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

by Samuel Gately

  Off in the distance, a large group of dragons became visible on the horizon. At their appearance, Shale raised her hood. “Well, Mr. Lorne, I’m certainly pleased to welcome you to Ellis. It is a most hospitable city. Though, I’m afraid to say, certain areas can be rather violent. There are elements which are fiercely unhappy under the good structure and order provided us by the noble forces of NEST. For example, around sunset tomorrow, I predict the NEST east landing to be particularly unhospitable. Wise to avoid that area.”

  Aaron nodded.

  “And what of your plans for tomorrow, Mr. Lorne?” she asked. “If you know of any other places that may lack for hospitality, I’d love to hear it. A lady must be careful in this dangerous city.”

  “My plans for tomorrow are ill-formed. I’d let you know more if I could. I hope to see an old friend, but am not sure where exactly.”

  She smiled again. “No doubt you’ll need a shoulder to lean on after your trying times navigating Ellis’ legal system.” Shale reached out and grasped his hand, squeezed it intimately several times. “Good tidings, then.” She gestured to the horizon. The dragons were getting closer, headed for the west landing. “I’m needed elsewhere, so I’ll leave you to enjoy the show. Until next time.”

  Shale turned and left, taking Matt with her down into the trapdoor. Trevor sauntered over to the parapet and stood watching the arriving group of dragons with Aaron.

  Aaron’s thoughts lingered on Shale. She was lovely, vibrant. Seemingly full of life in a place he’d found cold and inhospitable. He already felt a kinship with her, a connection. And he wanted to please her, which made her a truly dangerous woman. She had played him like an instrument. Was he okay with that? The enemy of his enemy. Little doubt there, they stood on the same side. Yet if her purposes were served by sacrificing Aaron, or his friends, or the SDC, she would do so.

  Trevor brought him back to the moment. “That’s Bray. He’s returned.”

  “Which one?” Aaron asked, lighting a cigarette as he watched the horizon.

  “You can’t see him yet, but I recognize the formation. They don’t do this for everyone.”

  The group of dragons was nearing the bluffs. It slowly divided into two groups with practiced ease. There were about twenty dragons total in the air. The larger group peeled off, heading to the landing at the base of the bluffs. Nearly every dragon in that group held a rider, the riders holding a variety of weapons. Long, tasseled spears. Crossbows. Hideon Bray’s guard and entourage. They circled for a landing, forming a maelstrom of dark shadows. Five dragons continued straight towards the Shields, only one rider. That would be Bray. His set of dragons were big. They looked fierce, fast, and tireless. The dragon Bray rode was the largest Aaron had ever seen. Aaron couldn’t see much of Bray, just a broad-shouldered silhouette. The rider and dragons quickly vanished into the Shields, swallowed by glass and light.

  The Prisoner. Aaron had longed for a sight of him for years. Now that he’d finally seen him he felt unsettled. That far-off shape was not that of a broken man, the way he’d always pictured the Prisoner. A man filled with regret and shame, mortified that he had turned on his own people. This was a proud and powerful man, an army at his beck and call. Aaron remembered last night’s dream vividly. His people reduced to walking corpses, waiting for a turn to die all over again. Aaron’s helplessness, confusion. The most frightening part had been the sense of inevitability. The ease of surrender. Why fight against such odds? This was the man who would drag the Corvale, one by one, off to their screaming deaths.

  The wind rustled through the streets below. On some impulse, Aaron looked over the parapet to the cobbled streets. A fall would kill him, dash his brains out on the stones. He wondered what it would feel like. He’d fallen off a dragon once before. He wondered how he would answer Bray’s question about where he wanted to die. Where he wanted to be dropped from. He might have to answer it soon.

  “So what’s tomorrow?” Trevor asked, breaking the long silence.

  “I’ve got to go to court.”

  “You’re actually going? I hope you have a plan to get out of there.”

  Aaron nodded. “Always do. Tomorrow’s no less exciting for you though.” He turned to face Trevor. “You’re going to locate an old friend for me. You’re going to the morgue.”

  Chapter 14. Blood on the Pages

  Cal was again following the pacca through the winding Borhele trails. His mind worked furiously. They had been wrong about the Borhele. There was no real alliance. Which meant the Borhele were sitting out the war between NEST and the SDC. Or at least waiting until the situation evolved. And the time of the cyclone business? The Borhele were not afraid of war. There had been several in the past few generations. But they were impossible to predict and, as Barbayir had said, humans did not understand what they wanted. After prior wars they had surrendered seized lands, left gold stockpiles untouched. They answered to different needs. Bray may be closer to understanding them if he was hiring Borhele contractors, but it didn’t look like he’d be able to use them against the SDC or the neighboring nations that resisted NEST takeover. A significant piece had to be removed from the Talent board. Cal needed to get word to Aaron.

  Cal’s thoughts weren’t restricted to the Borhele. What did it mean that Ulsor Vinn was no longer in the Ashlands? Had the Chalk recovered so quickly from Delhonne? Was Vinn the lead scout for an army or just one of the Chalk’s few remaining assets, out trying to advance their interests by himself? Or his own interests? Was Vinn rogue? Did loyalty transfer in the Chalk society, or was Vinn burned once Gelden Carr died? Cal was unconsciously shaking his head as he walked. He was worrying too much about the Chalk. He was in the west now and he needed to keep his focus on the west. Even if it was a place where he stumbled far more, as Barbayir had made clear.

  Ahead of him, the pacca climbed up and out of the ditch. When Cal reached the spot, he followed its path. He surfaced at the same place he had entered the trails a few hours past. The pacca was nowhere to be seen. Cal’s eyes tracked up the long, gentle slope of grass back to his distant campground, trying to locate his escorts’ fire, if it was still burning.

  He was treated to the unwelcome site of a raging fire far larger than the one he’d left. Even at this distance Cal could see at least thirty men, bustling about with efficiency. There were several dragons among them. As he watched one took off, headed southwest. Men were setting out in small groups, carrying torches. Cal had hoped to return to a frustrated Cole and Burress. Instead he was returning to a full blown search party. This was no reaction to Emmitt Thorpe, the drug smuggler, wandering away from his handlers. NEST knew who Cal was. And was furious he’d slipped their watch.

  Cal sat watching for long moments. He had no eagerness to return to the fire but couldn’t think of an alternative. He needed to get back to Ellis. He needed to get word to Aaron. NEST was his only path back. At least he no longer had to worry about covering his marks or his scars, including the one from the beggar’s attack, now much improved thanks to Barbayir’s salve. Which was good because he’d forgotten to find the rag of a shirt he’d stolen from the doctor that morning. He’d left it at the Borhele camp and was exposed to the still night air. And now Cal could shift from thinking about Borhele and Chalk, their complex and indecipherable societies, back to NEST. Simple, brutal power, looking to make the world kneel at Hideon Bray’s feet.

  He removed Barbayir’s jar of salve from his pocket. He twisted the lid off and spread another generous portion over his side, again feeling the angered skin around the wound calm. He replaced the lid, then turned and threw the jar into the darkness as far as he could. He lost it in the night sky long before it hit the ground, the evidence of his meeting with the Borhele rolling farther down the hill before settling in an unknown pocket of grass.

  Cal took a cigarette out of his crumpled pack and shoved it in his mouth. From one pocket he drew his matches. From the other a small piece of paper. Find your way to us. Have someone in their
inner circle. He lit the paper with a match, then used the flame from the paper to light his cigarette. As he took a long drag, he watched the flames eat the intercepted note, thinking about his circle, Aaron’s circle, Barbayir’s circle drawn in the sand. When the note was reduced to ash, Cal let it fall to the wet grasses at his feet and began a slow, unenthusiastic hike up the long slope towards the fire.

  …

  Cal entered the edges of the firelight. With so many men coming and going in a chaotic churn, he had a few moments to observe the impromptu NEST search party headquarters before he was sighted. In those moments, he saw several things which made him worry. The dragons were gathered at the far side of the fire. They looked tired, hot, and dangerous. Far more prideful and powerful than the ones Cole, Burress, and Cal had taken west. NEST’s top tier. Cole and Burress were close to the fire. Cole had blood running down the side of his face. Burress was laid out, unconscious or dead. A dose of NEST discipline for losing their charge. Cal fought the urge towards guilt. There was little doubt they had plotted his death when they thought he was a smuggler. Clay Duren was standing near the fire, hands resting on the ever-present crossbow. A couple of blues reported to him and then left again. It looked like this was Clay’s show, which lent weight to the idea that he was the one who’d exposed Cal, leading to the investigation which had drawn them out here to Breenheart. Cal realized Clay was looking right at him. Clay lazily pointed the crossbow, gave Cal a cocky squint. His men followed the imaginary line connecting Cal’s torso to Clay’s finger and gave a start as they realized Cal stood among them.

  A few shouts were raised and the NEST guards drew swords and advanced in numbers. Cal was quickly surrounded. He spread his arms, then reached across and unfastened his swordbelt, let it fall to the ground. The guards looked disappointed he didn’t intend to resist. A path opened before him, leading towards Clay and another two men who waited expectantly. The flat of a sword pushed Cal hard in the back and he moved towards them.

  “Lorne’s little doggy, found at last,” one of the guards whispered into his ear. “Hope you like bleeding.”

  “Fuck you, blue,” Cal said, not taking his eyes off Clay.

  Cal was pushed in front of Clay. He could hear the sounds of the search party being collected. Clay looked Cal up and down, turned and looked expectantly at two other men standing nearby. Most of the NEST were in uniform. These two, and Clay, were not. One of the men, a darkly handsome face, unshaven and bearing a sharp widow’s peak, raised a white piece of paper. He made a show of studying it then looking at the marks on Cal’s exposed shoulders. He ruffled the paper dramatically in the wind, then handed it to his partner. The other man folded the paper into a stack of similarly crumpled papers. He sorted through the papers as though searching for the right one. The first man waited expectantly, hand outstretched.

  Cal had the feeling this was a show. What was he supposed to be seeing here? He tried to study the papers as they were shuffled. It appeared each was a drawing. Cal recognized some of his marks, drawn in a crude hand. As the man continued shuffling, several of the papers revealed themselves to be covered in dried blood. Cal’s stomach fell. Elena.

  The second man gave the first a bloody sheet. The first studied it and again studied Cal’s marks. “Cal Mast,” he intoned formally after a moment. “You are under arrest by order of the Eostre State Council for the charge of espionage and treason.” After a moment he added, “You know, this was the second set. She got far too much blood on the first for them to be of any use to anyone.”

  Cal saw the red of the blood on the pages, thought of the red of Elena’s curls as he had longed for unbandaged hands so he could run his fingers through the beautiful fire. The red and the fire rose up, swallowing his vision. He heard the laughter of the men in front of him as his face darkened with understanding. The wave of anger crested. Cal took one step forward and smoothly broke the nose of the government stooge before the guards realized he was moving.

  The NEST men fell upon Cal, kicking and punching. The flat of a blade struck him in the back, driving him to the ground, where the boots began their work. It only took a few moments for one to find the wound on Cal’s side and open it again. As the pain overwhelmed his senses and the dark ground rose up to take him, the last thing Cal heard was the calm voice of Clay Duren telling his men that Cal was to be taken to the Shields. Bray wanted him alive.

  The Day of Council

  Chapter 15. Under the Blanket

  Trevor entered the Ellis morgue through a side door. His eyes took a moment to transition from the bright morning sun to the dark interior halls. Whoever had built the morgue must have cherished the idea of death as a somber, isolating experience. There were few windows. The heavy brick which made up the imposing structure seemed to weigh heavily on its interior. Trevor had spent some summers in the jade mines in northwestern Eostre. The morgue felt something like that. Though he stood at ground level, he could have just as easily been a half mile underground.

  Trevor adopted the morose, businesslike expression that morgue workers wore like a uniform. He was dressed in well-maintained but workmanlike clothes. Suitable for one of the many body handlers that were forever coming and going. Security at the morgue was minimal. He’d already been inside the building three times in his scouting operations of the past week. He’d never been questioned, though once he’d had to help carry a couple of bodies out. Mario had laughed when Trevor asked about getting more money for that duty. He told Trevor to get a receipt next time.

  Trevor went straight down the hall deep into the interior, then took an unmarked door which led to a stairwell into the lower level. Bodies which were not slated for immediate cremation or burial were stored in the cooler lower level. They kept a few days longer so relatives could be found and coaxed into parting with some of their gold in exchange for the many services the morgue provided. The biggest factor in whether a body was cremated versus stored was the quality of the dead’s clothing. Rings and other jewelry rarely made the journey to the morgue with dead men and women, but thieves hesitated at stealing clothes off of the departed. Especially if they still bore the marks of a rough passage, such as knife holes or bloodstains. The morticians, left with the task of determining whether the dead may have relatives of means, became excellent judges of the quality of clothing and what that quality may indicate about the station and wealth the stiffening bodies had left behind.

  A VIP corpse like the one Aaron Lorne brought in would likely be placed in one of the lower level holding areas, where Trevor was headed now. Whatever NEST guards or laborers were tasked to bring it would surely have mentioned it as an object of curiosity to the morgue workers. The morgue had no interest in angering NEST any more than any other business in Ellis. Besides, NEST was one of their best business generators, even though most NEST products made their way straight to the mass graves west of the city instead of being formally logged into the morgue.

  When Trevor reached the bottom of the stairs, he grabbed an empty gurney and threw a thick corpse blanket over it. The shoddy wooden frame was covered in splinters and stains, the wheels squealing in protest as he pushed it down the hallway. A few lamps hanging in the hall provided the only light, sputtering in the cool subterranean draft. There were no workers in sight.

  Trevor began checking the storage rooms. The first was empty, as was the second. As he neared the third, Trevor heard voices drifting into the hall from inside. The door was open. He left the gurney parked a little ways down the hall and crept forward.

  “…do we carry him?” The first words Trevor heard distinctly were too loud, delivered by a man who hadn’t adopted the universal hushed tones of morgue workers.

  “We will happily provide transport.” The second speaker was harder to hear. This was a morgue man.

  “No, we don’t need that,” said the first. “Just a cart would be fine. Unless you guys want to get some dragons.” A couple of negative grunts followed this suggestion.

  NES
T, at least three. They were probably talking to the mortician over the body Aaron had brought to Ellis, the one Trevor was here to get. He heard shuffling feet within the room. These men weren’t comfortable here. They would get out as quickly as possible, which meant he didn’t have long. Trevor backpedaled towards his gurney. He heard the creak of hinges, the NEST men opening the door back to the hallway wider. There was no time to get to one of the other storage areas. Trevor looked around, then dove on top of his gurney and threw the corpse blanket over himself.

  The smell hit him like a hammer. He fought the urge to toss off the filthy blanket or at least raise a hand to his face to create an air pocket so he wasn’t breathing the foul fumes directly. By the sound of it, the NEST men were already in the hall.

  Trevor, thinking through his current situation, came to several unpleasant conclusions at once. The first was that he had no idea if the corpse the NEST men were here for was already on a gurney or not. If it wasn’t, they’d want his. The second was that if they found him here, obviously hiding, they’d kill or capture him. He would have been much better off simply pretending to be a lost worker. He cursed his foolishness.