Rebel Song (10 page)

“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 with 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.

Jova nodded, and flicked the air with his hand.

“My sister is as strong as our mother was. She has healed. Her baby is now a fat boy with thick black hair. I don’t tell you these things to ruin your night. Nor do I tell you them to convince you that this criminal has a soft side. I tell you these things because I hope you know that it is not just your band of merry men and the King’s rangers that will go down in this fight. This wickedness will crawl through the air until it seeps in and infests every living thing in Arelanda. Me? I’m already a wicked man. Sants take me down if they so please. But my mother, my sister—they were good. I just want you to remember that as you go singing your rebel song.” 

CHAPTER 14

Elyra picked up her diamond-blade dagger from her dressing table and delicately fingered the glinting blade. The ornate weapon had been a gift from Princess Karra of The Netherlands, her cousin on her mother’s side, on her twelfth birthday. The Queen had scowled at the weapon, which she saw as an inappropriate gift for a young girl, but Elyra had delighted in it. Karra, tall, plump-faced and wily, always loved getting under her aunt’s queenly skin. Elyra ran a manicured hand over the gemmed handle, glittering with a rainbow of precious stones. Then she slid her index finger along the blade, drawing forth a sliver of blood with such precision, she didn’t even feel the puncture.

She was not unique—she knew that. She was yet another sad princess confined to her ivory tower—weighed down by heavy jewels, drowning in silks, with little say over her own destiny. She was no different than any other in the long history of pretty little princesses. It was the same song one lifetime after another. And it was a very long line. One of the oldest dynasties in the West, the Ballantynes had sat on the Arelanda throne for almost four centuries now without a single broken line. Although very proud of that lineage, with no sons or brothers and his only sister, Princess Levanna, married to Prince Elton of Belgium, it was no wonder her father spent all his time thinking about an heir.

Elyra set down the blade and peered into the vanity mirror. She had hardly slept the past few nights and it was starting to show in deep, discolored circles beneath her blood-shot eyes. The nightmare wouldn’t relent. She was either confined to its tortuous horrors or sentenced to hours of idle darkness to wander the tangled garden of her own thoughts, which weren’t that much less horrifying.

She stared at the calendar with a sinking feeling. It had been six months since her sixteenth birthday thrust her into the world of reality. She should have been bubbling with excitement. It should have been the day that granted her freedom from childhood; freedom from the rule of her parents, everything that went with official, legal adulthood. She snickered to herself.
Yeah,
freedom.
The concept would never truly apply to her. What her birthday truly meant was that she was legally able to fulfill royal duties, join the High Council, and of course, her father’s favorite topic, secure a marriage. The topic had been gently broached with  “how she must be so excited to one day find a prince to sit beside her on the throne,” as if she were some storybook damsel with nothing better to do than stare out the window and sing about how her prince would come someday. As if she were not trapped in the middle of a budding civil war, trying to defend her dynasty against a rebellion ready to strike at first provocation. As if there wasn’t a day that went by when she didn’t wish desperately that Rogan was there with her.

If Queen Calliope had her way, she would parade her daughter about the high social circles, using her as bait for dignitaries’ sons and foreign princes. If King Henri had it his way, he’d sign her over to Markus Fallon and retire the kingdom to him before the ink was dry, replenishing the defense bank on his way out.
Ah, Markus Fallon
. The two things her father desired most were a strong male heir and money to fund his wars. Markus—son of perhaps the wealthiest family in Europe—would gladly provide him with both.

A knock rippled through the thick oak chamber door.

“Yes,” Elyra answered meekly.

“El, it’s Ada.” the raspy voice seeped through the door. “Are you ready yet?”

Elyra sighed miserably and gripped the vanity, digging her cherry blossom pink nails into the wood.

“Yes, I’m ready,” she answered.

Ada urged the bedroom door open and stepped in.

“Good Sants, child,” Ada squealed when she entered the dark, dreary bedroom. “It’s like a funeral in here.” She moved to the wide window and flung back the green silk drapes. Fiery white light infiltrated the room. Elyra averted her eyes painfully.

“Don’t do that,” Elyra muttered, turning her back to the exposed window pane.
              “What is wrong with you, girl?” Ada asked. “You’ve not been yourself in days.” Ada walked toward her and reached her hand under Elyra’s chin, pulling it up.

“Look at the bags under your eyes. Did you not sleep at all last night?”

Elyra jerked her face away as Ada scrutinized her. She shook her head.

“No.”

“What’s going on with you? You’re not sleeping. I’ve noticed how little you’ve been eating. Your eyes are heavy with despair. Look at how skinny you are! A girl your age should be starting to fill out!”

What could she say? That she desperately missed Rogan with every fiber of her being? That being separated from him was living torture?
No.
Elyra shrugged.

“It’s nothing,” she nearly whispered.

“I know those signs when I see them,” Ada went on. “It reminds me of…” She stopped herself and inhaled sharply.

“Reminds you of what?” Elyra asked. Ada was silent, directing her eyes to the floor. “Reminds you of
what
Ada? Reminds you of her? Of mother?”

Ada raised her head and met her eyes. She nodded.

“There are shades of it.” Ada replied.

The Queen’s history of deep depression was no secret. She’d spent a good part of Elyra’s childhood locked away in her rooms with the drapes shut. Elyra squealed and thrust her arm against a stack of books atop her dresser, sending them flying across the carpeted floor.

“When did you become such a spoiled brat, then? You’ll never land a prince like that,” she added for spite. Elyra shot her a razor-sharp glare.

“Oh, piss off, Ada. You sound like my father.”

Ada held back a smirk.

“You know,” Ada continued, moving toward the dresser to sort through a box wrapped in sapphire blue silk, housing Elyra’s favorite jewelry. “She wasn’t always so cold. Your mother.” It was enough to pull Elyra’s attention up.

“Oh? I find that hard to believe.”

“Sincerely. When she first came to court as a young lady from Luxembourg , not yet out of secondary school, she had that girlish gaiety that you see in classic paintings and read about in a Yants poem. I was just a little girl then; my mum and I accompanied her here. But I remember the way she glowed. I remember watching my mum style her hair and help her dress and feeling so awed by her beauty. If she hadn’t agreed to marry Henri and come to the South…” she paused, then sighed, “I think she’d be a very different woman now.”

“And there’d be no Elyra,” Elyra mocked.

“Sants forbid.” Ada rolled her eyes.

Elyra tried to imagine her mother as a young, eager girl with rosy cheeks and red hair falling in careless waves, madly in love with her father. Or was it ever like that? Had her mother ever really loved anyone? The four-foot portrait that hung in the grand entryway told a different story. Seventeen-year-old Calliope clung to her new husband with arms gloved in silk, but her body tilted ever so slightly away from the stoic king. Her strawberry hair was wrapped high on her head, twisted into an elegant roll and pinned with a chic barrette of yellow diamond butterflies. Her slender body was draped with an elegant tapestry of ivory silk, encrusted with intricate beading from nape to floor. It was truly a vision. She stood regally, but her mossy eyes looked as though she were trying hard to be somewhere else. The King’s mouth was turned up in a subtle smile. The crown of white gold, encrusted with deep blue sapphires, was slightly tilted on his head. His youthful face looked just a bit careless, as though he’d had too much wine before the ceremony. It was something Elyra rarely witnessed in her father—the boy king. She knew, at the end of the story, their marriage just another marriage of convenience, arranged for political expediency.

Elyra moved to the vanity and let her hair out of the bun it had been in overnight, dropping the long waves over her shoulders. Its rich blend of caramel and fire gave away her mother’s northern lineage—a sharp contrast to her father’s dark features. She picked up her silver-plated brush and began to run it through thoughtlessly.

“What’s going on in that head of yours? This behavior isn’t like you.”

“Bad dreams.” Elyra sighed. “They won’t stop. Each night is worse than the last. Ada, I know it sounds like complete madness, but I can’t lose them even when I wake up.” Elyra moved to the window to stare out over the immense grounds of the palace. “Maybe I am just like her. Completely mad.”

“Elyra, they are just dreams. True, these are difficult times and it’s no surprise that your heart should ache for the people who suffer. I have known you since the day you came barreling into this world and you have always had a gentle soul. But they are just bad dreams, poisoned by all this talk of war and rebellion creeping through the halls.”

“It’s not just talk, Ada. I think something truly ruinous is brewing.”

“You are safe inside these walls.”

Elyra turned from the window.

“And I should just ignore everything that’s going on
outside
these walls? Are those people safe?”

Ada moved closer and rested a gentle hand on her shoulders.

“Who fills your head with such things?”

“I’m not blind, Ada. I know what’s happening.”

Ada sighed and offered a smile as comforting as hot brown sugar oatmeal.

“I know where your heart is right now. But believe me; if you let it, despair will consume you. Do you want to end up like Calliope? Take your tears, child. Put them on ice. This is no time for weakness. If you want to help this country survive, then go learn how to rule it. Show those fat old men that you’re the future, not them.”

Elyra closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, collecting her thoughts. She nodded slowly.

“Duty calls then, eh?” She offered Ada the best smile she could rally. She moved to her closet, flinging open the heavy rosewood doors. She peered down the long corridor lined with shelves of imported silks, vibrant satins, jewel-encrusted scarves and wraps, all hanging perfectly organized and arranged by shades.
Everything a pretty little princess could want.
She had already laid out her emerald green sheath with the fitted bodice and pearls lining the scoop neck. She despised the monthly council meetings and despised the conservative attire required for attendance even more.

She slid off her cherry blossom-print silk robe—the one she nabbed from an old woman on a street corner in Tangier that her mother said was brothel garb—and Ada helped her slip the overly starched dress over her head. She sucked in as Ada yanked the back clasps closed.

“Sampling the fried bread on the square again eh?” Ada teased.

Elyra spun around and swatted her in the shoulder.

“You are so mean! And didn’t you just say I was too skinny? Make up your mind, woman.” She tried to sound seriously affronted, but came off half laughing. She
did
have a weakness for the fried bread sold in front of Viola’s bakery. Her mother scrunched her nose and gagged dramatically every time Elyra brought a batch home from town, aghast that she would put “trashy street food” in her privileged mouth. But each bite of that buttery sensation reminded her of…She shook away the tender memory.

With her dress fastened, Elyra plucked a pair of heels in soft, chocolate leather from the shelf.

“Well?” She turned to face Ada. “Will it do?” Ada looked her over with genuine scrutiny and shrugged.

“The outfit looks fine. But Sants, girl, can’t you do something about your face?”

Elyra rolled her eyes.

“I’m getting to it, you old hag.” She pushed Ada out of the way and plopped down at her vanity. With her hands outstretched dramatically, she commanded, “All right, make me worthy of the people.”

With a stroke of beautifying magic, Ada transformed Elyra’s sagging eyes and sallow skin into a glowing canvas of rose and peach. When she was finished, Elyra gazed into the mirror, hardly recognizing the polished, shining royal face staring back. Yet, all the powder, glimmer and rouge in the kingdom couldn’t hide her sour mood. She was going to have to learn how to be a better actress.

There was a solid knock at the bedroom door.             

“Yes?” Elyra answered in a soft, disinterested voice.

“Your Highness, the Council is arriving. His Majesty summons your presence,” Raj, the West Wing house master, called from the other side of the door.

“Coming shortly,” Ada called in her response. “C’mon now. Go do your job, Princess.”

When Elyra stepped into the massive Great Hall, the High Council was already seated, most rummaging through documents, some debating each other in sharp whispers. As the quarterly assembly, it meant not just the High Council attended, but the county governors as well, so the room was buzzing. King Henri sat at the far end of the conference table, his spine fully erect in a stiff, poised position. His crown, which he only wore during council meetings and other ceremonial occasions, sat perfectly centered on his graying head. His gray suit was impeccably tailored and fastened around his portly belly with polished platinum buttons. He looked so very
gray,
she thought. His hands were placed palms down on the table, his eyes slowly scanned the room. As she took a step in, his eyes shot to her. Although his twisted mouth melted into a placid, approving smile when she approached, she could see the agitation in his hard, gray eyes.