The warrior with the hooked nose turned in surprise. "Wha—?"
Rogan's eyes blazed as he stood with his stick held out like a sword. Amelia stood on the other side of the legionnaire, one hand at her mouth and her eyes staring with shock.
"Defend yourself," Rogan said.
The legionnaire drew his sword in one swift move. It gleamed wicked and sharp. The hook-nosed legionnaire came forward, but rather than drawing back, Rogan came in to meet him, knowing that his leg gave him a disadvantage in a moving dance of weapons.
They collided in a crash, but Rogan had shifted, turning his body side-on to present a smaller target, and the legionnaire's sword thrust at empty space. With Rogan in a different place than his opponent expected him to be and the legionnaire off balance, Rogan easily smashed his forehead into the legionnaire's nose, before moving himself behind his opponent's back. The legionnaire fell away, staggering. Rogan swung his walking stick at the legionnaire's kidney, gut and knee. Rogan then thrust as if it was a sword he carried, rather than a stick, punching into his opponent's throat.
The legionnaire fell to the ground, instantly still, the breath gurgling in his chest and his sword discarded at his side.
Shouts sounded in the square outside the alley.
"Leave him," Amelia said. "We need to get out of here."
"We can't leave him," Rogan said, panting. "He's seen us."
Rogan handed Tapel his walking stick, and then bent down and picked up the discarded sword, testing its weight in his hand. It was a fine sword, he decided, able to be used with one hand or two. "This is war," Rogan said.
He sliced at the legionnaire's exposed neck, and as the blood rushed out it was over. Rogan glanced at Amelia, who looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. "This is war," he repeated.
Amelia nodded. "This way," she said.
Amelia led Rogan and her son down a series of alleys, quickly leaving the commotion behind, not stopping until they reached a fountain in a quiet part of town.
Rogan washed the blood from the blade. "I need to hide this somewhere," he said. "Good swords are hard to come by."
"I'll take it!" Tapel said.
"No, you won't," Amelia said. "Here, put it in here, there should be room."
Amelia pulled the cloth away from the basket, revealing what lay inside. Rogan whistled.
The basket was filled with prismatic orbs, the symbols decorating them still fresh and new. Rogan put his sword in the basket and Amelia covered it again. More slowly this time, they left the fountain, to all outward appearances just a small family on their way home from the market.
"Now," Rogan said. "How about you tell me what you're up to?"
"You can trust him, mama," Tapel said.
Amelia looked into Rogan's eyes; he met her gaze, unflinching. "I suppose I can," she said.
~
ROGAN entered the designated storehouse, Tapel at his side. Immediately the heavy doors swung shut behind him and he heard the sound of bolts being thrown. The darkness was complete and absolute, and all he could hear was the sound of his and Tapel's breathing. Rogan caught the smell of sawdust and old foodstuffs. He hadn't wanted to bring Amelia's son but it was one of the conditions of this meeting.
"Quit the theatrics," Rogan said. "How about some light over here?"
A light came on, and he was suddenly blinded.
Rogan felt Tapel grasp his hand. "Don't worry, lad," Rogan said. "If they wanted to harm us they would have done so."
After a moment, Rogan's eyes adjusted and he could see the area lit up by the glow of the nightlamp. A long table of polished wood stood on carved legs in the empty space, four chairs around it. The nightlamp rested in the centre of the table, but outside the circle of light Rogan could see nothing.
"Come out," Rogan growled. "You're fools, do you know that? If you don't trust someone, then don't invite them to your lair."
"Why would this be our lair?" a voice came out of the darkness.
"The storehouse is in a disused part of town, yet the hinges on the door are well-oiled. The table is heavy and expensive, as are the chairs, and there'd be marks in the dust if they'd been brought here recently."
"Anything else to add?" the voice asked.
"Finally, you're fools because you're wasting your time when your people need you," Rogan said.
A figure stepped out of the shadows. He was a young man, well-dressed in clothing the son of a prosperous merchant might wear, but his boots were those of a soldier, Rogan noticed, and at his side he carried a worn scabbard that had seen some use, the hilt of his sword polished from handling.
"Who are you, to dictate to us, Alturan?" the young man said.
"He's —"
Rogan silenced Tapel with a squeeze of his hand. "Surely there are more of you? I expected to find some resistance, not a couple of bravos hiding out in a barn."
A second man walked forward, older than the first, with a receding hairline and neatly trimmed moustache. "The two of us are all there are, Alturan."