Rise of the Falsemarked (Spies of Dragon and Chalk Book 2)

by Samuel Gately

  Cal raised his hands, lit cigarette held between the index and middle finger of his right, and said to the man facing him, “Now, that’s settled. Why don’t we just start from the beginning again?”

  “Put it down,” the guard said.

  “I’m not sure you really want me to do that.” Cal gestured to the oil pooled around his feet, around the feet of all five men in the room. “But, I’ve got an idea how we get out of this where we don’t all die.”

  The four NEST men had Cal surrounded. NEST guards like these didn’t always wear blues, these men didn’t. Maybe something like a neighborhood watch, who had been activated by a late night message to protect the only building in their territory worth protecting. They had arrived to find the night guard dead, a hooded figure spreading lamp oil around the ground floor. Understandably, they were upset.

  The four were ranged around Cal, each a few paces away, putting their backs at the walls. There were doors to Cal’s front and right. An exterior window on the left over the shoulder of that guard. Nothing but wall and the one with a crossbow behind him. The guard he faced seemed to be in charge, though he kept looking towards the man at Cal’s back. Not too bright, as evidenced by the fact that he’d let Cal take advantage of the small distraction of the evening bells to light a cigarette. Cal now held fire.

  The man in front, the men on the sides, these troubled Cal. All had swords, looked like they knew how to use them. But it was the man at his back that gave Cal the greatest worry. Not only was he holding a loaded crossbow, arrow tip pointed right between Cal’s shoulder blades, but there was the even more worrisome fact that Cal knew him. His name was Clay Duren. He was from Castalan, Cal’s homeland. And Clay was not at all stupid like the man who stood in front of Cal.

  Clay had said nothing yet. Hadn’t revealed Cal’s identity to the others. But he knew Cal’s face. They had spoken directly a few years ago. This was a problem. Cal wasn’t supposed to be identified this early in the game. To NEST he was supposed to be dead in the morgue or location unknown. Being recognized before he could make his way west could jeopardize the entire operation. But Cal was getting ahead of himself. His first job was to get out of this room alive.

  Perversely, Cal found himself looking forward to what was coming. It had been a long and arduous journey to get to Ellis. He’d come overland from Garenhold with a caravan train, unable to fly into Eostre without exposing himself to NEST scrutiny. It had taken several weeks of hard travel. Bandits had nearly taken the train on several occasions. The caravan driver refused to pay NEST protection funds. Cal had survived two attacks before he realized that NEST patrols were working with the bandits, feeding them the location of the caravan. It took yet another attack for the caravan driver to listen to Cal and prohibit campfires at night.

  Caravan drivers still maintained the stubborn belief that travel was restricted to the daytime. They were slow to realize dragons had no obstacles in the sky. Night in fact allowed their riders to see farther and better identify caravan locations, which could then be passed on to bandits, also employed by NEST. One big happy murderous corporate family. Once the caravan’s fires were restricted, things had gotten easier, though they’d had to avoid major roads due to the NEST roadblocks. It was clear NEST was bleeding the caravan business dry in their efforts to control all transportation into and out of Eostre. Cal had arrived just six days ago, more than a week and a half behind schedule, beyond frustrated.

  The first thing he did on arrival was put in an order for a NEST flight to a small town in far western Eostre, as close to the Borhele border as he could get. He used the cover name Emmitt Thorpe, offered gold up front, a lot, and generally did everything he could to give them the impression he was a smuggler, a little bit desperate at that. Sensing the potential to rob him blind, they might be inclined to allow him to fly accompanied by an escort. Whether they would be planning to allow him to return alive would be a problem for another day. NEST filed his application, but as a new customer, put him through a review process that had taken several days. During that time they’d been watching the small tavern he was staying above. He kept a low profile and had gotten the flight approved. It was scheduled for tomorrow morning. So with his last free night in Ellis, well behind schedule, he decided he needed to make some progress on his secondary objective. He started some fires. Well, only one before the cavalry arrived. Though he was pretty confident that, whether he lived or died, this structure would burn too.

  Cal took a long slow drag off his cigarette. The man in front of him was indecisive, eyes darting around the room. The NEST muscle could wait all night, but Cal had delayed long enough. This wasn’t going to get any easier. It was their city. Any reinforcements arriving would be of the NEST camp. Cal could take the three, but Clay would get him with the crossbow. Clay would be ready for him to go for the crossbow, would evade him just long enough for the others’ blades to catch up. The only advantage Cal had was he knew the paths the flames would take. Thus the cigarette.

  He gestured as if to spread his hands, bringing the red cherry of his cigarette near his waist, and opened his mouth to speak. With a downward flick of the wrist, he sent the burning cigarette down into the lamp oil at his feet. Without waiting to see the flames start, he rolled to his front and left, bringing himself closer to the window, half hoping Clay would be stupid enough to send his arrow into the man in front of him.

  No such luck, Cal noted as he took his feet again, sword out just in time to deflect an enemy blade. He raised his foot and managed to kick the sword hand of the other man closing in, pulling him in front of the crossbow path. It still hadn’t been loosed. The flames, on the other hand, raced around the room. They blazed highest at the center where Cal had stood. After a slight jog outward, they turned inward towards the interior walls. With a curse, the third man was forced back from the fray as the fire licked eagerly at his legs.

  Cal wanted to get behind the first man, maybe even out the front door, but both men had already regained their balance. Cal feinted at the first, kicked the second in the knee, feinted at the first again, then spun to kick the second in the midsection, driving him back into the flames. The man screamed as his pants caught fire. Cal had an instant to lock eyes with Clay, who was still patiently tracking Cal with the crossbow. Finally he fired. Cal hurled himself right as the bolt passed between him and the first man, who was closing. The third came around the corner, having found an open path back to the fray by circling the interior. Clay drew his sword. Cal pivoted, took two running steps, and threw himself out the window he’d managed to maneuver near, just inches ahead of a swinging sword. The screams of the burning man followed him down to the hard cobbled street. He hit the ground awkwardly, broken glass tearing at his palms as he pushed to his feet. He picked up his sword from the stones near him and tore off down the street, several steps away before all the glass had settled.

  “Fuck,” Cal swore quietly as he ran. Only two fires where he’d hoped for five. Several of the enemy had seen his face. One who could put a name on it, still drawing breath. Cal was almost tempted to turn around and clean up his mess. Instead, the cries for reinforcements pushed him forward, searching desperately for deeper shadows.

  Chapter 6. The Castalanian

  Elena Murdock nursed her glass of wine, furious with herself, her evening, the Castalanian, everything. If Derek offered her another refill, she’d scream. She sat on a stool at the far end of the bar. She normally stood on the other side, something that had not gone unremarked tonight. She hated coming back to the tavern when she was off duty. She almost never did. And never so dressed up. It had clearly made an impression on the regulars. Those who didn’t keep asking her to fetch them drinks, as if she were on duty, wouldn’t stop leering. Several of the regulars had asked her to dance, those who’d made it past the glares she shot all approachers. What a stupid idea this had been.

  Elena worked all the time. When she did get a rare night off, it was usually spent catching up on sleep o
r laundry. Rent was high in Ellis. She needed to pay her mother’s nurse to watch her when Elena was pouring drinks. She could barely afford a night off every six months or so. But here she was tonight, looking for a man who wasn’t here. Elena sighed. She hated admitting she was lonely, but anything else was a lie.

  The past week had been a little different, had at least felt a little different. There was a Castalanian renting the space above the tavern. He’d been in every night since his arrival, sitting quietly at the bar, drinking as much as any other three men but never showing the effects. Chain smoking, which Elena didn’t care for, but also treating her far nicer than any of the regulars. They’d even stopped mocking her a bit in his presence, intimidated.

  Elena and the Castalanian had talked some late in the night. He never left before last call but when she told him they were closing he went without a fuss. They talked about Ellis. He was curious about the city, NEST, Eostre Uprising. Local politics and the noble families. She asked him questions about the other large cities. He was well traveled and told funny stories about the different customs in Castalan and Porcenne. Through it all he’d said little about himself. He’d even avoided giving his name and pleasantly but steadfastly steered the conversation in a new direction whenever it landed on him. He was here waiting for NEST flight approval, that much he’d shared.

  Elena had asked Derek what the Castalanian’s deal was. Derek had shrugged, said he figured he was a freelance merchant, probably import/export, which was a nice way to say black market smuggler. Derek said NEST had already been by to ask him about the Castalanian. He told them what little he knew.

  Then last night the Castalanian told her his flight had been approved. She surprised both him and herself by turning coldly away. When she got home, she sat for a while with her ailing mother, rubbed her aching feet. Then this morning, she got to the tavern early and asked for the evening off. Derek was caught off guard but didn’t refuse. So she went home in the afternoon and put on a dress that wasn’t server black on a weekend night for the first time in almost a year. She put her dark red hair up and applied makeup.

  And now she was here. And the Castalanian was not. Which left her awkwardly waiting at the bar, attracting unwelcome looks and wasting a rare night off, paying for a nurse to watch her mother while she herself wasn’t out earning.

  It was getting late. She felt foolish. When she saw no one was watching, she downed her wine and left out the back door. As she flung the door open a little harder than she meant to, a man coming down the alley ducked into the shadows. Elena, startled, pulled back halfway into the doorway. It was him. It was the Castalanian. He must have been heading for the back stairs.

  They locked eyes. For a moment, he looked like a trapped animal, afraid, then the fear melted away and he gave her a weary smile. “Elena,” he said quietly.

  “Hi,” she said, suddenly a little nervous, feeling no less foolish now that she’d found him.

  Elena caught a strong whiff of lamp oil and smoke in the alley. She looked around, at first worried there was a fire, then realized it was coming from the Castalanian. His clothes were filthy, covered in dark oil stains. And his hands were bloody, hastily bandaged in rags that had bled through.

  At the sight of the blood, Elena’s caregiver instincts kicked in. She’d administered care to the losers and winners of a hundred bar fights, treating everything from bruised knuckles and pride to stab wounds. More than one evening had ended with Derek closing the bar while Elena sat patiently with her apron pressed on a wound, wishing the doctor would hurry up.

  “Are you well?” she asked. “I could send for the doctor.”

  “No,” he said. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  She cocked an eyebrow, glancing at the obvious wounds. “Can I take a look? We have clean bandages behind the bar.”

  The Castalanian looked up and down the alley. “I’d like to get off the street. Join me for a drink upstairs? I’d be happy for some help rebandaging these.”

  Elena nodded, then followed as he ducked around the back and headed up the exterior stairs. At the top of the stairs was a small landing with the door to the upstairs quarters. He reached up and felt for something on top of the door, then unlocked and opened it. Elena realized with a start that he was checking if someone had been there while he was gone. He must have done something, placed something so that only he would recognize it if the door had been opened. This explained why he refused the cleaning service that was standard for the tavern’s few guestrooms. She wondered exactly what she was getting into, following a bloody and oil-soaked man into his unlit quarters.

  The Castalanian ushered her in, then, with a final look around the street, closed the door behind them firmly. The tension seemed to leave his frame as he did so. As he lit a lamp, taking care to keep his oil soaked clothes away from the match, Elena studied him.

  He had short-cropped dark hair, just a little longer than a soldier’s cut, a slight curl to it. His skin was a bit dark for this far north, a tinge of olive to it. He was an inch or two taller than average, thin and leanly muscled. He had several days’ worth of stubble, giving him a roguish look. His clothes were all dark and exposed little skin. They looked expensive but worn from traveling. She could almost say the same about him. Something about his face, a little too clean, a little too healthy. He’d come from money even if he wasn’t waving it around these days.

  The Castalanian poured two drinks from a bottle on the sitting table. Elena flushed momentarily as she wondered why he had two glasses ready, then decided it didn’t concern her. She sat with him at the table. He gave her a smile, tipped his glass in her direction, then downed it. He poured himself another, set it on the table, and began unwrapping his hands. Elena waited in silence, trying not to study the room too openly. She’d been up here many times before the Castalanian arrived when she’d filled in for the maid, but it had a different feel with him in it. It felt like his. He’d moved the table and chairs, shifted the bed to a different wall. A map of the city was rolled out on the table. She could see the edge of a map of the State of Eostre below it.

  He pulled the bandages off his hands. Elena saw they were little more than rags, hastily wrapped around his palms. As he held his hands out towards her, she saw the cuts were shallow, maybe from broken glass. She gave him a small smile. “Should be fine. I’ll just get some supplies. You don’t mind?” He shrugged and she rose and went to a small cupboard.

  As she returned with a couple of clean rags and alcohol to dress the wound, he was staring out the window, checking the street again. He sipped at his drink, didn’t seem to be in much of a mood for conversation.

  To fill the silence, she said, “Did you hear Aaron Lorne is in Ellis?”

  That certainly got his attention. He looked at her sharply. After a moment, he leaned back in his chair again. “Oh, yeah?” he asked.

  “Oh, sure. Everybody’s talking about it downstairs. He came in just before nightfall. People are saying NEST wasn’t expecting it. And that man in charge of NEST isn’t even in the city. What’s his name?”

  “Bray,” the Castalanian said softly.

  “Yes, that’s him. Everyone’s saying Aaron Lorne is crazy, coming to NEST’s headquarters when them and the SDC hate each other. I guess not many SDC people are still in Ellis. The ones that are keep pretty quiet about it.”

  “Where’d he go after he landed?” the Castalanian asked. “He didn’t come to your bar, did he?”

  Elena laughed. “Oh, yeah, we serve all the royalty. I’m sure he’ll be by as soon as he gets tired of being someplace that doesn’t smell like vomit.” She took Cal’s hands, began gently cleaning the shallow cuts. “No one knows where he is. Must be meeting with NEST people or the government people or something.”

  “He came alone?”

  “Oh, that’s the best part! Well, maybe not the best part. I’m not sure. But the part I thought you’d be interested in. He had a body with him. A dead body. Cal Mast.”

  The
Castalanian looked at her and shrugged.

  “Cal Mast,” she continued. “You don’t know him? I thought he was from Castalan. You’re from Castalan, right?” When he nodded, she said, “Well, you know Cal Mast, right?”

  He shrugged again.

  “He was one of the first dragon riders. He helped saved Delhonne from a Chalk invasion. You haven’t heard this? He’s friends with Aaron Lorne. Some people say he’s SDC, others say he works alone. Some of the dragon people call him the Unflagged. I thought you were a rider?”

  “Not much lately. Not with assholes like Aaron Lorne and Hideon Bray up in the skies. So Cal Marks is dead then?”

  “Mast! I can’t believe you don’t know him. I probably only know, like, five dragon riders and I know him. In Delhonne he drew his sword on three dragons that took him out of the sky and they just bowed before him.” She wrapped fresh bandages around his hands.

  “If I’m honest, he sounds like a bit of a prick. You say he’s from Castalan? I should probably know the name. I’ve been away too long. By the way, you haven’t touched that drink.”

  Elena smiled and slid over to the other side of the table. Cal looked at his carefully wrapped hands for a moment. “And thank you.”

  They sat in silence a moment. “Listen,” the Castalanian said, “do you mind if I change out of this shirt? The smell is starting to get to me.”

  “I was just going to suggest that.” As he rose, she wanted to say something about how she didn’t care about the blood, the oil, didn’t want to know why they were there. She just decided to keep quiet.

  The Castalanian drew his shirt over his head, exposing a back covered in scars and tattoos. She’d seen marks from time to time, never anything on this scale. The black and copper figures snaked all around his body.