Night of the Chalk (Spies of Dragon and Chalk Book 1)

by Samuel Gately

  “Well, I’ll have my people contact you. What great fun!”

  Cal nodded and slid backwards, recognizing the dismissal. The Marquis had been seen with Cal and now could brag up the possibility of a hunt featuring dragons. Cal suspected an invitation would never actually materialize. It would be much more fun for the Marquis to brag about the affair than to actually host an event that was less than entirely predictable. He could lose face.

  The butler, who had faded into the background with the talent of an experienced servant, gently directed Cal away from the Marquis. He had a fresh glass of wine waiting for Cal. He then murmured for Cal to enjoy himself and vanished to attend to the hundred other things which would require his attention.

  Cal, for the moment alone, took a long swig of wine. The party guests chatted in small groups, excited by the occasion and the flare of the Marquis’ style. Hidden instruments filled the air with elegant music. Servants wandered through with trays of wine and light delicacies. Cal suspected his assassins would either give up or else disperse around the exits, monitoring the comings and goings of the guests. He was worried about Aaron and their friends, though he pitied the group that thought an assault on a closed compound which housed several dragons and the Dura Mati was a good idea. He was probably in more danger than they were. Finding this convenient party had been a stroke of luck. Otherwise it would have been five on one in a dark alley.

  Cal was amused by the abrupt change of venue, one moment running through the alleys with a bloody sword drawn, the next rubbing elbows with Delhonne’s elite. He would not have received an unsolicited invitation to this party a few days ago, though he had ways of gatecrashing affairs like these. Would he have come to this one? It looked as if most of the beautiful young ladies in Delhonne were here. He might have snuck in late in the evening, drunk, probably without any gold on him after an evening of losing it to Ty Cullmore’s crew in one of their underground gaming parlors. In fact, if he needed a reminder of the old Cal, he saw Daria DeFlorre with a small group of similarly young and pretty girls.

  Cal gave her a small wave as her eyes swept over him. She stiffened and turned away in a decidedly unfriendly manner. Cal, hiding a smile, finished his wine, and started towards her. A hand grasped his elbow before he had completed a step.

  Cal turned to see an unfamiliar man, short in stature but athletically built. He had fine blond hair, carefully combed in a wave, and tightly trimmed mustaches with a small beard. He wore the quasi-military uniform that seemed to be the fashion among the upper crust this season, and was well adorned in the accessories of the wealthy, carefully positioned and coordinated pins, rings, and sparking cufflinks. The uniform was tailored to show off his well-muscled frame. Cal tried to hide his irritation at the interruption and gave the man a polite smile.

  “Mr. Cal Mast, I believe?” the stranger asked. Cal nodded and the stranger continued, “How fine to see you this evening.” His voice betrayed no warmth.

  “I don’t believe I’m familiar…” Cal allowed himself to trail off, rather than starting an incorrect title.

  “Viscount Gerald Grace. Of the Wallace family tree.” The man looked challengingly at Cal, as if his name required immediate judgment and approval. Cal found the frustration he’d felt earlier this evening was returning. This little man was clearly sizing him up. Cal’s head hurt from the blows of the previous night, his hand hurt from the cut of that last assassin’s sword. Perhaps most upsetting of all, they were only serving wine here and it appeared no one was smoking.

  Cal recognized the family names the man was dropping. All extremely old money, but lately fallen upon less fruitful times. These families were old enough to view well established families such as the DeFlorres as mere upstarts. Cal had met several such men. They were frequently bitter and challenging, having watched their power erode over the decades and generations. The man’s pissy attitude made more sense. He must have seen Cal in discussions with the Marquis and been jealous.

  Grace continued when he saw his name drew no comment from Cal, “All of Delhonne is abuzz with Cal Mast. He arrives on the scene of a dragon crash and suddenly takes charge, he flies off one night and returns the next with two more dragons and what some say is a minotaur. And here we find him at the house of Marquis Flegonne, chatting it up with the great man himself.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been keeping tabs on me,” Cal said, looking around for another glass of wine.

  “As I said, the streets are abuzz, one simply can’t avoid it,” Grace replied. “Many think these young lads are the soul of adventure, flying in and out of the city on these intimidating creatures. But I must confess, and bear with me, I am a blunt man, I think of children playing with sharp knives with little idea of the consequences.”

  Hearing the menace in the tone, Cal turned to stare directly at the small man for the first time. The two locked eyes. Cal saw barely concealed anger. He also saw a touch of unsettledness. These affairs with the upper crust of Delhonne were universally attended by the strong and powerful, or those effective at masking their lack of real strength or power. This Grace had a mask that was slipping. Something was lurking beneath the scenes here.

  Cal leaned out to accept a wineglass from a passing servant and picked up one for Grace, handing it to him and forcing him to take it in his empty hand. There was something unusual, almost personal in the hostility. Cal would not have been surprised to find bitter and jealous nobility whom he had outdone for the flavor-of-the-week gossip mill status. These men would seek to reduce Cal, diminish his achievements, paint his reputation as exaggerated. Despite the aggression, he didn’t see the blond man doing this.

  Cal took a long drink, stalling. There was something in the way Grace was trying to steer the brief one-sided conversation. In one breath, he builds Cal up, lists his accomplishments with no tone of incredulity or mocking, then immediately paints him as outmatched, unprepared. In a way, it reminded him of last night, with Zarus Coff taking pride in Cal’s marks. He wanted Cal to be a worthy adversary and then wanted to prove himself superior. Was this Viscount Grace more than just jealous? Was he an enemy? Cal thought about little fish getting big. It seemed he had one in front of him.

  Cal locked eyes with Grace again, then, in a casual tone, turning out to the crowd, said, “Yeah, we may get cut playing with those knives. What about you? Have you gotten cut while fucking Gelden Carr?”

  Grace’s reaction exceeded any of Cal’s hopes. His eyes widened, his teeth clenched into a vicious grimace, and he very nearly lunged at Cal. For a moment he was the picture of pure disgust and anger. He quickly regained a calm cool demeanor, but he had reacted so extremely there was no point in pretending it hadn’t happened.

  Cal laughed, suddenly enjoying himself. “I hope you don’t gamble. Or, actually, let me know when you do. I’d love to play cards with you.” He waved to a waiter to get another glass of wine and, screw it, started rolling a cigarette. “By the way, you broke your wineglass.”

  Grace dropped the remains of his wineglass with its broken stem. He stepped to Cal as it shattered on the ground. “You and your Corvale trash friend don’t know who you play with.” He gave a smirk. “You’ll be lying dead on a filthy stable floor next to him soon enough, surrounded by your new pets.”

  “You guys,” Cal said, shaking his head. “You haven’t done anything right this week. I’m more scared I’ll run into an ex-girlfriend here than I am that your pathetic attack succeeded.”

  “You may have just arrived at the party, Mr. Mast,” Grace said, “but this table has already long been set. The city will run red with the blood of you and your friends.” He turned to walk away, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll be seeing you again.”

  Cal had to be happy with how much information Viscount Gerald Grace had been willing to impart. He knew now that the Grace was working with or for Carr and their plans had been in motion for some time. And “the city will run red…” That sounded like a bigger target than Aaron or an ascent up
Delhonne’s ladder of wealth and power. It sounded like a military operation or at least an attack of some kind. And something about that reaction to Cal’s chosen imagery. Pure disgust. Grace not only knew Gelden Carr, he hated and feared him.

  Cal thought for a moment as he lit his cigarette, then quickly crossed the courtyard in a different direction than Grace. In a quiet corner at the far end of the party, he found what he was looking for. A dark-haired server lounged lazily near a potted plant decorated with white and gold ornaments. He held a tray with several full wineglasses. He was clearly hiding out from his bosses.

  “Hey,” Cal said, “come here for a second.”

  The server straightened up and approached. “More wine, sir?” he asked in a bored tone as he held the tray up for Cal.

  Cal reached out and took a glass, leaving behind four gold coins on the tray. “Care to earn some more?” After a moment of hesitation, the servant nodded and glanced around as he pocketed the coin. Cal continued, “Is there a server here named Dermot Gills? Short guy, kind of wild hair?”

  The server nodded. “I think I saw him earlier. He’s usually at these things.”

  “Okay, well go get him. Tell him Cal Mast wants to talk to him. Make it fast. But keep it quiet. And forget we ever had this conversation. Bring me back a glass of whiskey, something good, this wine is killing me, and then let me know if you could find him. You get four more gold, then Gills comes and talks to me right after. You good or do I need to repeat that?” The server nodded. “What’s your name?” Cal asked.

  “Ted, sir.”

  “All right, Ted. Get moving.”

  Ted hesitated a moment. Cal glowered at him, expecting a request for more money. “Since we’re such good friends now,” Ted said, “you might want to know that you’re tracking blood all over the party. You’ve had several servants cleaning up after you since you arrived. The butler warned us.”

  Cal sighed as Ted walked away. He looked at the fleshy part of his left hand. It was indeed slowly dripping blood on the pristine white stones of the courtyard. Who has a white courtyard anyway? he thought.

  Cal finished his cigarette and kept to the corner for the next few minutes. Finally, Ted returned with a tray bearing a glass of brown liquor. “Dermot will be here in a moment.” Cal took the drink and left six gold coins.

  “Take the rest of the night off,” Cal said. Ted left and Cal took a long drink of the whiskey. Ted had taken him seriously. It was good stuff.

  A seedy-looking server slid discreetly next to Cal. “Hello, my Lord. Very pleased to see you again.”

  “Hi Dermot, how’s business?” Dermot Gills worked the catering scene of large social events. And dealt in information. In the past, Dermot had fed Cal some insight into the ambitions of certain families that supported Cal’s work with the Castalan embassy. He had also gotten into the habit of informing Cal of the ambitions of unattached girls at the parties. Cal expected Gills had something over the heads of the various catering companies that worked the parties of the wealthy. He was nearly always at major events regardless of which company held the contract.

  “Can’t complain, my Lord,” Dermot said. “How can I help you this evening?” Dermot was very fond of rigid over-politeness when he spoke to Cal, though he delivered all of it in a casual, bored voice which made it clear he didn’t care about social conventions.

  “You know the Viscount Gerald Grace? Small, blond guy?”

  “Certainly, my Lord. He was a rarity on this scene until a few months ago. Started showing up regular. Not many friends though. Always awkwardly looking for someone to talk to. Certainly throws his money around though. Not much more to occasion comment.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “No, my Lord.”

  “Well, pin a tail on him. I want to know where he goes tonight. You’ll have to hurry. I think he’s on his way out of here. Be discreet, and, listen to me, Dermot, there’s a good chance this could be dangerous, so play it cautious. Assume this guy has some friends who will be watching his trail. When you find out where he’s resting his head, bring the info to the front gate of the Rosetta Stables. Wait.” Cal remembered the attack. “Do you know Sleepy Jon’s kennel in the Printers district? Take the info there. And if you see anybody in the shadows, wearing red and black, keep well clear.”

  “A step up from your normal requests, my Lord.”

  “I can give you twenty right now. Ask Sleepy Jon for another twenty. That enough for your trouble?”

  “Sixty would be better, my Lord.”

  “Okay, but get the extra from Jon.”

  Dermot nodded. He walked swiftly around the corner, then returned with a tray with a fresh glass of whiskey on it. “My Lord,” he said, extending the tray to Cal. Cal took the fresh glass, leaving his old and a handful of coin. “By the way, my Lord, there are several young ladies who seem rather excited about this young man who rides dragons and trails blood all over the Marquis’ party. I’ll take my leave, sir.”

  Dermot walked away. Cal was hoping to see a little more hustle, he expected Grace had left by now or was near doing so, but he forced himself to relax. Dermot was as dependable of support as he was likely to find. And Cal really already knew the answer. Grace would be headed to the Lower Sweeps, the same mansion Sleepy Jon fingered the night before.

  Cal took another drink. Excited young women, eh? He needed to leave the party under cover, there was still a gang of assassins out there. Maybe the carriage of some nice noblewomen would have room for one extra? Cal slowly scanned the crowd, sweeping his eyes across the masses of excited young and old, drinking expensive wine and sporting fine clothes. He stopped as he realized there was a gorgeous blonde woman staring expectantly at him from just a few feet away. Miriam raised her glass.

  Chapter 23. Cleaning the Gutters

  The attackers rained arrows from the roof of the barn, forcing the guards back towards the walls. A small crescent moon provided only a pale illumination of the archers. Aaron Lorne, racing quietly across the roof, headed towards the closest group of men he could see in the dim light.

  Before finding his bedroll his first night at the stables, Aaron had climbed to the roof of the barn. There was a ladder on the wall at the back of the loft which led to a trapdoor. He had walked the roof, considering its potential as a landing or launch site. It was unsuitable. The roof was not particularly thick or sturdy and was ridged in the center. He settled for telling the guards to keep their eyes open for attacks from above. That hadn’t done the job.

  Now, in the moonlight, he saw the silhouettes of two men ahead of him. One was hunched over, frantically sawing a round archer’s hole in the thin surface of the barn’s roof. The hole, nearly complete, would enable them to fire down into the barn. Aaron could see just enough to make out a pair of loaded crossbows. This pair would keep the high ground, either kill whatever people they could target or harass the dragons, force them outside where hopefully they’d flee. Aaron had to assume they had orders to kill everything on two legs.

  Aaron spared a glance to the sky. There were no more dragons. It looked as if they had unloaded their cargo of assassins and headed off. He would need to be prepared for another round of attackers. If the dragons were picking them up from a nearby building it could only be a minute.

  The sound of the saw lent Aaron an element of surprise, though it was too much to hope he could reach the men entirely by stealth. His feet scratched on the shingles as Aaron drew his sword for the first time since crashing in Delhonne. The straight black blade reflected no light. He closed the distance to the men. The man in the back looked over his left shoulder and saw Aaron. He turned, raising his crossbow. Aaron transferred his sword to his left hand and held it out fully extended to block the rising crossbow. The blade turned the bow just enough, giving Aaron time to close the distance and drive his fist into the man’s chin, snapping his head back. Aaron slammed into his body and then planted his hand on the man’s shoulder, channeling his momentum i
nto a hard push. It sent the man backwards into his friend. Aaron had some hope for how the nearly complete archer’s hole would play into this conflict. His hopes were exceeded as both men messily crashed into the roof, the archer’s hole caving and dropping out below them. One fell through, yelling, down a couple stories to the barn floor, where he would meet his death either by dragon or hammer. The other clung to the rough edge of the hole. Aaron, while scanning the roof for his next targets, slapped him hard in the face with the flat of his blade. The man fell a moment later. Aaron was already racing towards the peak of the long, slanted roof.

  Over the ridge of the roof, there was a cluster of men gathered around a ladder. They were throwing it into position to descend. As he watched, an arrow penetrated the group, staggering one man who teetered over the edge and off the roof. Aaron guessed they were dealing with maybe ten men, though another wave could come in soon. The men he had killed had been of unmentionable origin and unmarked. They were mercenaries, experienced fighters.

  Aaron took a chance they would not recognize him as an enemy and walked behind the group. He didn’t bother to disguise his footfalls. Not expecting resistance on the roof, at least not this fast, most ignored him. Only one man near the back turned to him as the others worried the ladder into a defensible position. The one who turned cocked his head, then raised his sword as Aaron accelerated into him. Aaron didn’t bother with his sword, taking advantage of the higher ground to kick the man solidly in the chest, sending him careening backwards. He took two others and the ladder over the edge with him. A quick thrust to the right penetrated the stomach of another mercenary. Aaron withdrew the blade and raised it to meet the sword of the last mercenary on the roof. They stared at each other a moment.

  Aaron moved backwards a step, hoping the merc would attack slowly, enabling the remaining guards to put some arrows in him. The merc, recognizing that time was not on his side, advanced, swinging his sword towards Aaron’s head. Aaron ducked, letting the swing pass over him, then drove his blade hard into the enemy’s chest. It wasn’t a clean stroke, only half-penetrating a thick chainmail shirt. Aaron twisted the blade, pulling the merc’s front towards the edge, as he pivoted around and slid the dagger he’d drawn with his other hand into the man’s neck.