He reached a hand into the green water, for a moment certain another hand would emerge to grip his back. Instead he felt a small packet. He pulled it out. A tightly folded piece of paper was in the center of a wax wrapping. He looked around the quiet apartment. Seeing no one else, he carefully sliced open the wrapping with his knife and spread a small note out. He dried his hands and smoothed it delicately on the table’s surface. He leaned in close to read the tiny lettering.
Seer – Do not trust Locke. When he learned of your coming, he asked me to lead you to him. If you are reading this note, I was killed for doing so. He is the best chance for the return of Kylee, who lives below as a captive in the Court of Lord Gale. But do not mistake opportunity for alliance. Tell Cassie I love her. I did all I could, sacrificing parts of my spirit in ways even she would never understand.
Swimmer – The harbor will be the only way open to you.
One will win. One will lose.
This last line was written hastily, showing none of the care that had gone into the others. Aaron read the note several times before tucking it into a pocket. He should burn it, but the Queen may need to see it first. Or may want to.
So his visit to Locke had been prearranged. His calf still ached where Locke had hooked him and held him under. Maybe aware that delaying Aaron could lead to Madame Jane’s death. Had Locke had something to do with Cal’s abduction as well? The note brought more questions than answers.
He moved onto the small bedroom, where they had laid out Madame Jane’s body several nights ago. It was gone, having been picked up by servants of the Queen. Aaron searched the bureau and dressers, finding only clothes and books on spiritual guidance. No other notes. The closet held several dresses, mostly white with patterned fringes. A shelf packed with costume jewelry. Slippers and cold weather clothes piled at the bottom.
Aaron was ready to turn away when he noticed that one of the back panels of the closet had a small gap where it met the wall, little more than a hairline. He poked his knife into the gap and twisted. The panel slid easily aside, exposing a small cupboard hidden within the closet. Aaron opened the door and found a folded cloak of blue, green, and grey streaks. A wetcloak. The garment of that strange, cultlike group who worshipped the harbors and seemed to pray for rising waters to swallow the Plate. Had Madame Jane been a part of them? Was that a part of her link to Locke or something different entirely?
A movement in the window near the bed caught his eye. A set of eyes, looking at him. Then they were gone. Aaron was off like a shot, crossing the room to throw open the back door. A small shape was on the back stairs, moving down them swiftly. Aaron gauged the distance to the ground, then threw himself over the wooden railing. He hit the dirt below, losing his feet as his injured calf screamed in protest. Acting on instinct, he threw out a hand and managed to catch the ankle of his watcher, who stumbled and crashed into the garbage lining the narrow alley. Aaron was up in a second, sword out.
It was a child, a small girl. She was awkwardly rising, brushing dirt off her rough dress. She was barefoot and appeared to have nothing on her beyond her rags. Long black hair parted in the middle. She eyed his sword nervously, then looked past him to see how far away help might be.
“Just us, for now,” Aaron said. “What were you looking for?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice was sullen, full of an attitude more suited to one a little older.
“Did you know her?”
“Know who?”
“Madame Jane.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
She remained silent, staring at his sword. “Will you kill me if I don’t tell you?”
“I might,” Aaron said.
“You’re a brave one, threatening little girls in an alley.”
“Said the little girl, skulking around a dead woman’s apartment.” He looked for any reaction, but she gave him none.
There was a long silence, Aaron feeling the pain in his calf from the fall, his tiredness from lack of sleep. Finally he said, “Get out of here,” and lowered his sword. The girl slid past him and ran out of the alley.
He sighed. He hated Surdoore. Hated the hot weather, the smell of the harbor. The way everyone seemed so fixed on their own path, so certain, and looked at every foreigner through the sides of their eyes. He missed Delhonne. He missed New Wyelin. He’d been too long on the move from contract to contract. He wondered if Conners would ever bring him home. Or if Aaron even knew where home was anymore.
And now Miriam was here in Surdoore, happily pushing Aaron the way she wanted him to go. Ignoring the inconvenient pieces of their past where they didn’t serve her end and happily resurfacing those which did.
Aaron looked back up at Madame Jane’s apartment. He already had the note. He could go back up there and hide the cloak again. Or grab it and show it to Jon and the Queen. But he didn’t know to what end. For now, he’d assume there was some truth to the note. She’d been in contact with Locke. And Locke had set up the audience with Aaron. And couldn’t be trusted, not that that was news.
If the part of the note referring to Aaron had some truth, what did he do about the part for Cal? The harbor will be the only way open to you. Only way down? Or only way back up, out from the clutches of the Sunken? Aaron couldn’t watch the entire harbor. Not from the ground.
He squinted up at the bright sky. If he was going to ask Camron Air for a favor, first he’d need to buy a bottle of whiskey to replace the one Anders Dentrick had tried to give Aaron out on the plateau. And he didn’t even know where to find their headquarters. Aaron sheathed his sword and went out into the streets to look for Miriam. Something told him, if he was looking to meet with CA, she’d do everything she could to facilitate.
Chapter 18. The Merciless Horde
The Camron Air headquarters were in the southern part of the city, just outside of the stink of the harbor. Miriam had given Aaron detailed directions, glad he was headed this way, but declined to accompany. Aaron ignored the offers from the rowboats and gondola pacing him from the canals, and went by foot, crossing an endless series of small, arched bridges. The buildings in this neighborhood had well-maintained walls of smooth stone, but all the care in the world couldn’t keep out the creeping moss and algae stains in the corners and joints. Not on top of the Plate.
He didn’t see any dragon landings or alightings to tell him he was headed in the right direction, but soon noticed a pair of archer towers high above the other buildings. He continued in that direction, eventually passing between them through an unguarded gate.
The compound had archer towers at each corner. A landing pad was in the center. There were a few fountains, weakly spraying water into the hot afternoon air. The sun was hidden by the clouds, but with the rains momentarily quieted, Aaron could feel the relentless humidity of Surdoore creeping down his collar and up his shirtsleeves.
Anders was seated near one of the fountains, ringed by other CA riders. His long, blondish hair was dampened by sweat at the temples. He flashed an easy smile at the men around, displaying neat rows of white teeth.
The group had dragged rugs and wooden chairs out into the corner of the courtyard. Everyone had their shirts off, marks on display and drinks in hand, enjoying the rain’s respite. There were a few guards, the only ones standing, who had clearly noted Aaron’s approach. They gave no sign of interference, either on Anders’ orders or just due to laziness.
When Anders turned his eyes to Aaron, Aaron reached into his cloak and pulled out the bottle of whiskey he’d borrowed from Miriam. Anders looked at it, then Aaron again, and made a gesture for him to sit down. One of his crew vacated a low wooden chair and Aaron sank into it.
An attendant relieved Aaron of the bottle then poured him a glass as Anders waited quietly. Aaron lit a cigarette and leaned back in the chair. He counted ten CA riders, two from the plateau outside the city the other night, including the surly looking one. Five uniformed guards in the courtyard. Based on
the layout, he’d guess there were four more guards, one on each tower, plus whoever was handling the dragons. It wasn’t clear how many could be housed in the compound. Or where Aaron’s four, including Marsail and Tyrne, his and Cal’s personal mounts, were being kept. But he knew this was CA’s only major facility, and Anders was here, so he had to assume his dragons were too. “Hi,” Aaron finally said.
“He speaks,” Anders said in mock surprise, the CA men breaking into smiles. “I wasn’t sure if you could.” Anders made a point of looking around. “Where’s your shadow?”
“We’ll get to that.”
“Oh, will we now?” Anders took a drink of his whiskey. “We’re enjoying what passes for sun in Surdoore. Why don’t you join us?” He gave a subtle nod to his bare chest. His marks were all in Vylass copper. Mostly Chalk kills, meaning he’d spent some time in the Ashlands. Not a bad number, though some were easier to get than others. Having gold helped.
Aaron drew his shirt over his head, the attendant reappearing to take it from him and carefully fold it and drape it over the chair’s back. It wasn’t unusual for dragonriders to request a display of the marks that earned them the dragons’ loyalties. It was an easy way to sort rank and keep bloodshed down.
Aaron’s marks ran all the way down his left arm, across his chest and back, and partially down his right arm. They were mostly in Corvale black with some Vylass copper mixed in. Marks of single and multiple kills, mainly Chalk, and his Corvale Class ranks. Some full scenes were depicted, including the image of the S’Rghat Prison leaking smoke, which he and Cal both had on their left shoulders.
As Aaron settled back into his chair, a guard atop one of the corner towers called out an approach. Aaron, Anders, and every CA rider turned to verify it, to check the flags of the approaching dragon and search the skies for others. A long-formed habit of riders where relentlessly checking the horizons meant the difference between life and death.
The approach of NEST dragons had in the past been cause for alarm. The Merchants’ Collective were always open for trading. The Order of Luxen ignored all others. If a dragon had no flags, it could be available for capture or, more often, was one of Cal’s Unflagged, which drove everyone crazy in their stubborn refusal to follow the flag protocols.
This dragon bore the orange of CA, no reason to think it out of the ordinary. There was a brief and strange sense of comradery between Aaron and the CA men as everyone’s gaze returned to the ground. Whichever side they stood on, they were riders.
Anders was watching Aaron over the rim of his glass. “First let me say, my compliments to whoever battered your face. I thought you could use a dose of humility. Now what brings you around, bottle in hand?”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“That’s interesting. I heard the reason you’re in the neighborhood is you’re looking to take over the CA contract with the Queen.”
“Not true.”
“No? Seems to make a lot of fucking sense to me. Interesting timing if you’re not. We’re due for a renewal in a couple months and suddenly the lead agent for the SDC shows up under a special dispensation. Flies his dragon, decked out in SDC colors, over my fucking Plate.”
“You seem awfully insecure for the man holding my dragons.”
Anders leaned in, gestured to a mark on Aaron’s right forearm. “Those are the Shields, right? Where you broke NEST? If you think you’re gonna add a tattoo of this place, you got another thing coming.”
“I’m not here for the contract.”
“Why am I hearing otherwise?”
Because someone wants me to be, Aaron thought. Someone whose blonde hair I can’t seem to get out of my mind. And with every person who believes the rumor, she makes it more likely that it is the only direction open to me. Meanwhile Cal is stuck under the Plate in the hands of a new enemy and the only lead we’ve got on the kidnapping we were brought here to solve is the name of the muskrat man.
“I don’t know, Anders. I can’t speak to every stupid fucking rumor running across the Plate.” He flicked his cigarette butt into the nearby fountain, ignoring the glares of the riders around him. He immediately lit another then took a long drink of the whiskey, letting the smoke linger in his mouth and then blowing it out past the sharp bite of the liquor. “I’m here to make a deal.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I need a dragon—”
“Message back to the SDC? Send reinforcements? Have found myself overmatched and outmaneuvered? Still reeling from my loss to the Borhele?” The other CA riders laughed, a well-trained crowd.
“Let me finish. I need a dragon to fly over the harbor. Unmanned. Looking for a friend.”
“Did your shadow go for a swim and get lost?”
Aaron gritted his teeth. For a moment, thoughts of war filled his mind. How many dragons would it take to break this place? Probably not so many if he brought in a crew of assassins to thin the rider ranks before an attack. Between him and Miriam, they could take half the compound before the rest were aware. Wouldn’t she like that? Wouldn’t Conners like that, his favorite attack dog back to tearing out throats? He took a long drink, finding his calm somewhere near the bottom of his glass. Maybe after he got Cal back, he’d lock him in a room with Anders for a while. Then Anders could learn the price of irritating one of the Spies of Dragon and Chalk, the one who couldn’t hold his temper.
Aaron said, “What the fuck do you care? Let me set one of the SDC dragons loose, just for the rest of today and tonight. It’ll circle the harbor. Won’t bother anyone or compromise your position. One I had no idea was so frightfully tenuous. Name your price.”
“You leave the price up to me? You are desperate, Corvale. Investigation not going well? It can be hard to solve crimes before they happen. Isn’t that what you were doing? You and Harpish? I seem to recall a full moon approaching? Isn’t that some sort of deadline?”
Aaron waited him out. It may have been a mistake confronting Anders in his element, not that Aaron had many options. Anders had arranged this courtyard, the people in it, all to serve his ego. He was comfortable here. He’d tried to recreate that comfort on the plateau outside the city, but it hadn’t worked. Maybe Anders had thought the fact that the SDC was coming off a loss would give him the upper hand. It hadn’t. Aaron and Cal, side by side, dragons at their back and a loyal Queen’s guard at their side, dark night all around, that wasn’t a time for effective showboating by a regional dragon army head. Aaron alone, no Cal, no dragons, his SDC support questionable and at odds with his current ambition, here he was weaker.
Any sense of comradery with the other riders was gone. He wondered what he looked like to them. His face battered, demeanor cold. The pixie eye scar on his cheek. A representative from a company that could swallow them whole in moments. A company that had widely spread the word that the only reason CA was left alone was because they didn’t care about the small Surdoore market. But now Aaron was here, having bypassed their restrictions on competition through direct order of the Queen. A raider. One who was trying to kill their livelihood with weapons of contracts and backroom deals while never even giving them a chance to show their mettle. No wonder Anders viewed his request with distrust. What stung was that their no-doubt unflattering view of him might be right. He didn’t know yet. He certainly wasn’t trying to move in the direction of upending CA, but here he was, on Miriam’s backing, meeting their expectations.
“You know,” Anders said, “they still talk about you on the frontier.”
“Which one?” Aaron held his glass out to be refilled. An attendant materialized.
“West Ash Crossing, the Vylass Valleys. I’ve been all over.”
“That where you do your hunting?” Aaron gestured towards the marks on Anders’ chest. “Who’d you use for a guide?”
“A Vylass by the name of Reinhold, mostly. He guided my father’s annual trips since he was a boy. I’ve hunted with him every year since I could lift a sword.”
Aaron scann
ed his memory. After he’d lost his family to the Slaughter, Aaron had made his living as a hunting guide. He’d mostly stuck farther north than the locales Anders had supplied. When Aaron had taken to entering the Ashlands, it was more frequently from the north or northwest. Vylass guides, handling trips from Camron, would have been farther south. Even so, Aaron thought he’d known Reinhold. “Kind of a patchy beard? Missing a couple fingers on his left hand?” Anders nodded. Aaron remembered a campfire or two with Reinhold, the guides swapping stories after their trips had ended and charges returned safely back to civilization, a few new marks to brag about down at the taverns.
It wasn’t unusual for guides to have regular annual appointments, catering their travel plans to one or two consistent customers. Usually wealthy families where the patriarch had really taken to the annual hunt and lured in brothers, cousins, and the younger generations. Some families didn’t take it seriously. Once they got their blades wet the first time, they just wanted to eat, drink, and boast around the fire. Others got the competitive bug. They wanted to hang with the warriors of the Corvale and Vylass tribes, at least by virtue of their marks, and they pushed their guides to take them deeper into the Ashlands, to find more and more Chalk and other prey. The serious hunters tended to be more dangerous, leaving most guides with a short lifespan as they were expected to scout advanced locations, be the last to retreat when overrun, and serve the lion’s share of guard duties with unreliable charges.
“I remember him. Not too well, we didn’t cross paths that often. He must be getting up there.”
“He is. We take care of him though. We were taking care of him long before we understood the real value of these.” Anders gestured towards the marks across his chest. “It set our family up well once we learned of the dragons. Set me up to take over when my father fell.” A look of disgust crossed Anders’ face. “Father would have had words for you, have words for the Queen about this mess. Might have gone mark for mark with you up until a few years ago.” He spat onto the flagstones beneath his chair, then looked up with a cruel smile. “Reinhold says they call you Little Pixie Eye.” All the CA men broke into surprised laughter, its harsh edge unmistakable.
Alliance of the Sunken (Spies of Dragon and Chalk Book 3) Page 13
