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

by Samuel Gately

  “Are those…real?” she asked, feeling lame as she did.

  “Real as those cuts on my hands,” he said. “I’ve got a shirt around here somewhere.” He fumbled at the far side of the bed.

  As he bent over, Elena watched his muscles move, gently raising and lowering the scars around his ribs, the marks on his shoulders. She only had so many nights off. She only had so many opportunities to be a woman. Not a bartender, not a nurse, not just something in service to a man but a real woman. Rarely found the courage to take what she wanted. She so rarely saw something she wanted. She stood, blood rushing to her head. “Don’t bother.” Elena tossed the rest of her drink back. She reached down to grab her skirt and smoothly pulled her dress up over her head. As her dark red hair fell back down over her body, naked but for her smallest and sheerest pair of smallclothes, she bent down to blow out the lamp. She met the Castalanian in the middle of the room and wrapped her arms around him. “Now you be careful with those hands,” she said as she pulled them both down to the bed.

  …

  Cal managed to stay in bed for almost five minutes after Elena fell asleep, enjoying the sound of her breathing. She was an escape, a good one. Kind, tender, with no agenda he could see. Unlike the rest of the world, which was pulling him in a hundred directions at once. He rose to check the street again. It was still empty. Was that good? Surely better than the alternative. Blues descending, swords drawn. Dragons circling the skies above him. Clay leading the hunt, passing out descriptions of Cal Mast to falsemarked. Or maybe they’d managed to follow him from Markele’s Folly, just waiting for reinforcements, perched in the alley just around the corner beyond his sight. Laughing at his lack of defense, the fact he brought a girl back to his rooms, oblivious to their watching eyes. If they found him tonight she’d be in trouble too.

  Trying to link up with Aaron was out of the question. There was no telling who was watching. Even if Aaron had ducked whatever tail NEST put on him, the friends of SDC that Aaron would have connected with could scarcely be trusted. Cal’s primary objective still lay at the far end of a NEST flight, and that flight required he be unrecognized tomorrow. But Clay was here. What did it mean?

  Cal checked to make certain all the candles were out, then opened the curtain fully so he could see the whole street, trusting the darkness of the room to hide him. There was only the faintest light of a torch on this side of the street, though the noises of revelry from the tavern below could still be heard.

  After Delhonne, after Aaron had brought the discovery of dragons to the city, after he and Cal had buried a Chalk army under it, Cal went home. To Castalan, the small southwestern trading country his father ruled as Steward. Cal had three dragons with him on his return to Castalan, won in Delhonne from the Chalk spy Zarus Coff.

  Word of the dragons had reached Castalan before Cal, but he was the first to be seen atop one. Though he would never tell anyone, the moment he landed in the courtyard of his father’s palace and was greeted by the Steward of Castalan himself was the proudest of his life. Ordinarily an audience with his father would require a notice of several days, and would be restricted to a half hour in which he would be pressed to efficiently make and justify whatever request he brought forth to the nation’s most powerful man. Cal’s mother was long dead. Cal’s brothers held little love for their youngest, largely absent half-brother. His sister was no longer in Castalan. It had been more than five years since his last visit home. And that visit had been for the minimum two days required to bury his oldest brother. Before that it had been another four years since he left Castalan with plans of never returning.

  But the dragons changed everything. Rumors of Delhonne had reached Castalan only days ahead of Cal himself. The people were swapping tales, Cal’s name floating through the air along with those of Aaron Lorne and Conners Toren. Then Cal winged in himself, astride one of the legendary creatures with two trailers cutting through the air, changing the rules of warfare with the unlocking of the skies.

  The Steward wasted little time in harnessing the dragons and Cal. A contract was drawn up. Cal’s services for six months with the goal of breaking the smuggling rings that kept Castalan’s government struggling for tax revenue. Castalan, as a port nation, relied on tariffs and taxes from a host of industries who would have preferred to take advantage of Castalan resources for free.

  The plan was hammered out by Cal and his father, ringed as always by staff and retainers, over the course of two long nights. The following day a one-time offer was extended across Castalan. All unregistered ships could be registered with no penalty. All goods presently in Castalan but not on the books could be made legal at a low tax rate. These were the carrots. They were followed by an army of black boots kicking down warehouse doors, stepping on the wrists and necks of known smugglers. The sticks.

  Cal’s dragons were soon stalking the harbors, feeding ship locations to the Castalan Navy’s patrols. Hunting smugglers. The once routine ducking of the taxman became much harder. Smuggler’s coves no longer hidden from the eyes of patrols. Eyes in the sky. For the first time the smugglers learned to fear the full moon. Just when they thought they’d seen the extent of the foe they faced, the foe who’d forced them out of the daylight, deeper into the fog, away from the places they thought were safe, Mast began sinking ships.

  Out of the darkness when the clouds covered the moon, the woosh of wings, the sudden crash of a hull crushed under claws, fore and main masts torn down. Fire. Not born of dragon’s breath, that legend had proven false. Born of a smashed bottle of lamp oil thrown to the deck and chased by a lit cigarette, the quickly growing modus operandi of the son of the Steward. And then the sound of wings was gone. The watchmen yelling “Dragons!” were far too late to be of any help. They were left in silence as the ships began filling with fire from the top and water from below, pondering margins and rates of return. The Steward’s offer of legitimacy looked better every day.

  There had been holdouts. Long, bloody holdouts. Gangsters who had gotten fat and comfortable atop Castalan’s black market were not going to surrender its keys easily. They intended to survive its shrinkage, maybe even profit as the sole survivors as prices for illicit goods went through the roof. One such crimelord was Dolan Krelge. His second was Clay Duren, a rising star in the Castalan crime circles. Known for the eccentric but practical measure of carrying a loaded crossbow everywhere he went.

  Clay had been present the first time Cal came to visit Dolan Krelge, giving him the option of retreat into legitimate business. According to Cal’s sources, after he’d left Clay had pressed hard for Krelge to accept Cal’s deal. Krelge refused. Shortly afterwards Clay left Castalan, having recognized what other holdouts failed to. The Steward did not intend this effort to fail. He would not have attached the public face of the dragons, of his son, to this effort if he wasn’t intending to see it through. The operation had already begun paying for itself. The right forces had aligned to decimate Castalan’s smuggling rings. There was no counter for the power of the flight of dragons yet, no parity. This battle was already lost.

  When Cal came to visit Krelge for a second time, Clay was nowhere to be seen. Few of Krelge’s men were. The blood was in the water. The money had dried up. Krelge was shown to the Castalan Bay with the help of many insistent hands, Cal standing in the shadows and drinking from a flask as Krelge was dumped in the dirty waters to sink or swim. Prevailing wisdom was he would sink and the brief, informal betting lines were set. Cal thought he would swim, thought the old shark had something left in him. He didn’t. Cal lost his bets. He watched the large man’s head fall under the waves, Cal thinking about his own times fighting the hungry currents of that Bay. Cal had not thought or cared about Clay Duren then or any time since, until he saw those same sharp eyes tonight, in a new city, resting over a loaded crossbow which was pointed at the center of his back.

  A city far away from Cal’s normal rounds. He had known this was a bad deal when he took this mission on. He might be temp
ted to walk away, or at least find Aaron and argue that the western flight wasn’t worth it, too dangerous. Especially now that Cal’s identify may be known to NEST. It was definitely known to Clay, who was standing with NEST. But Cal’s trip into Ellis across Eostre had given him some sense of how bad things were getting out here. NEST was crushing the west. The scary thing was how no one seemed to realize what was happening. This wasn’t just a fight for the SDC’s market share anymore. NEST was positioning themselves to take over the continent.

  Cal found himself running through tomorrow’s supply list in his head. His black coat reeked of oil. He’d have to get another. He’d bring his sword. Purse. Dagger. His large duffel, emptied. They’d be expecting him, under the guise of a smuggler named Emmitt Thorpe, to travel west, meet up with suppliers, and return with contraband, probably drugs. They’d plan on killing him before returning. That’s if Clay hadn’t spilled his identity, because he didn’t care or think it was important, or if Clay had talked but NEST wasn’t organized enough to link Cal Mast to Emmitt Thorpe’s flight tomorrow. If they did know who he was, they’d give him right to Hideon Bray. Bray would kill him, either immediately or after Cal refused to join him.

  Cal looked at his bandaged hands for a moment. The first blood of a new mission always made him think about the past, the steps that took him to this strange life. He could almost feel the swells of the waves of Castalan Bay carrying him gently away from the shore, insistently tugging him downward. His birthplace.

  Whatever the risk, Cal had little choice in the matter. He would report to NEST’s western landing, in the shadow of the Shields of Glass Palace where Hideon Bray laid his head, bright and early tomorrow. He might as well get some sleep before then, curl up with Elena and hope the world didn’t kick in the door for a few more hours.

  The Day of Preparation

  Chapter 7. Find Your Way to Us

  Cal took the stairs down the back to the empty alley and walked around to the busy front street. Elena had left before first light, not wanting the customers to see her sneaking out of the apartment. She’d extracted a promise from him to check back in after his travel to the west.

  The narrow streets were already crowded, sharp morning sun shooting through Ellis’ irregular buildings, creating a patchwork of light. Cal liked the early morning. He did his share of grumbling and eye shading, like any heavy drinker, but it was mostly for show. Truth was he liked any time when others were asleep. The late nights and the early mornings. Something about moving forward when others lay at rest. At midday, the sun beating down, he hated being a part of the crowd. It made him want to find a tavern and hide.

  Cal lit a cigarette, carefully studying the crowd. The kid was already on the scene and gave Cal a small shake of his head. Cal’s NEST watchers weren’t back, the ones who’d been keeping tabs on him while they were deciding whether to approve his flight. Good sign. The kid, Cal had taken to calling him Eyes, had watched Cal’s watchers for the past five days. It was Eyes who’d let him know when the NEST surveillance had finally ended yesterday.

  Cal jerked his head to the west as he shook out his match, indicating Eyes should follow him. Then he threw the matchbook to the curb and headed off down the street. Eyes would make his way over and pick up the discarded book, find the three gold coins tucked inside, his pay for the morning.

  Cal headed west through the Seven Streets. With the early sunlight painting the ground ahead of him, Cal’s paranoia from last night seemed unfounded. He slipped from the crowded main streets onto quieter paths, seeking space to think. He’d had a close shave. There was now someone in Ellis who knew his face, knew he was here. But even if Clay sought to profit by exposing Cal, there was nothing to tie Cal to Emmitt Thorpe, the drug smuggler due to fly west this morning. So long as nobody knew his face at the landing this morning. Also the arrival of his so-called corpse could only confuse things. Clay might even find himself getting laughed at if he claimed Cal Mast and last night’s arsonist were one and the same. The ghost of Cal Mast loose in the streets of Ellis.

  Cal was about halfway to the landing, boots echoing on an empty, narrow street, when he was brought back to the present by a sudden whistle. Eyes. An alert. No one ahead. Cal turned quickly. A wild-eyed beggar was approaching, too fast and straight for Cal’s comfort. As he caught Cal’s eye he gave a big smile, lips pulling back to reveal a mouth full of jagged broken teeth. He had filthy, matted hair and a long unkempt beard. He was wrapped in a thick, dirty overcoat.

  “I’ll suck your cock for a gold piece,” the beggar rasped, still headed straight towards Cal.

  Cal had started to take a step back and put his hands in the air, simultaneously repulsed and shocked by the sudden proposal, when he realized he was in danger. The thought this isn’t my city somehow found its way into his head and he knew, a second before a bloody knife came out, this was an attack. Cal arrested his backwards movement to jam up the beggar with the broken teeth, wrecking the spacing on the knife thrust he now saw coming. He frantically pushed down to ward off the blow. He only half succeeded and the knife ripped into his left side.

  Pain pulsed through his body as the knife cut into him and then caught on his shirt. Instead of reaching for his sword he poked the beggar in the eye as hard as he could. His jab hit home and the man recoiled. The knife withdrew but came back at him a moment later. Cal was ready this time and forced the blade past him, pushing the shoulder of the beggar to throw him off balance. Cal took a quick step backwards and drew his sword. He swung it crossways, almost before it had cleared the scabbard. The beggar caught it on his blade. Hatred filled the attacker’s bloodshot open eye, the other screwed painfully shut. The beggar pivoted to run, masterfully twisting his knife to push Cal’s sword away from him, preventing Cal from cutting him down from behind.

  Cal’s adrenaline was up now and he didn’t want the assassin getting away. With his free hand he grabbed hard at the beggar’s coat. The beggar stumbled and Cal was able to bring his sword around, swing it down hard into the frantic bundle of coat and man. He hit something, not sure what, then the beggar squirmed out of a coat torn nearly in half. Amazingly, he took a step towards Cal as though he wanted his coat back, giving Cal a chance to finally take a real swing, nearly gutting the man. The beggar gave an angered look to Cal then took off running, leaving the coat behind. Cal’s thoughts of chasing him vanished as the pain of the wound in his side abruptly returned. He watched the beggar round the corner out of sight, then crumpled to a hard knee on the cobblestones.

  He heard approaching footsteps, running, and turned to defend himself, still on one knee. It was just Eyes. The youth looked shocked. The street was still empty otherwise. A carefully chosen site for the privacy of a murder. But for Eyes, but for Cal’s luck in recognizing the attack before it came, Cal would be bleeding his life out on Ellis’ stones.

  “Ah, fuck,” Cal swore. Blood soaked the left side of his shirt. “I can’t…” He looked around, still no one else. “We got to move. Help me over to the next street. We need more people.” Eyes jumped under Cal’s arm and helped him lurch across the street to an alley. They made their way to the other end where the ordinary traffic of people and carts were moving along an adjacent street. Cal stopped in the meager shadows of the alley before reaching the sunlit road. With one hand pressed to his side, he pulled several coins out of the purse with his other.

  “As fast as you can, find me another shirt and find a doctor or a tailor. As fast as you can. Bring them back here. If you find one but not the other, just come back fast. I can’t miss this flight.”

  Eyes scrambled off, leaving Cal to lean against the wall and moan. He realized he was still holding the beggar’s coat. It looked filthy, certainly no use as a bandage. Still, there had been a moment there when it seemed as if the beggar was coming back for it. Wanted it back, badly. He might even be circling back for it right now. Cal needed to stop thinking of him as a beggar. This was no opportunistic stabbing, no mugging. The dagger had
already been bloody when it came out. This was a professional killer on a contract, a strange one. Unlikely it was a NEST man. Why bother? Cal was on his way to them. And why kill him? Surely a prison or torturer’s chamber left them with greater value and options. But who then? Who else knew Cal was here? Clay?

  Cal studied the coat, flipped it over with his free hand. It fell open. While the exterior was tattered and filthy, the interior was clean and well-kept. It had numerous pockets sewn into the lining. He began carefully going through each pocket. The first three were empty. The fourth held a small note. Cal unrolled it. Find your way to us. Have someone in their inner circle. No markings beyond those words in an unrecognizable hand. No signature. No cipher.

  Cal searched the rest of the coat but found nothing. He read the note several times. Find your way to us. Have someone in their inner circle. Cal had no circle, no one to betray him on this mission. But Aaron would have already met with his Ellis allies. It could be one of them was not who he seemed. Or the note could have been a plant.

  Cal waited, breathing heavily, for stitching and a new shirt, hoping desperately NEST wouldn’t scrap his flight. The tide of the war might well depend on it. And he needed a win.

  Chapter 8. A Single Cart

  Aaron waited in line, impatient. With so much of his childhood spent in the sparsely populated far east, he had never been comfortable in crowds. This was an ugly one. Everyone was pressing forward, pushing and shoving to get past the mass of humanity. The lines barely held now, wouldn’t hold much longer. There was bright light ahead at the end of the dark hall, one whole side open to the skies. If he could just get past all these people.

  He was having trouble breathing. It sounded like he wasn’t the only one. He heard the labored, ragged gasps from people on all sides echoing through the chamber. A child was crying. Men grunted as they pushed forward. They were trapped. Aaron looked around, realized he knew where they were. The Hall of Far East in New Wyelin. He turned towards the back of the great room, hoping to see Conners, but the chair which usually held his boss, his leader, was empty.