coin at the moment.”

  Stilp pulled down his tunic to hide the belt once more. “Belgad will have me flayed.” His words were shaky.

  “Not likely. He knows your worth, and he knows you’ll find another way to pay your debt.”

  “Please, don’t take it all.” Stilp sounded like a mouse squeaking.

  Darkbow’s grin grew wider. “That’s what I like to hear.” He held out a hand.

  Stilp hesitated, noticed Darkbow’s grin was fading, and reached inside his tunic and pulled out several coins. He dropped them into Darkbow’s hand.

  Kron counted. “Four gold and six silver,” he said, pocketing the coins. “You have had a good night.”

  “You could make more if you worked for Belgad.”

  The punch seemed to come out of nowhere, out of the very night itself. It landed across Stilp’s face, sending him sprawling to the edge of the building once more. A gloved hand saved him again and shoved him down to the roof’s top.

  “Get this through your head,” Kron said, towering over his prey. “I will never work for your lord. I don’t enjoy taking your money, but my war is expensive.”

  Stilp wiped blood from beneath his nose. “You could have just told me. I think you’ve broken my nose.”

  Kron glanced at the man’s face. “It’s not broken, but it’ll be swollen a day or two. If I had wanted to break it, it would be broken. Count your luck I didn’t toss you over the edge.”

  Stilp looked over the side of the building. It was only two stories, not far to fall, but he didn’t look forward to broken bones. “Can I go now?”

  “Not yet,. I’ve heard Belgad is throwing a ball in a few days. Is this true?”

  Stilp nodded. “It’s a party for his new economic agenda at the Docks. After what you did, he’s planning to expand.”

  “More ships?”

  “More ships and more control of the Docks.”

  Kron pulled back a fist ready to hit the man again, then lowered his hand. There was no reason to hit Stilp for what he said. The little man was merely passing along information.

  “Tell Belgad he had better watch what he does to the Docks,” Kron said. “If he wants more river ships to go up in flames, I’m more than willing to do it for him.”

  “He won’t take kindly to hearing that.” Stilp wiped away more blood with a sleeve.

  Darkbow’s grin returned. “No, I suppose he won’t. Also tell him I won’t disappoint by not showing for his party.”

  For the first time that night, Stilp grinned. “That he’ll like to hear.”

  “I’m sure he will, but you can warn him I won’t walk through the front door and announce myself. Whatever happens that night, let it be on his head.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Good. Now goodbye.”

  The man in black disappeared over the edge of the roof.

  Stilp barely had time to see Darkbow land in a crouch, roll to his feet and trot off down the alley.

  “Don’t you worry,” Stilp said barely above a whisper, still nursing his busted nose. “I’ll tell him.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Lucius Tallerus rose earlier than usual the next morning. There was no work ahead for him in the day, so he pulled on the leather road clothes he had worn upon arriving in Bond and hung his large sword on his back.

  A handful of dried fruits served as breakfast in the main room of the Rusty Scabbard, and Lucius was on his way along the streets of the city within a half hour of the sun rising.

  He followed South Road nearly to the southernmost wall of the city and turned west along a dirt road for several blocks.

  Before him stood the barracks of the city guard, two stories tall and the longest structure in the city. Lucius figured it must be nearly a half-mile trot all the way around the building.

  He looked around for a public entrance, spotted what he thought was it and jogged up the stairs between several orange-garbed guards who were exiting. Once through the door, Lucius found himself in a long hallway lit by open windows. He was brought to a halt by a table to one side of the hall and two men in guards’ uniforms sitting behind it.

  The older of the two guards sat up straight and stared at Lucius. “Your name and business?”

  “Lucius Tallerus. I am here to see Sergeant Gris.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but I am a friend.”

  “Sure you are,” the guard said, pointing at a parchment, pen and ink bottle on the table in front of him. “Sign here.”

  Lucius put pen to parchment while the older guard ordered the younger to find the sergeant.

  After the one guard jogged his way down the hall, Lucius looked up from signing his name. “Should I wait outside?”

  “No need.” The older guard glanced at the parchment. “Gris is just starting his shift. He will be along in a minute.”

  The guard was proved correct when Lucius soon saw his friend marching straight for him.

  Gris smiled and offered hand. “I wondered when I’d see you again.”

  Lucius took the hand and shook. “Sorry I didn’t search you out again sooner, but the Asylum has been keeping me busy.”

  Gris opened the exit door and motioned for Lucius to follow him outside. “You coming by saves me a trip.”

  The two men were soon walking side by side down a dirt path away from the barracks.

  Kron rolled his shoulders as if to loosen stiff muscles. “Why did you need to see me?”

  “I heard what happened at the Asylum.”

  Lucius’s lips remained closed as he stared ahead.

  “How do you feel about it?” Gris paused in his tracks.

  Lucius stopped next to his friend. “The lunatic killed a man.
He got what he deserved. We faced worse in the Prisonlands.”

  Gris gave a dark grin. “That’s true, but it’s different in the Asylum. The place ... it rots the mind. It can do funny things to a man.”

  Lucius nodded in silence.

  The sergeant put a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “Why were you looking me up this morning?”

  “I had the time, for one thing. The chief guard at the Asylum gave me a couple of days leave.”

  “You’re not looking for another job already, are you?”

  “Not exactly, but I could use more coin. Living at the Scabbard has grown expensive. I need to find a proper place of my own, or find employment that allows me room and board.”

  “That would be the city guard.”

  “Or the military.”

  “You don’t want to sign up with the service.” Gris’s brows furrowed in concern. “The city guard might not be much, but at least we know the right end of a sword. The West’s army is a joke. You might as well join the militia. I’m sure your own weaponry is better than anything the army has to offer.”

  “What about a knight?”

  Gris laughed. “You? A knight?”

  “You misunderstand me.” Lucius added a chuckle of his own. “Could I not sign on as one of their attendants?”

  “They’re called squires,” Gris explained while they continued to walk, “and it’s doubtful they’d have you. You’re not a regular churchgoer, are you?”

  “No.”

  “That would cinch it. The church appoints them, so most knights only take the faithful.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any openings yet?”

  Gris shook his head. “Nothing permanent.”

  “I hear there’s going to be a social affair at Belgad’s.”

  Gris stopped walking and glared at Lucius. “How did you hear about that?”

  “Word gets around.”

  The sergeant frowned. “I want you to stay away from that man.”

  “Who? Belgad?”

  “Yes, Belgad. He’s a powerful man who can be trouble.”

  “Remember who you’re talking to. I can take care of myself.”

  “No, you listen to me.” Gris stepped nearer his friend and pointed a finger at him. “This is not the time to become involved with Belgad the Liar. There are rumors a street war’s brewing, and Belgad is in the middle of it.”