“Buy you a drink?” Cal asked his escort. The men grunted their approval and let him lead the way. Moments later, they entered a dingy taproom. A few laborers looked up from their jars. They didn’t see much traffic, especially on dragon, and would have questions about news from the capital. But they were versed in the courtesies of the road and would let Cal and the NEST men get through at least a round before hassling them with questions.
Cal waved Cole and Burress over to a corner table, relieved when they went without protest. He’d have to be careful about leaving them alone together, giving them the opportunity to coordinate on slitting his throat once they were convinced he’d gotten his payload. But for now he needed a moment with the bartender.
“Two pitchers of ale,” Cal said, laying some coin on the dirty bar. He watched the bartender slowly draw the golden liquid. It looked surprisingly clean for the shabby establishment. As the bartender placed them heavily on the bar and reached for the coin, Cal leaned in. “I need a word with Barbayir. And three glasses.”
“Don’t know nothing about that,” the bartender replied, placing three jars on the bar.
Cal added a few more coins to the pile. “Well, maybe someone else does. We’re not going anywhere.” He turned back to the table, two pitchers in one hand, jars in the other. Despite his unworried expression, it wasn’t a promising start. If Breenheart, if this tavern in particular, didn’t light the way to Barbayir, Cal had come all this way for nothing.
…
Several hours later, Cal stared up at the stars as he emptied his bladder. Only the faintest firelight crept past him to fight the long dark ahead. They were camped just outside of town on the edge of a low plain. Right by the border with the Borhele, where the lands sank lower into a kind of grassy marsh.
Cole and Burress were back by the bonfire. They’d given him no end of grief since he’d announced a desire to sleep under the stars. They wanted him paying for rooms at an inn. There wasn’t even an inn in Breenheart, but that hadn’t stopped them from griping.
Five pitchers of beer at the tavern, almost two a man, and no word from or about Barbayir. No indication if his message had gone through. Maybe the bartender had been truly ignorant. Maybe Cal’s intel had been wrong. He’d spent hours back in New Wyelin, learning as much as he could about the Borhele and Barabyir from DeMarco Sellers. The former Ellis agent had shared freely, words tinged with regret over losing his assignment. But he’d only provided one method to contact Barbayir, and that was through Breenheart.
Cal’s hands itched, the cuts from last night’s broken glass healing. They were shallow. They had been cleaned and properly bandaged, thanks to Elena. The itch was irritating but didn’t feel unhealthy. The wound in his side was a different story. It was still dirty, badly stitched. The beggar with the broken teeth had gotten his filthy blade nearly a thumb’s width into Cal’s side. The long ride hadn’t helped it any. It stung badly but, worse than that, felt hot to the touch. Cal needed to expose it to the night air, get it out from under the dirty bandages, but he couldn’t show it to the NEST men. He couldn’t have them seeing the marks which surrounded it. Luckily the falsemarked were under strict orders to keep their own marks covered. They had developed an odd culture of modesty where disrobing was concerned. Though the night air was warm, neither Cal nor the falsemarked had loosened their shirts.
Despite the tension among the men and the pain in his side, Cal found himself enjoying the company of Cole and Burress. They had loosened up. They were rough, funny. Burress had a lazy eye and Cole kept asking him what he was looking at. It was a stupid joke that should have run its course, yet it kept Cal laughing even after the twentieth time. Cal hadn’t laughed in a long time. The long caravan journey had been tense and perilous. Even his brief time with Elena was more about comfort than levity.
Cal found himself wondering if he might have ended up in NEST if it hadn’t been for Aaron. It had become the fashionable landing point for men of means but no title, men who could wield a sword but had no interest in dying in the mud for a flag. If Cal was honest, and something about staring off into a strange land at the edge of civilization made him honest enough to swallow his pride for a moment, there wasn’t much difference between him and the falsemarked. His marks were real, and that should mean something. Especially the ones he earned protecting innocents. As far as he could tell NEST protected only itself. But Cal sought glory, Cal sought a name. Cal wanted to ride dragons. Just like every man in NEST. Without Aaron, Cal wouldn’t have been in Delhonne. He wouldn’t have earned his own path to the skies. He would have sat watching all the glory be snatched up by NEST and SDC and he would have looked for a way to get a piece of it.
That was the problem with the SDC. It was closed to non-Corvale, even, frustratingly, to Cal. NEST was growing at six or seven times the rate of the SDC because it had no such restriction. Do your time, follow your orders, break what fingers need breaking, eventually earn your marks and then your dragon. Then more. Cal could have been Cole or Burress, with the world at his feet. On the winning team, not the team facing ten times their number. It seemed so easy for them.
Cal had nearly finished emptying his bladder. He amused himself briefly by trying to spell out in their inner circle in piss, but he ran out before he could finish. He laced up his pants and stared across the low plain, not quite ready to return to the fire behind him.
The few scattered trees hunched over as though sickened by the low brown grasses. They too were being pulled to the earth, into the wet lowlands. Hills rolled onwards to the horizon, crisscrossed by lines of the wearied trees. There was little water visible, but Cal knew much of the Borhele lands were closer to marsh than grassland. Men who found themselves out there were in just as much danger from the land, prone to swallowing men and horses, as the Borhele. Cal recalled DeMarco’s words from the briefing.
The Borhele roam their lands, seems like always alone. Most travelers don’t survive running into them. They have a complex code of honor. It mandates that they fight outsiders found in their lands to the death. I couldn’t even begin to understand how it works or where there are exceptions. But if you have to stray onto their lands be ready. They move across the lands faster than you can imagine. They ride creatures like long legged hyena or cats called pacca. Pacca were bred for the Borhele lands, can move across them in a way no horse ever could. If you have to fight a Borhele, keep in mind that the Borhele strike fast and the pacca are agile. They will seem to come from all sides at once. The pacca won’t attack you but will kill your horse too quickly to believe. The Borhele itself will carry a long stick, marked with its kills. The more notches, the more dangerous this creature you’ve crossed paths with is.
Cal looked into the darkness. Where was Barbayir? Cal had no backup plan. If the Borhele didn’t show or send him some sign by tomorrow, he’d have to return to Ellis empty-handed. He’d have to tell Aaron he’d failed. Maybe duck back out of town, catch another long caravan ride south. Hope he could get back to his dragons, go east and watch NEST grow.
Barbayir is one of the few Borhele who cares about what goes on outside their lands. He values information and is willing to trade for it. He tracks the movements of all their clans, their alliances, their desires. I found it almost impossible to make sense of his reports about the Borhele. Their honor, their code pulls them in a hundred different directions, obligates them into a hundred different steps, roles, jobs. It locks them into a path. This clan leader must meet this clan leader and give him a gift on this day but then kill his son. Stuff you wouldn’t trust from a man, but when you hear that voice floating out from the Borhele it somehow makes sense. Barbayir is the only one I’ve ever spoken to. For all I know he might be the only one who speaks our language.
“Emmitt!” either Cole or Burress yelled out from the fire, breaking Cal’s ruminating. “You digging your own privy out there?” This was followed by laughter from the other. Cal was turning to head back to the fire when he saw the tiniest fl
icker of light reflecting back from the darkness ahead of him.
Cal’s breath caught. His hand stole to his sword as he turned back. He lost the light but then repeated the motion. There. Not one point of light but two. A set of eyes out in the darkness, ahead and a little below where the land flattened. On Borhele lands. Cal took a few steps in that direction, grass rustling below his boots.
His eyes were already as adjusted to the dark as they would get. No more light was forthcoming. But with focus on the eyes, he could make out a little more of what lay behind them. Cal had never seen a Borhele, but all descriptions of them had their faces covered. Something about the eyes watching him told Cal they did not belong to a human. They were too round. Too close. Maybe he was just being spooked by some sort of animal? If so, it was an animal that showed no fear at his slow approach.
It had no face. The glittering eyes floated out of blackness. He could now make out a long body, four legs, tall off the ground. But the eyes were coming out of a hole. No face Cal could see. Some sort of demon? Some new evil?
Cal licked his lower lip, an unconscious reaction to the fear that now slid through him. Then the animal turned, slow loping steps leading it away from Cal. He saw it did have a face. Its neck and head were merely covered in a much darker fur than its tan body. They blended into the night, into each other. As it moved, the dark patches on its body and covering its face seemed to melt in and out of the darkness. It was a pacca.
And it was heading off into the darkness. After a few long steps, it stopped, turned and looked right at Cal again. When the pacca turned back to the Borhele lands and began padding silently off to the west, Cal took a quiet breath and followed. It appeared his message had gotten through. He was being shown the path to Barbayir. Or to his death. Either way, he didn’t bother looking back to the bonfire.
Chapter 10. Behind the Marked Door
“That one,” Trevor whispered, pointing across the street to a dark house. In this section of Ellis, close to the NEST west landing and operations center, brick structures were more common than the tall iron buildings which dominated the rest of the city. The rust colored brick was chipped, worn from the frequent rains. The brick dust left streams of blood-red residue on the cobbled streets. There was nothing special about the house. No light from inside, but that was every other house this late in the night.
“They brought food here the last three days,” Trevor said, seeing Aaron’s expression of doubt. “The high level guys. Might be a prisoner, someone important.”
Aaron looked down the street to the west. Trevor followed his eyes. NEST’s landing and operations center loomed over the neighborhood. Even as he watched, two more dragons took off, headed south. The whole neighborhood was in the shadow of the bluffs that stood beyond the landing. On the bluffs stood the Shields of Glass Palace. Several arcs of clean glass were visible peeking over the bluffs. The beautiful structure, roofed by a series of shifting panes of glass the size of houses, was well-lit, as always, even though Bray wasn’t in Ellis. Bray called the Shields home, ran most of NEST’s business out of it. Rumor had it that at any given time there were forty or fifty dragons in the Shields, sunning themselves, sleeping away their time between flights. Rumor also said there were hundreds of tunnels crisscrossing below the surface of the Shields, creating a series of paths and staircases deep into the bluffs. In these tunnels, Bray kept his many prisoners and all the other unpleasantness he hid from Ellis.
Trevor gestured back towards the squat brick building. “Even if it’s not what we’re looking for,” Trevor continued, “it’s the last one I got. After this we’re knocking door to door.”
Aaron grunted, then slowly nodded. “Is there a back way in?”
“I’ve got no idea. They go in through the front.”
“All right.” Aaron studied the building for a moment. He looked up and down the street, then said, “Meet me at the front door in one minute.”
In a flash he was gone, racing towards the building. Trevor stayed in the alleyway, started a slow count of sixty. By the time he’d reached ten, Aaron was at the front door. He didn’t bother with it and instead leapt up to seize the thick molding above the door. He pulled himself up and caught the window sill. The window was locked but he slid a blade under it and was inside by the time Trevor had gotten to twenty-five. Aaron closed the window behind him.
Trevor got up to forty-five, then headed straight towards the door. He walked confidently, hoping if someone saw him they’d think he was with NEST. NEST had grown so big so fast that their security was unable to keep up with all the new faces, who was authorized for what. Better to fake authority than give away bad intentions by creeping around. At least for Trevor, who wasn’t known to NEST. Aaron they would kill or capture on sight.
Trevor got to sixty. He always counted while imagining stacks of coins and felt a momentary sadness at letting the sixty drift out of his mind, just as he arrived at the door. He heard a tug from the other side but the door did not open. Bolted from this side. Trevor undid the bolt, only half managing to hide his smirk as the door swung in towards Aaron. Aaron gestured for him to hurry inside and closed the door behind Trevor.
“Don’t look so smug, it was bolted on this side too,” Aaron whispered as Trevor passed. They huddled for a moment against the door, looking into the dark house. “I came that way,” Aaron said, pointing to a staircase to their right. “No lights on the second floor.”
The men crept forward. An open archway ahead of them was flickering in candlelight. Aaron crouched against the wall, then leaned out to look around the corner. He waved Trevor forward. Together they entered a hallway. Dim light was coming from an open door at the end of the hall. Aaron again peeked around the door. This time he waited several long seconds before turning back to Trevor. He put his finger to his lips and motioned for Trevor to look in.
The room was empty except for a cot which held a sleeping NEST guard, still in uniform. The man was breathing heavily, deep in sleep.
Trevor turned back to Aaron. He was about to ask Aaron what to do when Aaron straightened out of his crouch, expression of surprise on his face. Trevor whirled to face the end of the hall, drawing his blade, but Aaron caught his arm. “Wait,” he said. With a glance back in the room to make sure the guard hadn’t awakened, Aaron pulled Trevor past the open door and down the hall a few feet. “Look.”
He gestured to the door at the end of the hall. It was covered in drawings, black and copper dragons covering the heavy, chipped wood. The men walked closer. Aaron, with a glance back at the doorway to the guard’s room, lit a match and held it up to the door.
Trevor stared, awestruck. It was beautiful. Every inch of the door was crammed with detailed renderings of dragons, men, Chalk, cities, mountains. An army of men swept in from the lower corners, squaring off against an army of dragons. Other men rode the dragons. One strange drawing in the corner was of a man playing cards with a table full of dragons, more dark than humorous. An odd race of creatures with no faces rode elegant cats up the edges of the door. They bore marked sticks and fought groups of Chalk armed with long knives. Every drawing was in copper or black but was so vividly detailed it seemed every color of the rainbow was represented. Wiry-haired hounds chased slight watery men with a thin high line of hair or coral down the center of their heads back into water, creatures the like of which Trevor had never seen.
Yet, for all its beauty, there was a deep sadness in the door. Almost a manic need to toss off these vivid, lifelike ramblings. A heavy bolt locked the door from this side. Several dragons had been drawn around it, some giving the appearance of pleading with it, others threatening it. One dragon had its jaws extended, ready to pull the bolt. A small man, beautifully rendered in black ink, sat on the bolt, weeping.
“It’s him,” Aaron said, a note of respect in his voice. “We found him.” For a third time, he looked back towards the guard’s room. “We won’t want to be disturbed. When does the shift change?”
Tre
vor shrugged. “Unlikely it’s before first light.”
Aaron nodded. He walked back to the main room, came back down the hall with a chair. He walked into the guard’s room, face set with purpose. Trevor followed. Aaron had almost reached the guard when the man groggily opened his eyes. He gave a start to see others in the room but had barely opened his mouth before Aaron drove one of the heavy chair legs into his gut. The guard gave a harsh cough as his breath fled. Aaron grabbed him and pulled him half out of the bed with one hand. Then Aaron gripped the chair with both hands and drove it down hard over the back of the guard’s neck.
“Check the windows. We still alone?” Aaron was quickly tying the hands of the unconscious guard.
Trevor looked out the window then went to the front door. No signs of activity outside. He came back and told Aaron. They left the guard on the floor, pausing to take his candle and light one more. Some blood leaked from the guard and spread across the floor, looking much like the brick dust that streamed from the exterior of the building. They went back to the heavily decorated door. Aaron unbolted it, stood before it a moment, and then carefully, almost respectfully in Trevor’s mind, knocked three times. After a moment of silence a ragged voice came from inside. “Leave me alone! It’s too crowded for company!”
Aaron looked at Trevor and shrugged. He opened the door and they entered.
…
The noise at the door had distracted him, but Fenrey Malcolm quickly put it out of mind. He sat on the floor in the darkness, mouth agape, hand absently coloring the air though he had no pen. “Do you like it?” Fenrey asked himself. The drawing was of a story he’d once heard about six Jerr hounds who learned to talk and tricked a mother out of her daughter, whom they promptly ate. An old story but a good one. He grunted in approval.
Rise of the Falsemarked (Spies of Dragon and Chalk Book 2) Page 9
