Aaron was seeing faces he knew mixed in with all the Corvale around him. A flash of blonde hair as Miriam Halsted pushed past. His former lover. One of the Corvale’s most valued spies. Last he heard she was stationed in Porcenne. Conners had done what he could to kill the fledgling relationship between her and Aaron by separating them after Delhonne. Miriam didn’t turn her head. She bore the same desperate expression as the others, pushing forward relentlessly. On Aaron’s other side he saw Derrick Issale, his face covered in blood. Something was wrong here. He needed to get to the front, get out of the hall. Catch his breath.
Somewhere in the distance Aaron heard a knocking. As if triggered by the sound the lines collapsed and everyone began fighting their way forward. Aaron began using both arms to pull people to the side. As he neared the exit of the hall, the opening which faced the dragon landing, the crowds somehow thinned and he stumbled out into the sunlight. The landing, protruding from the hall like a tongue, was filled with more long lines of people, these more orderly. They were waiting their turn, impatient but restrained. Aaron saw dragons circling the skies. Not SDC. They were ridden by men in NEST uniforms. The falsemarked were in New Wyelin.
One of the NEST dragons, falsemarked riding on its back, drew close to the front of a line. Aaron, now running towards the edge, yelled out to the woman who stood waiting. She turned and looked at him with tears in her eyes. She gave a short nod and sighed in relief as the dragon cruelly seized her shoulders in its talons, carrying her over the edge, flying out into the Deathbowl. After four beats of its wings, it released her, letting her fall to the rocks thousands of feet below. Aaron watched in horror. She gave no struggle, made no attempt to cling to the dragon when it let her go. As it turned to come back to the line, to pick up the next waiting Corvale, Aaron realized there were hundreds of other dragons doing the same. His people were being murdered, dropped one by one.
The dragon that had taken the woman was drawing closer, coming back to where Aaron stood. He reached for his sword but felt a strong hand catch his. “It’s okay,” a dark-haired man Aaron had never seen before said. “You can go next. You’ve earned it.” He shoved Aaron to the front of the line. Aaron recoiled, the edge looming in front of him. Below were piles of hundreds, thousands of his people. Was this the price of his ambition? Was this his fault? The dragon approached, talons extended.
Aaron threw himself to the side. The dragon narrowly missed with a screech of rage, claws grasping just behind Aaron, who rolled, world spinning, only to feel empty space below his legs. He slid off the landing, flinging a hand up which slowed him only momentarily. In that moment he turned and looked up. He saw the Prisoner in front of him, bronze marks bare in the cold mountain air, a black hood shielding his face. He sat on the back of a dragon, overseeing the second coming of the Corvale Slaughter. Aaron’s grip gave way and he fell.
He woke with a shout, already reaching for his knife. An unpleasant shock doused his already frantic nerves as he realized there was a man standing in the doorway. Aaron threw off his blanket and leapt across the room, knife poised to strike.
“Hold!” the man shouted. He had both hands raised, eyes on Aaron’s knife. “I’m Mario’s man.”
Aaron stared at him, wild-eyed, not yet fully back in this reality.
“You…” the man started, then hesitated. “Look. I was told to meet you here. Mario sent me. I’m friends with Jardere. My name’s Trevor. I knocked but you didn’t answer. Thought you might be out.”
Aaron lowered the knife, slowly nodding. “Why didn’t Mario come himself?”
Trevor gave a half-smile, recognizing the test hidden in the question. “That’s right. Mario didn’t come himself because Mario never leaves his place. He’s scared to leave his mom alone.”
“I wouldn’t leave either,” Aaron replied. “I hear she’s quite a cook.”
“Okay,” Trevor said, lowering his hands. “But she’s never cooked a meal in her life. Mario’s the cook.”
Aaron nodded, relieved Trevor appeared to be who he said he was. “Look, sorry about that. I’m normally a pretty light sleeper. Travel must have caught up with me.”
Trevor nodded. “Anyone who does that many miles with a dead man for a companion is bound to get a little worn out. I assume he also wasn’t much of a cook?”
Aaron gave a half-smile, tucked the knife in his pants and pushed past Trevor. He walked down the short hall into the kitchen as Trevor followed. Trevor looked around the well-furnished apartment and took a seat as Aaron began washing his face.
“Got anything to eat?” Trevor asked.
“I haven’t really looked yet. Help yourself.”
Trevor stood and began rummaging through the cupboard. “So what’s your plan for today?”
“I don’t think I can go outside until nightfall. You play Talent?”
“Sure, but I’ve got work. For you. You’ve got me on the morgue and the NEST operations center on the west side.”
“Tell me what’s been happening.”
“Your two dragons have been officially misplaced. That must cost some gold, losing them. Guessing when you see them next they’ll be wearing NEST flags,” Trevor said. “Is that the way it works? I can’t claim to be an expert. Will it be easy for NEST to flip them? Or will they remember the SDC?”
“They’ll remember. The dragons have long memories. They just might not care. If they’re fooled by the falsemarks, and all of them seem to be, they’ll think they’ve climbed up the ranks. They were some of our lower stock. Used for hauling goods, stuff like that. Never really given highly ranked riders.”
“What if they don’t buy the marks?”
“Then it would get interesting. They’d start by killing whoever tried to fool them. We can only hope.”
“You ever see anyone get away with faking this stuff before?”
Aaron was already shaking his head. “No. I’ve seen people try. The boldest one I saw walked right up to a couple of dragons we had parked in the street. Had his shirt off and a bunch of fake marks all over his chest. Walked right up to our lead dragon and presented them. The dragon barely looked up. She just gave a little soft cry and two of the smaller dragons came up behind the guy, ripped his arms off. Like she didn’t even bother dealing with him herself. Had her subordinates take care of it. Dragons have got a lot of pride. You always have to remember that. And if you lie to them, you’re dead to them.” Aaron turned back to the washbowl. “We never learned much about the guy. He died in the street.”
“They talk to each other?”
“Sure, when they’re interested enough to, which isn’t very often.” Aaron splashed water on his face and began running a razor across the stubble on his cheeks. “So what else is going on in Ellis?”
“Well, your traveling companion ended up at the morgue, no surprise there. NEST has been humming since you arrived. I think there’s trouble brewing between them and the Eostre Uprising, but that’s nothing new. Rumors of a falsemarked gathering a few nights from now. Fires in Bondsman and Markele’s Folly last night. Both NEST facilities from the look of it. Mario has bent over backwards to give you what you want, long as you don’t die before you pay him. Or me, more importantly.”
“I don’t plan to,” Aaron said. “Anybody we know turn up dead or in a NEST cell lately?”
“You asking after anyone in particular?” When Aaron didn’t answer, Trevor continued, “No dead, but there’s someone being held near the west operations, might be that guy you were looking for. But he’s been there since you had me start looking.”
“Can you come back when the sun goes down? Show me some of Ellis?”
“As long as you’re paying. Are we going someplace more exciting than the morgue?”
“I’d like to see who’s being held near the west ops. Can’t say I’m eager to spend more time near bodies. Doubt I’ll have much choice over the next few days.”
“NEST sure provides plenty. You probably didn’t need to feel compelled to brin
g your own.” Trevor had located a loaf of bread and some cheese, began cutting himself slabs onto the kitchen table. “You know, I used to work the caravans. Ugly work these days since NEST started sponsoring their own lines. But it used to be good. Regular pay, pretty safe if you pick the right caravan leaders. Delivered all kinds of stuff. For nearly a year, every run I made was glass lampshades. All one color called marigold. Thousands and thousands made their way west from a factory near Delhonne. I’ve never seen one since, but I guess someone had to sell them, and someone had to buy them. If I ever saw one in some rich person’s house, I could tell them that, odds are, I rode to Delhonne with that lampshade, kept it safe on the hard trails so it could make their living room a little prettier.”
Aaron grunted, now working on his neck with the razor, cold water making the task difficult.
“So the reason I bring up the caravans is cause I’m remembering this one trip. I guess it was after the marigold lampshade market had dried up and we were taking other stuff. We got hired by this church to take this formal-looking black cart down south to Porcenne. It was only a single cart but they requested a full guard. At the church where the caravan driver goes to get it, they make a really big deal about how important it is, all solemn. But then they don’t send anybody with it. If you know the caravan trade, that just doesn’t happen. You always send your own man. With the money you’re paying us, you can afford it. The escorts usually ride with us. Some are just like one of the crew, others are fussy and paranoid. Keep one eye on you and one on their stuff the whole time. That’s standard. But this weird church sends nobody, just a black cart apparently worth a lot. Half the money up front, rest on delivery.
“So after a few days on the road, you can imagine, people get curious. Not me, mind you, when you pay me to do a job I do it right. But the others, they decide to take a look. Cart’s been sealed up tight, no need to shift things around. It’s got something heavy in it cause it’s a pain to move. It’s got four wheels, no side doors, just a big door on the back for loading cargo. So when one of the guys tries the door, we’re all surprised when it opens right up. We look in and it’s full of bodies. Carefully wrapped in shrouds and just packed to the gills. Must be twenty in there. The guys don’t really know what to do. They’re valuable to somebody, apparently, but not to us. And this church guy all bundled them up, packed them tight, and sent them away. No escort to take them where they needed to get, just a bunch of strangers.
“We close the door back up and finish the delivery. I’m expecting another church or a big cemetery, but the directions take us to this lonely hut up top a hill. When we finally get the cart up it, a guy comes out to meet us. He looks in the back, kind of gives us a look like he’s pissed, like this has happened before and will happen again. Like he doesn’t really want them. But he goes back into his hut and comes out with the rest of our money. Pays us and we’re on our way.
“That’s all I know. We certainly worked our jaws thinking through possibilities that night around the campfire. The one I thought most interesting came from this new guy Bale, who says, ‘What if that guy we just gave the bodies to just turns around and sends them someplace else? Maybe it’s a church, maybe another lonely hilltop, maybe it’s an orphanage. Who knows? But when it gets there, that person sighs, and pays for the delivery, and then just sends it to someone else? It just keeps getting pushed forward, bought and paid for, all around the world. And people like us just help it get where it’s going.’ The other guys kind of laughed, gave Bale a hard time, but that was the end of that conversation. It felt a little too close to true, I think.”
Trevor finished his breakfast, turned to Aaron and shrugged. “Sorry, been on my mind lately, what with watching the morgue and all.” He tucked the remainder of the bread and cheese into his shirt and stood. “Nightfall then?”
Aaron had finished shaving, was leaned back with a lit cigarette. He nodded. “I’ll be here. When you come back, knock like this.” He rapped on the table three times, breaking them up with one long pause and two short ones.
“Expecting unfriendly visitors?”
“Just want as much warning as possible if there’s a delivery for me.”
Chapter 9. Barbayir Beckons
Find your way to us. Have someone in their inner circle.
Cal was aloft, finally, headed west, the words of the stolen note echoing through his head. The wound on his left side had dried. The hasty stitches of the doctor Eyes had located were holding, though they were maybe the ugliest set Cal had ever received. The doctor had been deep in his cups despite the early hour. Cal extracted some small measure of revenge by wrestling his tormentor’s shirt off of him after he was finished. He donned the dirty rag and arrived at the western NEST landing close to an hour late.
Cal had been greeted by two surly NEST riders, his escort. They gave their names as Cole and Burress and said little else. They didn’t seem too impressed with Cal, which was fine with him. No indication this was anything other than a routine flight. Cole and Burress had three dragons with them, good sized but not particularly fast or strong. Definitely not NEST’s top tier of stock. After some small talk and posturing, the men mounted, Cal making sure he showcased the nerves expected of someone who rides infrequently.
Find your way to us. Have someone in their inner circle.
As they neared the edge of Eostre, where the Borhele territory started, the land dropped lower and lower. Trees gave way to grass. Cal could sense the curiosity of his escort growing. It was one thing to get a request for passage to the farthest edges of civilization. Another to actually approach the outskirts, seeing humanity grow sparser by the mile, and still press forward. A feeling of leaving the world behind.
He’d felt this way about six weeks ago when he winged through the Tear, his dragon Tyrne confidently beating his wings. During that trip, his dragon had been eager to show those ahead and behind he’d been here before. Cal had been headed through the Frome Mountains, to the Corvale stronghold. When they hit the Bowl, Cal’s two companions had spread behind him. It was hard not to feel small as the massive space sprawled out and exposed him to the cutting wind. Cal could see the SDC defenses spread out before him. He trusted the Corvale, trusted Aaron, but flying three dragons into anyone’s death trap tested a man’s nerves these days. Cal’s man Erik, back and to the left of him, looked around, head on a swivel. This was his first time in New Wyelin. With a three man rotation, and one of them not a fighter, Erik was responsible for an exit strategy, just as Cal was responsible for guiding them forward. The Bowl offered no easy exits if their hosts grew unwelcoming, if the party turned foul.
To the back and right, Cal’s favored lawyer from Delhonne looked straight ahead, clearly scared out of his mind. Cal had brought him in anticipation that his summons to New Wyelin would involve a complicated contract, one he’d want a lawyer for. He was right about the contract and the lawyer did come in handy. He was just wrong about the job.
Cal knew the SDC, knew Conners Toren ran the show. He used Aaron intermittently as a head of their Intelligence Circle and as a sort of second in command. Derrick Issale had been the head of the Corvale Warrior Circle, what had become the militant side of the SDC. Derrick was now dead by NEST hands. Cal flew into New Wyelin at Conners’ summons, expecting, with no little pride, to be the first non-Corvale to be offered an executive position with the SDC as the head of their Warrior Circle. What came instead was a far more intriguing offer, albeit one less stable and lucrative. And far less public.
Conners had presented Cal with a contract to serve as a part of Aaron Lorne’s advance team on a mission to Ellis. Cal was to meet with a Borhele spy named Barbayir, a former contact of DeMarco Sellers, to learn if the Borhele had formed an alliance with Hideon Bray. Rumors had Bray meeting with the Borhele at the Shields. But once Sellers got burned the SDC was blind in and west of Ellis. There had been no contact with Barbayir since the rumors surfaced. An alliance with the Borhele had the potential bring all of the
western nations to heel, giving Bray the freedom to focus on the east. To focus on the SDC, his only real remaining rival for the skies.
Cal signed the contract after giving his lawyer the appropriate time to fuss over the details. He would have preferred the formal SDC position, but wasn’t about to turn away work, especially work with Aaron. Since Cal had been exiled from Castalan, the Unflagged, as Cal’s fleet was known, were struggling with their revenue streams. Cal could drum up work in and around Delhonne but it was largely work the SDC had passed on. Scraps. Not enough to stay competitive as his rivals scaled up.
Cal flew out of New Wyelin alone, leaving Erik a few days to make what connections he could. Erik would enjoy the stay. Women outnumbered men about five to one. In a society which prized warriors and riders, Cal’s man would do fine. Cal himself had yet to pass a night alone there. Still, he found himself winging through the Tear before the sun had gone down, eager to make the foot of the mountains before dark. He had flown more or less directly to Garen, keeping away from the well-monitored flight paths he’d typically use.
Now Cal was finally back in the skies, this time over Eostre, watching civilization fade away from the back of a NEST dragon. Headed to meet the Borhele.
…
The cluster of buildings Cal was looking for was finally visible on the horizon. He waved to his NEST escort and pointed to the small town. Cole and Burress both nodded, verifying they were looking at Breenheart, Eostre’s last stand before surrendering territory to the Borhele.
They landed on a quiet street. Grass grew up between the wheel ruts. Weeds were everywhere as though the grasslands were focused on reclaiming the town. Cal glanced over the street, looking at each of the ten or so structures that comprised the town before settling on the one most likely to serve alcohol. There was no sign advertising its name but the bar had hitching posts out front and a porch with tables and chairs, a few empty jars scattered around them.
Rise of the Falsemarked (Spies of Dragon and Chalk Book 2) Page 8
