Chapter 33. The Price of a Son
Clay Duren reached the level of the cell that held Cal Mast. The noise of the EU attack fell away as he turned the corner. Sound and light never carried far inside the bluffs. It couldn’t fight its way through the layers and layers of stone and dirt. Clay forced himself to walk at a reasonable pace and keep a lid on the impatient fury that boiled inside them. Clay was screwed if Mast was too addled by the poison of the bronze asps. Or worse, if he was dead. Mast had seemed to be on the path to recovery last night, against all odds. If he was dead, Clay would have to return the key to Aubrey, spend another day dealing with these NEST psychos. After they took care of EU. And hope they never put together that Clay attempted to betray them.
Clay coldly considered the prospect of more days under Hideon Bray, sitting across the table with Pallor DaNeel and Aubrey Narrows. Maybe he’d just leave whether Mast was alive or not. Bray with his megalomania. He’d organized the most powerful company, most powerful army in the world, but could only think about using it to settle a score nobody else cared about.
DaNeel was even worse. A twisted shadow of a man. The long hours deep in the bluffs from which he surfaced reeking of death. Clay was amazed Cal was still alive given DaNeel had his sights on him. If he was still alive. DaNeel had wanted Cal dead since he’d first pieced together that Bray was recruiting Cal as his second. A short lived effort, but DaNeel’s grudges were long.
Aubrey Narrows. Another sick, sick man. Aubrey wasn’t content running the falsemarked. He had many of the blues more loyal to him than to Clay. He had them convinced his favor would get them on the back of a dragon. Aubrey had ordered everyone killed in that hospital, then left it to Clay’s blues to pile up the dead. Twenty-five men had handed Clay their resignations that day. A day spent piling up the bodies of children. Every good man Clay had left. Anyone with a shred of decency. Only the scum remained, the kind who were too cruel or too stupid to care about the dead kids, slaughtered room by room for no reason. Clay would have left himself, thrown away sixteen months of work as a double agent for Castalan. Only the prospect of sticking it to NEST kept Clay around. So he stuck. When he asked Bray for severance pay for the men who quit, Bray had laughed and called Clay soft. What an asshole. At least it made it easier. No one with a soul remained with NEST. No one Clay cared about betraying.
There was a single guard standing beside the door which led to Mast’s cell, one of the blues loyal to Aubrey. Clay was tempted to put the bolt from his loaded crossbow right between the man’s eyes. “EU’s attacking,” Clay said. “Aubrey’s rounding up fighters up top. I’m taking Mast below.”
“Do you need an escort?”
“No, get up there. He’ll be glad to see you.” That was all it took. The guard was off like an arrow.
Clay opened the door. The room inside was dark, smelled like death. As Clay’s torchlight fell over Mast, he stirred on the cell’s floor. He was practically cuddling with the corpse, stupid muzzle still latched to his face. He looked like absolute hell, but was alert. Clay put his torch in a ring on the wall. He pulled out the key he’d scammed off Aubrey and opened the cell door. Mast watched him warily. Clay knelt behind him, slapping him gently on the side of his head when he tried to turn his head to follow Clay. Clay got a hold of the winch that held the muzzle in place. He reached into his belt and pulled out a set of pliers. He twisted the winch until he felt it loosen. Once it had come loose enough, he pushed Mast away, turning the rest of the job over to him. Mast stared at Clay for a moment, then reached behind his head and began undoing the no-doubt painful muzzle. The room was quiet aside from the squeal of metal as the rusty winch turned.
Clay had his loaded crossbow pointed at Cal’s chest. He studied the son of the Steward. He looked like his asshole old man. Clay had been waiting for this moment for a long time. “Once you get that off, Castalanian,” Clay said, “you’re going to answer one simple question. Otherwise you’re going to die at my hand.”
…
Clay Duren looked around the well furnished apartment, wondering if it was worth stealing anything. It was unlikely they’d left him completely unwatched. And furniture was heavy, hard to fence. Maybe he’d pass. He could at least get his fill of the food and drink laid out on the table behind the sofa. Far better fare than the jailhouse food he’d had for the last couple days since he’d been arrested at the Castalan-Garen border for no apparent reason.
It was ten months since Dolan Krelge, Clay’s old boss, had drowned in the Bay. Sixteen months before Clay would ask Aubrey Narrows for a key he shouldn’t have.
There were footsteps in the hallway, a lot of them. Maybe ten men, coming this way. Organized, clustered together. Clay’s fingers itched for a loaded crossbow. If this was Krelge’s family’s revenge for leaving, why the luxury? Why not just kill him in his cell?
The door opened and a flurry of efficient men entered. All wore nondescript, immaculate black clothing. The ones in front were security, judging by the careful way they studied the corners, the windows, Clay. Then came the servants, immediately repairing the damage Clay had done to the buffet, filling in gaps in the trays of meat and cheese. Then administrative types, all holding clipboards and folders. The paper-pushers. After about six of those, the man himself came in. The Steward of Castalan, elected leader and ruler of Clay’s homeland.
Two men were on either side of the Steward, talking rapidly and gesturing at their papers. Clay had a chance to look him over as he patiently answered the men. The Steward was cold, efficient. The traits in the men surrounding him were clearly reflections of his icy demeanor. All business. Short, grey hair, not unlike Clay’s own, but an older, lined face. The resemblance to his son Cal, the only one of his offspring Clay had been unfortunate enough to meet, was clear. Expensive, tailored clothes. A prominently displayed timepiece probably worth more than any two ships at harbor. No weapon. This one fought with regulations, policy, political strings. Money and power. Tireless ambition.
Clay eyed the fraying cuffs of his own shirt, caught himself rubbing at his knuckles, a nervous habit when he didn’t hold the crossbow. He forced himself to stop. What would this be about then? Clay had walked away from Krelge’s smuggling operations. He’d wisely folded his hand when he saw how the table was set. He hadn’t officially sought any sort of pardon but wouldn’t think he’d been on any Castalan government watchlists. He’d been crossing out of Castalan anyway. Why keep him here?
The Steward finished his business with the men on either side. He gave a quick sweep of the room with his eyes, then gave Clay a sharp nod and sat across from him. He said, “When I asked my son who among the smugglers would be smart enough to walk away, he said only your name and one other. He was wrong about the other. Why is it you were one of the few able to read the writing on the wall?”
Clay shrugged. All business from this one. Clay didn’t have much to hide, but he was never fond of tipping his hand when he didn’t have to.
The Steward continued. “Since you left Lenn’s Harbor, I’ve had some men dig deeper into your affairs. They spoke to many of your former men. They painted a compelling picture. A man capable, smart. A man who inspires loyalty. A man of results. It appears you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Krelge wasn’t able to adapt. And now you’re left with nothing. How many years were wasted, drowned in the Bay with the bloated old man?”
“Not so many,” Clay answered, feeling a slight sting from the words. No doubt from the truth buried in there.
“I make five. When my men picked you up you didn’t have a gold piece on you. A hard fall, and far.”
Clay didn’t break the long silence that followed.
The Steward leaned back. At a gesture, he summoned a small glass of white wine, took a sip. “Do you ever go to the ship races?” he asked in a more conversational tone. When Clay shook his head, the Steward went on. “I’ve made fortunes gambling at them. I am better at picking winners than most others. Do you know why? I loo
k only at what the captain has accomplished. I don’t get blinded by what vessel they ride in on a given day. I don’t get fooled by the latest, most expensive new technology the nobles sprang for. I look the captain in the eye. Past success, Clay Duren, is the single best indicator of future success. I know of your past success. Now that I’m looking you in the eye, I predict you will have future success. I’m willing to bet on you.”
Another gesture and a servant put a glass in Clay’s hand. The Steward respectfully tipped his glass in Clay’s direction. “Do you have any children, Clay?” Clay shook his head again. “I can’t say I recommend it,” the Steward continued. “They are a horribly corrupting influence. They twist your priorities, pull at parts deep inside of you long frozen. In short they make you feel. Feeling interferes with business, anchors interest in the wrong harbors. Especially sons. In the past, men used to load a boat full of precious cargo and send it off towards the horizon, no idea whether it would make its destination or not.” There was a long pause. “I have five sons. Thus far I’ve managed to keep them alive. One troubles me in particular. He has chosen a life beyond my reach. He has sailed to the horizon.”
Clay said, “That’s a fancy way of saying he punched the hell out of Duke Avlor and you exiled him.”
The temperature abruptly dropped in the room. The actions of the servants slowed. The security seemed to all lean in closer. The Steward’s face turned to dark stone for just a moment, before he eased back and offered up a smile. The tension leaked out of the room slowly. “True,” he said. “I am just as prone to drama as anyone else. Humor me. I traveled for this meeting. I do not often travel for meetings, especially for men who have just been pulled from a cell. A cell they could get to know much, much better if I chose so.”
Clay nodded, all business now. He’d wanted to poke the grey bear, see if there was steel inside. There was, just hidden below the surface. Clay resolved to play it more respectfully going forward. This man could kill him legally as a traitor. All he had to do was nod.
“The marks my son bears. I thought Cal was wasting his time running around with the easterners, slaying Chalk. Then suddenly the marks on his body are the most valuable commodity in this new world. The key to the dragons. It was…unexpected. I did not do as much to cultivate our relationship as I should have. And suddenly he threatens to eclipse me in power overnight. The world changed in Delhonne. Two men and five dragons do what the largest standing army in the world was prepared to fail at. The slow learners haven’t realized it yet. The smart are scrambling for positioning.
“I’m here to make you an offer. Go north. Go to Ellis. There is a fledgling dragon company there. They call themselves NEST. Rise through their ranks the way we both know you can. Find your way to their inner circle. Feed what information you can to the Castalan Embassy in Ellis. I’ll put you on a generous salary. NEST will pay as well. If you are paid so well by them you begin to lose interest in us, you will provide us with an opportunity to match. If we choose not to, we will accept the parting in good faith. Another son of Castalan does well in the world. So long as you do not attempt to feed us false information. Then you go on the enemies list. Most people don’t last long on the list. While you’re on the payroll, feed us what you can. It’s a fair deal. Do you accept?”
Clay slowly nodded. “We’ll need to talk numbers, but I’m open to heading north.”
“Good. We want eyes on NEST. Word is they are growing fast. Now, as to my son, he will return to Aaron Lorne. He has no better options available. It is hard to predict how dragon armies will grow, but our best minds foresee inevitable conflict between Aaron Lorne’s company and NEST. Which means at some point NEST will focus on killing Aaron Lorne. And on killing Cal. Killing my son. I want you to prevent that from happening.
“If you do your time as a double agent and never cross paths with my son, you will still earn a handsome salary. If, however, you can find a way to be there when he faces death, if you can save him, I will give you the equivalent of twelve years’ pay. You can retrieve it from the Castalan Embassy in Ellis or any of my retainers here in Castalan. For you to claim the money, I need a way to verify that you have saved his life. He can tell me that you have. Or, if situations pull you in different directions, if you are able to keep your position at NEST and cannot be seen with him, you can report back to me or your handler at the Embassy with the answer to a simple question. It is a question only Cal himself knows the answer to. Cal and me and the few I will trust with the information to verify your claim. You will have to save his life. He will have to acknowledge you’ve saved his life, and then answer the question. Do you understand what I’m asking of you?”
For a brief moment, the Steward looked past Clay, out of the window behind him. His expression softened. Feeling crept into the stern face, softened the harsh features. “I have exiled my son. I have forced him beyond my borders when he only recently came back within them. I can’t send him out alone. I can’t just send a ship out into the ocean with no aid. There may come a time he needs an ally in the worst way. If you are there to play that role, I will reward you. It’s the best I can offer.” After he finished, the soft look fled, replaced with the steel Clay had seen before. The Steward shifted in his seat, his body language announcing the meeting was nearing its end.
Clay doubted he would ever find himself in the same room as this man again. He briefly wondered what it would be like to be a son to him, so stern and unyielding. Clay’s own father had been a drunk and gambler. It was all the nights Clay was sent to drag him home from the riverboats, from the card games, that had introduced Clay to Castalan’s criminal underworld. Clay had kept a sense of humor about it as his father sank lower and lower. It impressed some of the gangsters working for Krelge. He continued to laugh it off when his father’s debtholders began holding Clay responsible. Finally a few of them set on Clay, which gave Krelge’s men a chance to save him. That put him firmly into Krelge’s debt, which kicked off Clay’s many years of service to the crimelord. Clay never mistook Krelge for a father figure. He’d gotten what he needed from his own father, which wasn’t much. He wondered if he would have been better off with a man of power, of cold inspiration. Or worse.
Clay leaned forward. “What’s the question?
…
“When you were ten, you went fishing with your father. What did you catch?” Clay had the crossbow pointed at Cal’s heart.
Cal worked his jaw, painful-looking red marks across his face. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“What did you catch?”
“I was told never to tell anyone that. Were you here last night? Was I?”
Clay pondered just putting a bolt in the bastard. He was still addled from the poison. Still unhelpful and unappreciative. Clay had been chasing Cal around the city ever since Aaron Lorne arrived with the corpse. He’d make a quick check at the morgue, verified it wasn’t Cal. He still had a chance to make his fortune. Reports began filtering in of the fire in the Bondsman Quarters. Clay had a feeling the arsonist wasn’t done and he’d been able to follow the path of sabotage to Markele’s Folly, where he’d found Cal. But Cal clearly didn’t know Clay was crossed and nearly got himself killed scraping his way out. Clay got word to the Castalan Embassy later that night to bring Cal in, get on the same page. The messenger never reached him, found knifed in an alley, the note he carried missing. Meanwhile, Cal kept digging himself in deeper. His location surfaced the next day, linked to a flight out to the western border Eostre shared with the Borhele. Clay couldn’t suppress the info but he could take the lead in the hunt, try and keep both blues and falsemarked from killing the Castalanian. Bray’s orders to take him alive had helped.
Of course, DaNeel had his own agenda, always did. Slavish loyalty to Bray didn’t prevent him from jealously guarding his master from the influence of any others, routinely pitting him against Clay and Aubrey. DaNeel wanted Cal dead. Clay had to maintain a careful balance. He’d needed to keep Cal alive long en
ough to find an opportunity to be the one to save him, get the answer out of him. After that Cal could die. Clay didn’t care. He might even kill him himself if that’s what it took. But if DaNeel got him before Clay got his answer there would be no reward. Cal’s escape hadn’t put Clay in a good mood, but he’d been able to get to Gestlin Gardens before DaNeel was able to isolate and kill Mast. By then Bray knew DaNeel was after Cal. Bray still wanted him alive, even if the recruitment looked to have failed. Clay got Cal back into NEST custody. His reward was to watch him face the five serpents. Watch his opportunity teeter on the edge of a broken sword. Against the odds, Cal had survived.
When EU attacked, Clay had seized his chance to get the key from Aubrey. Now all he had to do was convince Cal he’d saved his life, which he had, and get the answer out of him. There was little time. If EU didn’t find them, DaNeel would. No way he’d forgotten who was in this cell.
“Last chance. What did you catch?”
“Fuck you. Shoot me. Tell Mathos I’ll find him on the other side after Lorne sends him my way.”
Clay sighed. Mast thought he was working for the Avlors. Explaining this would take time he didn’t have. “Get ready to move. I’m getting you out of here.” He lowered the crossbow and tossed a knife to Cal.
One minute later, Cal and Clay turned the corner, heading deeper into the bluffs. They were just out of sight as Pallor DaNeel arrived at the cell door, heavy breath whistling through his broken teeth.
Rise of the Falsemarked (Spies of Dragon and Chalk Book 2) Page 24
