NEST riders tended to be boastful and domineering, natural bullies. They stuck together in packs, sensitive to any perceived slights. Taverns learned quickly to avoid conflict by giving NEST the quickest service, prettiest waitresses, and best seats. It helped that the NEST riders rarely lacked for coin. The other riders tolerated the preferential treatment of NEST with knowing smirks. SDC riders were just as insular but tended to be more on the coldly polite side. Less confrontational but just as arrogant. The financial wellbeing of the many independent operators was dependent on relationships with clients, each other, the local tourism and mercantile leaders, and subcontracts with NEST and SDC. Their business was more about salesmanship than military prowess and, as such, they tended to be garrulous and warm, working the room with ambitious tact. They served as a sort of glue for the community, injecting a kind of cheery optimism into an otherwise tense atmosphere as they went from table to table, sharing jokes and shaking hands. There would always be several clients, typically nobles or well-off merchants, either sticking nervously close to their guides or boisterously drinking and bragging away the evening. Deals would be made with the merchants who came and went as needed, signing contracts for movement of people and valuable goods, security for caravans. Drinks flowed. Beautiful women danced. Coin changed hands.
Almost exactly one month ago, Talons, Dragon Cove’s favored watering hole, had held just such a group in it, anchored on one end by a large crew of NEST and on the other end by an SDC set which included Aaron Lorne and the Dura Mati.
Aaron sat with his back to the NEST crowd. He knew he’d been recognized, heard their boisterous jokes growing louder as the evening progressed. He was well-known in dragon rider circles. And he hadn’t been sighted this far west in over a year.
Aaron was thin with dark hair, clean-shaven at the moment, perpetually sunburned high on his cheeks, black marks creeping out below the rolled up cuffs of his black shirt. His widely-recognized pixie eye was on the right cheek, a white knot of scar tissue where a dark pixie had tried to take his eye but aimed low.
The Dura Mati sat across from Aaron, scowling at the table top. The minotaur was never comfortable in taverns. His kind did not like to mix socially unless there was some sort of conflict available to clearly define the pecking order. He needed no prompting to harbor hatred for humans and had taken easily to the idea that all NEST were enemies. He did not like being in the same room with them. He occasionally looked up towards their loud table, unconsciously flexing his fists.
The enormous minotaur had almost exhausted his term of service to Aaron. Aaron had defeated him in hand-to-hand combat several years before, turning the Broken King, as the Dura Mati was now known to his people, into his slave. Aaron had freed him after the trouble in Delhonne, but then offered the Mati a payment of two dragons for two years of additional service. The deadline approached. The Mati had already selected his dragons. He spent long afternoons staring to the southeast, looking towards his homeland.
They’d been at the table, quietly drinking and smoking the night away, when the NEST riders finally approached. Aaron didn’t turn, he didn’t need to. The bitter scowl on the face of the Mati told him what was coming.
Aaron actually liked some of the NEST, so he was relieved that the ones who came to his table tonight he both knew and disliked. Greco, a smarmy little falsemarked bastard, grabbed the empty chair next to Aaron, turned it backwards and sat down. He stared at Aaron, who ignored him and took another drink. Greco turned and smiled towards the other three falsemarked who’d followed him over. “Aaron Lorne,” he said, “why so far west? Shouldn’t you be hiding up there in the mountains? Maybe helping your butler polish the silver?”
Aaron let it pass and slowly lit a cigarette. It was a favorite hobby of some of the falsemarked to mock him, add fuel to their rivalry. Show off to their entourage and hangers-on. As one of the more recognizable faces of the SDC, and one with a proven track record of doing nothing when confronted, he was a frequent target of their humor. Sometimes it annoyed him. Sometimes he found it funny and would subtly play along. Tonight, he refused to engage Greco. He was waiting for someone of a higher rank.
Greco tried again. “I’m impressed to see you sitting there so still. It must be uncomfortable given how you rode all the way here on that minotaur’s cock.” This one got the laugh of the others he’d been looking for before. It also got the Dura Mati’s attention, who rose.
Greco laughed. The sight of a nearly seven foot, heavily muscled minotaur with a broken horn on his head should have intimidated anyone, but Greco had played this game before. Lorne would reign in his beast as he always did.
Instead, Aaron leaned forward, turned slowly in his chair to face the other three falsemarked, then turned to Greco. “I think this time I’m going to need an apology for that one.” Greco laughed again. Aaron gestured to the Dura Mati. “See if you can get me an apology.”
Greco’s laugh was cut off as the Dura Mati grabbed him by the neck and lifted him out of his chair. Greco thrashed like a hooked fish, kicking the table, knocking over glasses and ashtrays. The other falsemarked cried out in surprise and protest, made as if to surge forward. Within seconds both groups had swords drawn. Only Aaron remained seated. Greco fought the enormous hand which encircled his neck. For a moment his tortured breathing was the only sound in the bar. His legs kicked at the Dura Mati, who had a dangerous glint in his eye. Aaron needed the game to move forward faster or he’d leave here with two corpses instead of one. Everyone in the bar not affiliated with NEST or SDC was managing to avert their eyes while still carefully tracking the unfolding drama.
Finally, he was here, the NEST leader, pushing his way onto the scene. “That’s enough, Lorne. Stand down. Let him go,” he said firmly. He was ranked, young, with a neatly trimmed beard. Aaron’s intel made this Captain Drew Yorke. He would sit atop ten riders of Greco’s rank, holding a similar status to Mal Bueray. Well-marked but probably not well-known at the NEST headquarters in Ellis.
“I’m still waiting for an apology.”
“He can’t breathe. He can’t talk. Have the beast let him go and he’ll apologize.” Yorke’s voice had a hint of desperation to it. This kind of incident would race up the chain of command until his own personal ass would be called to Ellis.
Aaron turned to the Dura Mati. “Did you hear that? He called you a beast.” Aaron looked back at Yorke. The path to war lay ahead, long and broken, corpses for mileposts. No one would get out of this one clean. “Kill him,” he said.
The Mati casually threw Greco by the neck into the NEST group, knocking several over. As they frantically got their swords out of the way of the crashing, gasping Greco, the Mati took one decisive step forward and seized the unprepared Yorke around the neck. As he squeezed, a single loud snap was heard. The Mati picked him up by his broken neck and, for good measure, bashed Yorke’s head against the edge of the thick wooden table.
Jaws hung open all around the tavern. Those NEST who remained standing let their swords droop in shock. In the moment of silence, Aaron said, “Now kill anyone else who is still here in twenty seconds.” The tavern exploded into a flurry of motion. Chairs flew backwards as the crowd piled towards the exits. The NEST remained frozen, their leader dead, an angry minotaur and armed force of SDC ahead, the sound of a snapped neck still ringing in their ears. As the Mati moved towards them, they took their first step backwards, found the direction to be to their liking, and joined the scrum for the doors, pausing only to drag the gasping Greco with them by his armpits. As they reached the door, one turned back as if to shout at Aaron, but couldn’t find the words. Instead he just shook his head, disbelief and hatred in his eyes.
Aaron stood amidst the overturned tables and broken glass. Sounds of the retreat were fading. There would be a run on the dragon stables. The NEST riders would head north, come back in greater numbers. Independent operatives would get out of Dragon’s Cove to prevent being forced into choosing a side. Over the next few months
many who had been there would pretend they hadn’t. Others who hadn’t been there would pretend they had. A single death, but it amounted to a declaration of war.
Now, as Aaron Lorne and his quiet companion flew into Ellis, that war was on everyone’s minds. Every shift of positioning, every flight along the tense Eostre-Tannes border, the unofficial boundaries of the two companies, was fraught with implication and peril. While the public may have been only partly aware of the brewing war between NEST and the SDC, everyone with foresight and something to protect was backing one side or the other or else getting the hell out of the way.
Aaron watched the NEST dragon’s wings beat the air. Ellis was drawing closer. He could make out the bluffs to the west. The Shields of Glass palace that NEST’s leader called home perched atop the bluffs. Even from this distance it was a striking structure, waves of folding glass reflected light back into the sky. The setting sun had painted it in hues of orange and pink. Aaron was half-tempted to ask his companion what he thought but he knew silence would be the only response.
Dragons flew all around Ellis. Aaron counted ten in his view, headed in all directions from NEST’s hub city. Since the SDC had vacated a few months ago it looked like NEST had wasted no time in expanding. Aaron marveled at the scale of the operations below them. He preferred his enemies weak, afraid, and disorganized. NEST was none of these. It was a beast, a machine, ready to finish claiming the west and turn to the east. This was something to be respected. To be feared.
If Aaron’s companion shared his fears, he didn’t show it. He remained stiff atop the dragon, somehow still even as the dragon’s wings beat, flying them ever closer to the lair of their enemy.
Chapter 3. The Man with the Snakeskin Hat
Aaron circled the landing site closest to the eastern gate. It was a wide, flat structure, about three stories above the street. In Ellis, a city of tall buildings, it did not rise much above its peers. The landing was covered in flat stone, nearly empty aside from a few guards and stablemen. The sun was close to setting.
The growth of dragonflight had been accompanied by regulations governing it. Most cities permitted landing only at designated sites and only in daylight. A small fee was required for landing. Only official stables could be used for dragons. Another small fee was required for stables to be licensed for that purpose. The larger dragon providers were locked in perpetual struggle with the local governments and their endless quest for a share of the profits the business generated. In Ellis, pretty much every piece of the infrastructure to support dragonflight belonged to NEST. As did the local government.
The secondary role of the landing restrictions, beyond generating revenue, was to allow the governments to track comings and goings of wealthy travelers and valuable goods. The larger dragon providers like NEST and SDC were generally fine with this. It helped them monitor their opposition and prevent smaller operatives from getting a piece of market share.
Aaron landed, jumped off the dragon, and leaned back to stretch. His companion remained sitting erect on the other dragon, wrapped in cloth that covered his entire head and arms. Nothing exposed, not even his eyes. Two NEST guards approached. Blues. Aaron had been unsure what type of reception to expect. NEST knew of his arrival. They could have greeted him with chains, thrown him into a dungeon to be tortured, maybe ransomed. They could simply kill him, make the war official. But it was looking like they were going to let him walk out of here. No doubt with a carefully planted tail. If they could track him through the city, they could unearth SDC sympathizers and then capture them along with Aaron later.
Aaron walked past the first approaching guard. The man held a clipboard and a hostile expression. Aaron went to the Corvale washbowl. The Corvale valued the ritualistic cleaning of their hands and face following a journey. The SDC had made sure that all landings had a silver Corvale washbowl, a way of stamping their culture into the broader industry. A sign of their power.
Aaron stepped up to the silver bowl, removing his gloves. He stopped. It was filled with piss. Warm, dirty piss. Welcome to Ellis, Corvale. For a moment, the smell of fresh piss wafting over him, Aaron felt a sharp edge of panic stab through his chest. What was he doing here? So much hate. He was walking into a city of people who wanted him dead, wanted him to die badly. Hundreds who wanted a seat at his execution, or even better a chance to participate.
The guard had said something.
“Sorry?” Aaron said.
“I said, what is your business in Ellis, sir?” He looked one step away from taking a swing at Aaron.
“I’m serving a summons. Aaron Lorne, Chief Operating Officer of the Syndicate of Delhonne Corvale.” Aaron removed a small worn square of tan parchment from a pocket, handed it to the guard.
The guard squinted at the document. Aaron heard the other guard calling out to Aaron’s companion, still seated atop the other dragon. He got no response.
“This doesn’t have your name on it,” the guard said finally. “It just says, A representative of the SDC to report to the Ellis District III court at the specified time and date.” He looked at a loss, unsure what to write on his form. He knew who Aaron Lorne was. He knew he would be asked to recount every word of this encounter the moment Lorne left.
Aaron sighed, for some reason still unable to take his eyes of the piss-filled bowl in front of him. “Well, that’s why I’m here. I’m the representative. Hearing’s day after tomorrow.” Seemed they hadn’t bothered sending in their brightest. Were they telling him how little he mattered?
The guard was beginning a laborious copying of the document word for word. “Look,” Aaron said, “you can keep it. I know where the trial is. I don’t need it.” The guard quickly shoved the summons into his clipboard, managing to look both grateful and angry at the same time. The higher-ups could deal with it now.
The other guard was approaching, face reddened after getting no response from Aaron’s companion despite all manner of shouting. “Ay!” he yelled at Aaron. “What’s his name then?” Gestured towards the rider, still perched on the other dragon. “Why isn’t he coming down?”
“Because he’s dead, you stupid piece of shit,” Aaron replied, patience gone. “His only business is being dead. His name is Cal Mast.”
…
Aaron reached the street a few minutes later. The dragons were being taken to a nearby stable. He doubted he would see them again. The rigid corpse was headed to the morgue. The guards had not been happy about the arrival of a dead rider. Their attempts at making Aaron understand how much extra work this created for them were laughable. This from men who had pissed in a bowl when they heard he was coming.
Aaron hadn’t been in Ellis for several years. He didn’t like it then. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like it any better this time. The tall buildings cast dark shadows over the cobbled streets. The cacophony of the hooves and wheels on the stones created strange echoes through the narrow streets. The rains fell often, making the footing treacherous. The metal-plate buildings that framed the streets were indistinguishable from each other. For some reason Aaron didn’t know or care about there was little rust. There was little to tell the old structures from the new aside from how far they leaned over the street, crowding passers-by at street level. Balconies pressed in from the upper floors. Every now and then a building would fall over, completing its decades-long cry for freedom. For a day or two it would block a street. Then just as quickly a new one would be built in its place, often made from the very same iron sheets, freshly bolted into place. After the rains got at it a season or two, it would start a slow lean again.
Aaron studied the street as he lit a cigarette, the sun below the buildings. Ellis was reasonably safe, partly due to the overbearing presence of NEST. There wasn’t the half-desperate scurrying for cover that accompanied nightfall in other large cities like Delhonne. No urgency was tied to the dying light. Trade continued late into the night and shops put out lights which bounced off the dull metal walls. Borhele jewelry from the west, ja
de from mines to the north, other minerals mined from the Eostre hills. Beggars were abundant, clustered under metal awnings and in doorways, seeking alms from the crowds of laborers headed home. Aaron watched one beggar, smiling through broken teeth and holding out a tin cup to a passing noblewoman. She ignored him with practiced ease. There was no shortage of wealth to balance the poverty. Aaron saw servants following well-dressed nobles, umbrellas at the ready. There were businessmen, merchants. No children. A garbage cart rolled slowly down the street behind him.
One of the obvious giveaways that Aaron was being followed was that there were no NEST guards in sight. Any blue worth his pay would converge on the site of a recent dragon landing in his patrol area. They must have been directed away. It appeared Aaron was to oblige NEST by leading them directly to his allies in Ellis.
Aaron took a drag off his cigarette and walked west, away from the city walls, deeper into Ellis. It took him two blocks to identify his tail. They were using one in front, one behind. The one in front was dressed as a businessman, frequently stopping to examine wares displayed on each side of the busy street. It took him a little longer to identify the other, but he finally realized the garbage cart was pacing him perfectly. Clever. An endless stream of garbage was such a part of city life that most people completely tuned out any awareness of it. The team could take their time when he slowed, move quickly, ignoring any real garbage collection, as Aaron moved faster. If he began really moving, one or two agents could peel off of the cart and follow him on foot.
He was enjoying the quiet game of cat-and-mouse, but was quickly nearing the extraction point he’d determined with his advance team. Three blocks west, he’d been told, then follow the man with the snakeskin hat. Aaron checked the crowd ahead of him as he passed the last crossroad. There, slumped casually in a doorway, was a man wearing a brimmed hat made of dark snakeskin pulled low over his eyes. The man caught Aaron’s gaze, gave him the tiniest of nods. Aaron flicked his cigarette into the gutter, leaving two fingers extended a moment longer than necessary and waggling them forward and back. Two watchers, one in front, one behind. The man in the snakeskin hat reached up to touch the brim, pulled the hat a little lower down over his eyes, and stood to walk across the street, ducking into a shop.
Rise of the Falsemarked (Spies of Dragon and Chalk Book 2) Page 3
