Rebel Song

by Amanda J. Clay

  By the time Rogan was old enough to truly understand the world, so many had died. Poverty and corruption had spread through Arelanda like a militant plague, consuming anyone who dared breathe too loudly. The Elwoods were never of any real means, just as most of the Valley people weren’t, but they had always managed to live well regardless—tilling vineyard land and staying out of the way of capital politics. All they had ever wanted was to be left to live in peace. Peace—a vain ideal from a forgotten time. He stared at the photo and fought to remember a time before the world had gone to Hell. He tucked the photograph back into his wallet where it stayed as a reminder of everything that he’d lost—and his motivation to take it all back.

  Rawdry’s Pub—a mile or so down the road from his vineyard—was booming with revelry as it had for nearly twenty years. He trudged up the path, still muddy from a much-needed morning rain, and stepped into the boisterous warmth of the pub. Iris greeted him with her raspy squeal before he was two feet into the foyer.

  “Rogan!” She lunged toward him and thrust her arms around him, pressing her ample breasts into his chest. Her thin frock did little to hide their softness and he fought down inappropriate thoughts, trying not to notice the excessive dip in her neckline. Iris Rawdry had made herself difficult to ignore since she was twelve.

  “It’s been so long. Where have you been hiding?” Iris said.

  Rogan returned the embrace then pulled away to look Iris in her big brown eyes. She was tall enough to meet his eyes without straining.

  “Lately, the vines have needed my love more than the pub, unfortunately. This weird cold is scaring the fruit back into seeds.”

  Iris raised a dubious eyebrow then gave him a flirty grin, her lips stained with the remnants of the house red wine.

  “I hoped it wasn’t some girl that had stolen your affection away and you were just afraid to tell me,” she cooed melodramatically.

  “Never,” Rogan ran a finger down her nose. Iris blushed and wiggled herself out of his arms.

  “Well I suppose you didn’t come in just to toy with my fragile heart then, did you?”

  Rogan let out a soft laugh.

  “Iris doll, you are worth more than a poor farmer like me could ever give.” He touched her rosy cheek. “But yes, I’m here for the old man.”

  Iris tilted her head toward the back of the room.

  “You know where to find him.”

  “Thanks.” He hoisted his satchel back over his shoulder and moved through the crowd.

  “Oh, Rogan,” Iris beckoned him back.

  “Yeah?” He stepped back and leaned close.

  “Be careful tonight,” she whispered, her full lips brushing his ear. “The Rangers were by earlier. There was blood lust in their eyes.”

  Rogan forced an indifferent smile, but secretly, the thought kicked his gut. There was only one reason rangers bothered with Rawdry’s.

  “Did they say what they wanted?”

  Iris shrugged.

  “Oh, you know they don’t pay much attention to simple pub girls like me. They gave Donal a hard time, though. I’m sure it was just the usual witch hunt.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” he touched her shoulder. “I’ll watch my step.”

  “And your words.”

  He grinned.

  “As always.”

  Donal Rawdry was parked at the far corner table with a tumbler of blood-red wine. His deep-set amber eyes were fixed and hard, focused on nothing but his own thoughts. He didn’t notice as Rogan approached and even when his eyes flicked slightly to acknowledge his presence it was a long, cold moment before he nodded a welcome.

  “My boy. Good to see you.” He extended a calloused hand.

  “And you. Sorry I haven’t been by in a while. Work stuff.”

  Donal nodded.

  “I understand. Guess you’ve got more responsibility these days than just sweeping up the bar, eh?”

  Rogan laughed.

  “A bit. Busy night tonight in here. Seems business is up?”

  Donal took a deep breath and touched his hand to a scruffy, gray-spattered beard.

  “Yes, I suppose business is…up. Hard times drive men to the bottle, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on which end of the business arrangement you fall.” His mouth turned up in a regretful smile. “Why are you standing?” Rogan set down his satchel, taking a seat opposite Donal. “Wine?”

  “Suppose I wouldn’t mind the warmth.”

  Donal blew through his lips and gave a dramatic eye roll.

  “You Valley boys and your thin blood. One chilly fog and you’re all running out in your fur to coddle your grapes.” He signaled the serving girl, Cella, pointed to his glass and indicated another round.

  Rogan opened his mouth to protest but he couldn’t argue a man who once herded mountain goats through the north east ice lands.

  “Our grapes may be coddled, but it’s only to milk that fine spirit you so desperately cling to.” Rogan raised an eyebrow and nodded toward Donal’s glass.

  “Hmmph,” Donal snorted but his roughness faded quickly. “Then we’d better raise a glass to all your sensitivity.”

  Cella returned with a tumbler for Rogan. As she set down the glass, she brushed her fingers against his and shot him a shy grin. Her smile made her plump cheeks rise, round and rosy. Rogan accepted his drink and acquiesced. They raised their glasses, clinked and swallowed generously.

  “Will you stop making all my serving girls swoon?” Donal joked. “Otherwise I’ll have to keep you from coming in.”

  “Ah, Donal. If I stop coming in, they may just quit working here.”

  With a few hearty sips in his belly, Rogan tightened his lip and raised his eyes to Donal.

  “Well, what is it then?” Donal asked. Rogan didn’t respond but flicked his eyes to his glass. “I know when you have something on your mind Rogan. Out with it.”

  “Iris said Rangers had been here…” He let the words trail off into the pub’s clamor.

  “Ach,” Donal swatted at the air. “Is that all? I don’t let those uniformed bastards rile me.” He sipped his wine. His apathy was convincing to most, but Rogan had known him far too long to buy it.

  “What did they want?”

  “Oh, what they always want. To buy eyes and ears. I told ‘em there’s nothing to see or hear in my pub but drunks and loose women and to make their way back to the city. As always, they try to intimidate with threats of sedition and how the rebellion will never make it out of the vineyards, blah and blah. To that I said, I haven’t seen a real rebellion since the goat lords of Polvak wiped out the embassies.”

  Rogan raised a curious eyebrow.

  “For supposedly being only forty-seven, you sure do a fantastic job of making yourself sound like a senile old man.”

  “Age is more than a number, Rogan. War will teach you that.” Donal sighed. “And what do you mean, supposedly? Are you adding years to me, then? Damned smart-ass kid. Are you even old enough to be in this place?”

  A few moments passed in silence as they nursed wine and absorbed the din of the spirit-infused revelry. The bartender yipped when a skinny, sixteen year-old took his first shot of whiskey, gagging and struggling to keep his fried bread in his belly. He was hardly younger than Rogan but the youth in his flushed cheeks made him seem generations behind. Age is more than a number. Two wiry old men shouted over a dart throw and Iris’ robust chuckles resonated across the back wall. Sounds Rogan would yearn for once the toll of war had devoured every ounce of goodness the Valley could muster.

  “I heard there’s been word of bootleggers in the South again,” Rogan interrupted the silence. Donal nodded.

  “Yeah, I heard a report as well. Attacked one the southbound Santee Vines trucks on the way to Loire. It won’t be the last time, I fear. They know how unprotected the roads are these days.”

  “Bastards,” Rogan muttered, shaking his head. “Gonna put us all out of business. It’s not enough we have to worry about the emb
argos in the east. Now we can’t even get our shipments to our own counties.”

  “That’s the thing about war. The people see the government killing and ravaging, nothing to stop them from doing it, too. Just seems to validate the pricks. There’ve been raids and slaughters all up and down the north border as well. The battles in the east are leaving our borders completely vulnerable to the gangs up there. The crime firms are having a heyday. After all we fought for—died for—to keep the North safe. Now Ballantyne just abandons it the moment another war catches his attention.”

  “The cause has a strong faction in the North. They did a sit-in at the Governor’s mansion in San Gran last week only to be chased out by rubber bullets.”

  “Better than real bullets, I suppose.”

  “It won’t be the last such incident. They aren’t going to sit back and take it anymore. Neither should we.”

  Donal sighed.

  “Those are words I hoped I’d never hear again after the Northern War. I’ve heard enough battle cries and war horns to follow me to the grave.”

  “It won’t be long before it all erupts here. The way these rangers think, they own the street. They act as though everyone with a lowered glance is out to raise the banners. Was down by the docks day before last and saw a ranger smack down a moll right on the street corner. Just took a baton to her gut like she was a wild dog.” He swung his arm to imitate the scene.

  “Part of Minister Pantone’s new crackdown on prostitution, no doubt. Zero tolerance is the word.”

  “She’s not the criminal. Just some poor kid trying to keep food in her belly the only way she can. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen, Ari’s age.”

  “We can’t save every downtrodden person hustling the streets.”

  “I know that. But it’s just not right—she was practically a child.” Rogan shook his head and sighed.

  “No doubt somebody’s child once. But childhood is a luxury of the privileged,” Donal instinctively eyed Iris.

  “Iris looks good. Seems happy,” Rogan changed the subject to the only small talk he could manage.

  Donal stared thoughtfully at his daughter where she stood guard at the front door. Her long chocolate curls were fastened back with a red tie but hung carelessly down her back, with a few loose tendrils tickling her rosy cheeks. Her full, feminine assets were squeezed into a fitted, long-sleeved sweater dress that dipped and spread over her curves. She might have been a likely match for Rogan. Smart and witty, from a good family with strong ties and a steady business. She was certainly pretty—a meager vineyard kid from a tainted bloodline could only wish to be so fortunate. He couldn’t blame Iris for being bitter at him, though she hid it well. He had certainly feigned interest over the years. And he had kissed her once. It all seemed so long ago now, nothing more than the impulses of a childish boy. No, he couldn’t blame any of them. They didn’t know his heart wasn’t his own.

  “Yes, Iris is a gem,” Donal answered the compliment. “She keeps this old man in line. Not to mention alive. If it weren’t for her sharp intuition, not to mention that irresistible charm, we wouldn’t know half the things we do.”

  “She’s definitely charming,” Rogan laughed “Do you worry? I mean, with her being in the center of it all?”

  “Pfff,” Donal blew air through his lips. “She wouldn’t have it any other way. If another rebellion really is inevitable, I’d sooner have her informed and smart than hiding in the shadows like some helpless kitten. I don’t want her ending up on the wrong side of a ranger’s baton in some dock alley.”

  “That will never be Iris.”

  “No, I don’t think it will. What I do worry about though is her falling for the wrong type. She’s such a smart girl, but she’s also a visionary—that can be dangerous when mixed up with romance. Even a father can see she’s easy on the eyes. Smart, idealistic and romantic; three dangerous traits her angelic mother passed on to her, Sants rest her.” Donal laughed. “But, just like her blessed mother, there’s nothing that can stop that spirit. She’ll love whomever she’ll love and this old man won’t be able to do a damn thing about it. And since you won’t make an honest woman of her, I can’t keep the wolves away.”

  Rogan laughed. Giving him a hard time about Iris was one of Donal’s favorite pastimes. He knew Donal thought of him like a son, and it was certainly reciprocated. Donal had been like a brother to his da and Uncle Colt. And since Rogan’s father died, Donal had been the one solid thing he could lean on. It was natural that he and Iris would grow close. Rogan thought on her like family. And though Donal constantly riled him for breaking his poor daughter’s heart, there was a notable insincerity in his voice that told Rogan he was grateful their love had never ignited. Even the day she ran to her da crying, swearing her heart was shattered and Rogan Elwood had done it, Donal hardly raised an eyebrow. He might not want her hiding in the shadows, but loving an Elwood carried with it a reputation for tragedy.

  “I think she’s smart enough to end up with the right type. I think there’s a bigger plan for that one,” Rogan assured him. Donal gave him a soft smile.

  “You’re a good kid, Rogan. Your da woulda been proud. You’ve got his sensibility and his vision.”

  Rogan nodded in thanks and allowed himself a moment of sadness.

  “Damn rebels conspiring again, eh?” A bawdy voice in his ear ruptured Rogan’s thoughts. He jolted back and jerked his hand to his knife, spilling his wine, only to be met by a hearty laugh. Instantly, his grip loosened and he rolled his eyes in annoyed recognition.

  “So nice of you to finally join us, Ben,” Rogan muttered. Benton smacked his back, causing his wine to again slop over the edge of his glass.

  “Ach! Wasn’t my fault. You boys wouldn’t a left my bed either if you’d seen what was in it.” He pursed his lips with satisfaction.

  “Hopefully it wasn’t four-legged,” Rogan retorted.

  “Hah!” Benton sat heavily, heaving his satchel onto the table and helping himself to an indulgent slurp from Rogan’s glass. He set down the glass firmly and wiped his scruffy chin.

  “They have more you know,” Rogan said, eyeballing his depleted wine.

  “Always the miser, Elwood. Shame on you,” Benton gave a wide, charming grin, filled with straight, white teeth. “Bring me my own and you won’t have to share. Cella!”

  Cella scurried to the table, her eyes wide with infatuation for the always popular Benton Hollister.

  “You called?” She cooed, batting round doe eyes and toying with a tendril of wheat blonde hair.

  “Another round for my gents here, eh? Thanks, love.” Ben reached out his broad hand and affectionately—if not somewhat inappropriately—and ran it across her forearm. Cella’s round face reddened until she looked like a ripe apple and she nodded eagerly. Benton turned his focus back to the table.

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that. She likes it.”

  “Will you both just please leave my staff alone?” Donal complained.

  “You’re both going to be begging for my love too when you see what I’ve brought.” Benton ran his fingers along his pack in the same way he might touch a girl’s arm and nonchalantly glanced around the room.

  “What is it?” Rogan asked. He reached to open the pack, only to be met by a fierce swat from Benton.

  “Not here,” Benton growled through gritted teeth. “Are you crazy?”

  Rogan stiffened, realizing it wasn’t smuggled whiskey or lewd magazines Ben had come to share, but the kind of contraband that would find them all at the business end of the firing squad if they were caught. Donal’s lips tightened and he nodded in understanding.

  “Well, I’m a bit worn out then, boys,” Donal said rolling his neck, releasing an orchestra line of pops and cracks. “Think it’s probably time I hit the hay. If either of you wanted to store your things in the back room for safekeeping while you drink, it will be freed up in twenty minutes for Benton and a half hour for Rogan.”

  They both offere
d a slight nod of acknowledgement. They stood, shook hands gratefully, raised a glass, clinked and drank.

  “Iris said the Rangers had been here tonight,” Rogan said after a few silent moments once they were sure there was no one within earshot.

  “Aren’t they always? Those bastards can’t seem to leave the Valley alone. Convinced it’s the hub of some rebellion.” Benton grinned.

  “Imagine that.”

  “It won’t be the last we see of them,” Ben wiped a few scarlet drops from his scruffy chin, examining the drops between his thumb and middle finger. “They are utterly obsessed with blood.”

  “How much do you think they know? I mean really know?” Rogan scanned the room suspiciously. Benton shrugged and let out a frustrated sigh.

  “It’s so hard to know exactly. Ballantyne isn’t stupid, nor is that monkey Minister General Pantone. They know something is stirring and they know where to look. We just know where to hide.”

  “We can’t hide forever, Ben. People are getting restless; people are dying.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? These things take time. We aren’t ready. For any of it.”

  “They’re already rioting in the North.”

  “Well, things have been a lot worse in the North for a lot longer. They’ve been left to rot since the Northern War left them broken and burned. And the firms. You know how bad they’ve gotten. The Calibri Family is practically terrorizing people up there—people don’t even want to leave the house.”

  “Yeah, and what happens when that starts to trickle south?”