With a frown, he turned back to the bar where an old horse-ear sat hunched over a pint of ale, his glassy-eyed stare lost against the back wall. A terrifying understanding began to stir inside the barkeep, for beneath the drunkard’s gaze sat the same flicker he had seen in the rogue’s eye.
Coals of injustice still burned within the rahee’s hearts. Those old enough to remember what this city used to be were still angry and yearning for their former freedoms. They sat inside his bar like dry kindling waiting for a spark.
Why hadn’t he noticed it until now?
“What’d ye learn?” the patron Teeg had sent to Jaspur earlier asked as he returned to the counter.
The barkeep poured himself a shot of liquor and threw it back, letting its warmth burn his nerves into bitter resignation. “Business ain’t gettin’ any better.”
* * * * *
Rain beat hard against Velagray’s cobblestone streets, its torrent so thick no one noticed the tall figure under a dark brown cowl passing through the alleyways. Not that people would care. Anyone foolish enough to snoop around the lower quarter deserved whatever they found there.
Every city had its poor districts, but Velagray housed the worst of them. When the illusionist, Shadow Silverhorn, commandeered Jaycent Connor's throne, he mocked his reign by letting the kingdom’s capital crumble into poverty.
The city’s downward spiral started when King Shadow enacted the Mercy Law: a ruling that gave full pardon to any criminal who swore allegiance to him and joined the royal army. As a result, the once-reputable metropolis became a hub for illegal services and underground trade, gaining it the nickname City of Ill Favors. None walked these streets without keeping one hand on their weapons and a wary eye around every corner.
The rogue was well aware of the danger here, and yet it didn’t deter him. He had recently heard of a black market dealer named Rethro who had something he was looking for, and what Jaspur wanted, Jaspur obtained. The pale fur lining of his cowl sagged and dripped under the rain, but the rogue hardly noticed its weight. He had one focus, and it waited for him just beyond the alleyway.
Around the corner he found a set of stairs leading to the basement of a building that looked long out of commission. Jaspur tiptoed down a set of chipped steps, careful not to slip on the water flowing down them. His long legs skipped over a rusted drainage grate to land before a wooden door reinforced by metal brackets.
A quick glance over his shoulder assured him the streets were empty except for the steady fall of rain. Jaspur knocked on the door once, then thrice, just as his informant had instructed.
A small slit opened about eye level, and the rogue found himself staring at a mammoth of a man baring a scar over his left eye and nose. He grumbled as he studied Jaspur through the slot, his lips half-snarled as if he found the mere act of knocking on his door offensive.
“What do you want?”
“Is that how you greet all of your customers?” Jaspur’s tone lacked the hesitation the doorman meant to inspire.
The overgrown human growled. “My wares are available by invitation only, stranger.”
“Ah, yes. I am a stranger,” the rogue shed his hood, ignoring the cold rain that soaked his mahogany hair. “One that doesn’t accept ‘no’ for an answer.”
“I know from lookin’ at ye that yer a horse-ear, and that ain’t my kind of customer. Take yer business elsewhere.” He flicked the small window shut, hoping to end their conversation.
“You have something I want,” the rogue stated through the door. “I had every intention of buying the item, though if I must take it by force, I will.”
There was a long pause. Jaspur shifted his weight onto one leg and perched his arm casually against the leather-wrapped hilt poking from his scabbard. Eventually, a defeated sigh caught his ears. The rogue smiled as the lock slid out of place and the door swung open.
Jaspur pushed his way inside, bumping into the doorman. The human stumbled back in shock, his hand groping for a dagger that was no longer there.
“No need for that, Rethro,” the rogue held the dagger he had pickpocketed up for the man to see, then tucked it safely into his own belt.
“How do you know my name?” the man demanded to know.
“The same way I know about the scroll you recently acquired in a card game at the Armed Maiden.” Shrugging his cloak behind his shoulders, Jaspur calmly approached the frightened man and dangled a small bag of gold in front of his nose. “It’s an old piece written in runes you wouldn’t recognize. In the corner there is a seal bearing the likeness of a centaur.”
“I don't know what yer talkin' about.”
All Rethro caught next was the cold ring of a blade singing from its sheath. Next thing he knew he was pressed with his back against the tabletop and a sword against his neck.
“If I were you, I would rethink that statement,” the rogue clenched his hand around the man's thick neck. “As you do, think hard about the peril of standing between me and something I want.”
“Okay,” Rethro wheezed. “I'll show ya what scroll I got. It's—” he coughed and Jaspur loosened his hold, slightly. “It's in the back.”
The rogue grabbed Rethro by the collar and yanked him to his feet. Frowning, the man turned and entered a storage room set against the back wall.
“I give ye the scroll, ye pay me, an’ then you’re gone.” It was supposed to be a command, but fear made it sound more like a plea as Rethro pulled an old scroll from a shelf.
Jaspur stepped into the room, his sharp gaze taking in the contents of Rethro’s small treasure trove. He held out his hand and Rethro noted the pale white scars crossing his forearms. “Let me see it first.”
“Gold b'fore goods. That’s always been my rule.”
The rogue’s eyes narrowed into slits and Rethro felt a sudden change in heart. He offered him the scroll and Jaspur snatched it from his hands, unraveling the parchment. The page was covered in a long series of runes marked by the centaur seal he’d been looking for. Angling it against the light, he noted the dark purple sheen of ancient re'shahna ink. Satisfied, he rolled up the scroll and tucked it into his belt.
“Ye did say ye'd pay,” Rethro reminded.
The rogue tossed the small bag of gold to the thief and started for the door, but stopped when his hip brushed against a small leather book teetering over the side of a table.
“What is this?” He picked it up and swept a thick layer of dust from the cover.
“That ain’t for sale—”
Jaspur held up a hand to silence Rethro as he took a closer look. There was something familiar about it, but he couldn't place what. The book was old and worn, the edges burned as if it narrowly escaped a fire. Running his fingers across the cover, he could barely feel an indentation.
Opening to the last few pages, he found them blank.
“A journal,” he muttered as he tore a clean sheet from the back.
“Damnit, what do you think yer doin’?!” Rethro sputtered, exasperated. “I got customers who’d pay good coin for stuff like that!”
Jaspur ignored the man's protests. The vague familiarity of the book nagged at him. Grabbing a piece of charcoal from the ashes of the fireplace, he held the parchment against the book's cover and scribbled hard to catch the subtle grooves of the engraving. What he found stirred an old, deep-rooted pain: R.M.
The rogue turned and struck the man with such force, he stumbled over a chair and through a stack of empty crates. Marching after him, Jaspur lifted Rethro off the ground and pinned him against the wall. The man's eyes darted back and forth between the threat in Jaspur’s eyes and the journal that set him off.
“Who did you get it from?” When there was no reply, the rogue slammed him like a stack of books. “Give me a name or I will pin your head to the mantel!”
“He didn’t give me a name!” Rethro shouted. “He just said he found it near the old pyres.”
“Why sell this book?” Jaspur demanded.
The m
an shrugged. “It had the Connor family’s seal stamped inside the cover. I figured it belonged to someone important. Outside o' Velagray, collectors pay good money for Nevahardan artifacts since King Shadow burned most of them.”
The rogue sighed and released the man. He pulled two silver coins from his personal pouch and slammed them onto the table. “This is more than you deserve,” he told him as he tucked the book under his arm. “Take it and consider our business finished.”
Rethro gasped for breath, his face red with hate. “I’m thinkin’ that book’s worth more than a couple silver.”
“It’s worth nothing.”
“Then why are you so quick to take it?”
“Because some things do not deserve to rot in Velagray.” Jaspur strode out the door, and Rethro hadn’t the nerve to pursue him alone.
Replacing his cowl, the rogue trudged through the rain until he found better streets, then made a beeline for the Armed Maiden. It remained lit even this late at night, its doors propped open for any strays that managed to stumble in. Jaspur entered and nodded briefly to Teeg before he made for the stairs.
Approaching the door to his room, he started to pull out the key, but paused. Jaspur’s ears drifted low against his mahogany hair. He quickly exchanged the key for the sword on his hip. Grasping its pommel, the rogue felt heat emanating from the sentient blade he called Lumiere.
He closed his eyes as he let the sword's undiluted magic slide over his skin and into his veins. From there it traveled to his core where it connected with an innate strand of magic. Placing his free hand on the door, Jaspur beckoned his heightened gift to help him see beyond the thick wood.
In his mind, a picture formed like wisps of fog. Gradually, it solidified into a dimly lit image. Embers from a dying fire he’d never lit smoldered inside the room’s small fireplace. The light was meager, but it glowed enough to reveal a tall figure leaning against the table. His form was relaxed; casual even, as he waited patiently inside. The intruder wore little more than a loincloth made of wolf pelt while his hair, unusually long, fell like a forelock over his face.
Jaspur pushed open the door. “Tobiano.”
“I am here, brother,” the re’shahna replied, his foreign accent confirming Jaspur’s guess.
The rogue’s fingers slid away from Lumiere. He shrugged the bag from his shoulder and tossed it upon the stiff bed. “How did you know I was here?”
Tobiano looked up from beneath his black and white forelock, a clever smile across his lips. “You can hide from many eyes, rogue, but not mine.”
Jaspur shook his head, thankful the re’shahna was his companion and not his enemy. “Light a candle,” he said. “You will want to see this.”
Tobiano cupped his left hand over the candle sitting on the table. With his right, he snapped his fingers to produce a small flame he used to ignite the wick. A shake of his hand dismissed the spell and he turned to the rogue, his face exposed under the candle’s light.
Everything about Tobiano’s appearance testified to a strong equine heritage. Down his forehead and over his nose ran a black birthmark that reminded Jaspur of a horse’s blaze. His hair, too, was shaved on both sides to resemble a horse’s mane. Tobiano wore the top long and loose so it cascaded from the crest of his head down one of his shoulders and onto his chest.
Tobiano often called Jaspur “brother,” but he certainly didn’t look the part. The rogue was a rahee, which were cousins of the re’shahna and far more human in appearance. Only his hairless, horse-like ears existed to say any different. His cowl often hid them, allowing the rogue to pass as a human if he kept them flexed against his skull.
Tobiano didn’t have that leisure. His markings, fluffy ears, and two-toned hair robbed him of any subtlety.
“You carry the secrets of our ancestors?” Tobiano’s question amused Jaspur. The re'shahna lived an isolated life deep in the northern mountains, away from other races, leaving them with a limited grasp on the common language. Although the last eighteen years of traveling across cities and kingdoms had helped Tobiano develop a better grasp of the common tongue, he still spoke in short, awkward sentences.
It took a growing threat to lure his people back into the civilized world; a presence Shadow Silverhorn should rightly fear. Tobiano was a fierce leader, second only to an elusive, living legend called “Patchi,” who served as the re’shahna’s chieftain.
For Jaspur, that legend was a familiar acquaintance even before he had become a rogue. He and Patchi had been clashing as polar opposites back when Jaspur still lived in Nevaharday.
As its prince.
That was another time. Another life. It had been eighteen years since Jaspur Clovenhoof was known as Jaycent Connor, prince of Nevaharday. He had faked his death and joined the re’shahna so he could get revenge against the illusionist that stole his throne to become Velagray’s king.
It was not pity that made Tobiano take Jaspur in, but necessity. The rahee had long since abandoned their innate magic, but for whatever reason their former prince was rich with it. Tobiano had spent years helping the royal rogue hone his gift so he could defeat the illusionist, reclaim his throne, and retrain the rahee in the ways of old.
Jaycent Connor had originally embraced that plan, but Tobiano lost him to the entity they now called Jaspur Clovenhoof. Over the years, the rogue had buried the remnants of Prince Jaycent under his festering hatred for Shadow Silverhorn.
Then a week ago, Patchi signaled a private meeting. Their wait was coming to a close, he said. It was time their chosen hero stepped out of exile and accepted his purpose.
Jaspur knew this day would come. He never voiced his feelings, but when Patchi looked upon him that night, the rogue wondered if he knew the truth. Jaspur’s heart was no longer invested in reclaiming his old throne. He saw no point in reviving the past. Everything that defined Nevaharday’s spirit for him was gone. Whatever replaced Velagray, on the throne and in its streets, would have to be something different; something new.
Jaspur didn’t care to be a part of anything new. His only desire was to gain the satisfaction of seeing King Shadow's head on a pike.
An exchange was held between Tobiano and Patchi soon after the meeting was adjourned. Jaspur stood too far away to catch their words, but their glances warned him that something was up. Later that night, he questioned Tobiano, but his mentor would not share what he had discussed with the chief. He only mentioned the need to find a scroll that once belonged to Bresan T’ahnya, the re'shahna's old kingdom.
They tracked the keeper of the scroll to his grave in Velagray, only to find it had been unearthed by an artifact collector that sold his discoveries on the underground market.
The lead brought Jaspur to the Armed Maiden, where he had ferreted out Rethro’s hideaway and retrieved the stolen scroll. Now that he’d done the hard work, Tobiano was here to retrieve it.
“You distrust me,” Tobiano moved to sit on the chair beside the window, his moss green eyes commanding Jaspur’s attention. The rogue settled on the bed across from his mentor, letting one hand rest on his bag as he listened. Tobiano hated the common tongue, but they had to make do in cities and towns. If one of Shadow’s spies overheard them, they would be seized and questioned as rebels. “Why? Your gift, it has grown. With my help, you have gained strong magic. We are brothers. Allies.”
Jaspur nodded. After Shadow had broken the mental barricade that guarded the rogue from his gift, Tobiano had taken him in as a pupil, teaching him to control and develop his magic.
Jaspur was a dreamer, capable of exploring the past, present, and future through visions that came to him when he rested. His sword, Lumiere, enhanced that gift, enabling him to see beyond doors and walls into places unbidden.
For years, Tobiano had helped the rogue hone this powerful gift, but lately the re’shahna had all but stopped their lessons. Hesitation began to creep into their exchanges, and it became apparent through the tension that Tobiano was hiding something.
�
�Perhaps if you told me why I am sneaking around alleyways and making deals with thieves just to retrieve a decrepit scroll, I would be more trusting.”
“Many times, you followed me on unexplained assignments. This is different how?”
“I don't know,” the rogue muttered. “Between your secret talks with Patchi and our awkward silences, I have found myself harboring doubts.”
Tobiano cocked his head. “I am your friend…”
The rogue pulled the old scroll from his belt and tossed it to the re’shahna. “If that is still true, then tell me what this is.”
Tobiano caught and unraveled the parchment. When he read over the old runes, his mouth dipped in a rare frown. “I do not yet know.”
“You do not know?” Jaspur crossed his feet on the bed. “Or you will not tell me?”
Tobiano raised a single brow. “These are old runes,” he explained, “with coded meaning. Give me time and patience.”
Jaspur pulled the journal from his bag as he reclined against the bed. “Time, time, time… I have given eighteen years and still you demand more.”
Tobiano lowered the scroll in his hands when he caught sight of the old book. “What else have you found?”
“I do not yet know,” the rogue echoed in his best impression of Tobiano’s accent. The re’shahna stood and peered over Jaspur’s shoulder only to feel a gust of air as the book snapped shut.
The re’shahna twitched his dappled ears. “A journal?”
Jaspur rolled his eyes. “I found it among Rethro’s hoard of stolen goods. It had Rayhan Mendeley’s initials on its cover.”
Tobiano took a seat on the edge of the bed. “Your cousin? Interesting… his journal finding its way into your hands.”
Jaspur clenched his jaw. It had been many years since he had heard Rayhan referred to as his kin, yet time had done nothing to dampen the memory. “You know what would also be interesting? The sound of silence.”
Tobiano shrugged and returned to the small table where he unraveled the scroll again, lending the rogue some privacy. Jaspur settled with a flat pillow at his back and flipped the leather cover open again.
The Rogue Trilogy Page 46