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

by Samuel Gately

  Fenrey turned to his Imagination, sitting on his left. He was nodding enthusiastically. Fenrey always enjoyed the company of his Imagination, especially during the long night hours when they had taken his pens from him. The others were not as good at seeing the new drawings.

  His pens had been taken, along with his candles, as punishment. Hideon Bray was gone and when he was gone they treated Fenrey badly. They had sent another weak one for marking. This one had squirmed under the needles, even gone so far as to strike Fenrey. Fenrey’s Self-Pity moaned, emboldened by the thought. Fenrey hushed him. His Self-Pity had grown tiresome, boring. It even looked boring, always the same dopey expression, face of fluffy grey hair, long ragged white hair falling over his brow.

  Fenrey was surprised and delighted to realize he could see the trails of the drawing he’d done. The light had returned. It filled the crowded room, packed with Fenrey’s many emotions and two new men. He looked at the new men. One was studying the walls with great interest. A Corvale by the face. Fenrey hadn’t seen a pixie eye for years. Or a Corvale for that matter. The other was staring right at Fenrey. Big man with a thick mustache. Under the new scrutiny, Fenrey’s emotions hid and suddenly he found himself alone, an old man sitting on the floor drawing on the air because they’d taken his pens. Fenrey didn’t like it and summoned his emotions back into the room. They crept out of the walls, some from under his thin sleeping pallet, more than one came out of the drawings on the wall where they’d hidden themselves.

  “That’s better,” Fenrey said. “I don’t like to be alone.” The men who were not his emotions exchanged a glance. They switched roles, the Corvale looking at Fenrey while the other studied the walls. The Corvale sat down on the floor across from Fenrey. “Hello,” Fenrey said.

  “Hello,” said the Corvale. “What’s your name?”

  Fenrey’s Distrust shouted loudly but his Loneliness shoved him aside. “Quiet!” Fenrey yelled at them. He turned back to the Corvale. “Fenrey Malcolm,” he said.

  “Fenrey, my name is Aaron Lorne. Have you heard of me?”

  “No,” Fenrey said. “You are very young. I have not heard of much which is young.” He squinted at the Corvale but when his face brought forth no memories, he picked up a pen and started a new drawing. He had drawn the first few lines before he realized his pens had been taken from him. He shrugged and continued anyway.

  “Fenrey,” the Corvale continued. “Fenrey, look at me. Fenrey, how long have you been working for Hideon Bray?”

  Fenrey laughed. His Humor was encouraged by the sound and began jumping up and down behind the Corvale. Fenrey watched him bob up and down like a monkey let loose of its cage. “I don’t work for Hideon Bray. I live for my work and I work for my life.”

  “Fenrey, you did Bray’s markings? Did you also do the markings of the other false…the other NEST?”

  Fenrey squirmed. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. He didn’t need to see the corner, where It sat, impossibly huge and bloated. He tried to lose himself in his drawing. Maybe he could make it big enough he could hide in it. Draw a home with a wife and children who loved him and were proud of him. No corners for the demon to hide in.

  The Corvale continued, “Fenrey, we don’t have much time together. I hate to press you, but I think you did, I think you did all the marks for the NEST people. Fenrey, those marks are unearned. Every time you do that, you’re betraying your culture and mine.”

  There it was. With the sound of its name, Fenrey’s Betrayal stirred. It never left the room like the others, but It was far more silent. Sometimes Fenrey could forget It was there, but It always took up so much space it was pure pretense. Looming enormous and still, five times Fenrey’s own size. And sometimes it seemed It grew. Fenrey’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s not real marks. Most are not real marks. They are temporary. The ink is different. The process is different.”

  “It doesn’t matter. They’ve used them to fool the dragons. I don’t know your code, but I know enough. What you’ve done is punishable by death.”

  Fenrey looked around the room. For once every emotion was in agreement. From their perches on tables and chairs, on the walls and ceiling, they were all nodding, eager to settle the debt, leave the burden behind. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I know. I won’t fight it.” After a long pause, he said, “You know what we are. We are the history, the lines that connect the world. Man, Dragon, Borhele, Chalk, Sunken. You handed us your language, your keys. Then you asked us to betray it? Is it any wonder our minds have broken?”

  Tears filled the eyes of his emotions. Self-Pity nodded emphatically. Only Intellect, that eternal stick in the mud, shook his head in disapproval. He didn’t want Fenrey talking like that. Any more secrets revealed just made Betrayal stronger.

  “I know the fault lies with Hideon Bray,” the Corvale said. “His sins will be paid for. But that doesn’t change that you betrayed your code.”

  “No, I know. I just, well, I want someone to understand. Other than them.” Fenrey made a sweeping gesture around the room.

  The Corvale looked around the room. But he was looking at the drawings on the walls instead of Fenrey’s emotions. He turned back to the mark master and gave a small sigh. “Fenrey,” he said softly, “you’re going to hang yourself with your belt. I’m going to help you. I’ll try to help make it quick. But before we do that, I’d like to ask one favor of you. Will you give me one last mark? A real one, an earned one.”

  Fenrey’s eyes lit up. “Yes. Yes. But they took my kit, my pens and needles and ink.”

  “What’s the kit look like?”

  “A small wooden case, thin and wide.”

  The Corvale gestured to the other man, who left the room. The Corvale removed his shirt. Fenrey’s hands opened with delight as he saw the many marks which threaded their way all across the Corvale’s torso, shoulders, back and arms. He began bobbing his head all around them, drinking them in desperately. “This is a Corvale Class Nine mark. I’ve never done one like this. And this prison in the sandstorm. Magnificent. So many dragons have sworn their loyalty to you. You are a king?” Fenrey didn’t wait for an answer but kept pressing forward. “Such alliances, such stature. The Chalk came to Delhonne? What is the SDC?”

  The other man returned with Fenrey’s case in hand. As Fenrey opened it and began eagerly arraying his tools, the Corvale said, “One final mark, then you don’t struggle when the time comes to do what needs to be done?”

  Fenrey nodded, but suddenly he had a horrible thought. “It’s not,” he asked, voice trembling, “me, is it? You won’t ask me to give you my mark?” Fenrey had never heard of such a thing. It would be a unique torture being forced to paint his own murder on his killer as a symbol of right, perhaps locking his soul into an eternal loop. His Betrayal would love it.

  “No,” the Corvale said. “I will take no pride in your death. I’m sorry for it.” He looked at the walls for a moment. “Several months ago, three men assassinated Derrick Issale, one of my friends. One of the men who helped me rebuild the Corvale. They were mercenaries from Garen. I tracked and killed all three, one each in three successive nights.”

  Fenrey leaned forward over his kit. He couldn’t make anything too large. This Corvale had limited room and was young yet. His deeds would grow long. Plus Fenrey had only a small supply of the permanent black ink the Corvale would favor. He began sketching in his head. A small horizontal bar with the silhouettes of three men under three moons. His emotions fell quiet as he lost himself one last time in the bliss of his work. The language of the world unfolded beneath his taps on the needle.

  Chapter 11. Far More Than One

  After Cal had followed the pacca for only a couple hundred feet, it vanished. He continued to the point he’d last seen it, where he found a long sort of ditch lined with trees. He climbed down a few feet to a smooth path at the center. The pacca was just visible far ahead on the path.

  The ditch was even darker than the plains around it, the trees on
either side masking the starlight. Even though it was lower than the rest of the land, the ground was unexpectedly dry and smooth. It was a sort of trail, a narrow Borhele road. Cal realized the lines of crisscrossing trees he had seen must all flank ditches like this. DeMarco had told him the Borhele were a powerful race, much underestimated. Because they didn’t value building and accruing, most humans thought of them as savage. Cal did not intend to make that mistake. This hidden roadway network would serve them well in warfare against man or dragons. For now, the path had the added benefit of hiding Cal from any potential pursuit if Cole and Burress took to the skies or if he was being watched by others from NEST. Cal waited for a long moment and checked behind him. There was no one on his tail. He followed the pacca deeper into Borhele lands along the dark path.

  The pacca set a swift pace. Cal kept up as best he could despite his burning side. They crossed countless other paths, coming in at all angles, fading off into blackness. At every decision point he saw the dim glow of the pacca’s eyes, looking back at him from the farthest possible distance it could maintain and still be seen. Drawing him onwards. The path curved north and south, but Cal and his guide continued predominately west, deeper into Borhele lands. He had long lost the thread of the path, no chance of finding his own way back home. His eyes darted around to the shadowy opening of each intersecting path, certain one would hold a tall shadow, a mounted Borhele with a marked stick, honor-bound to kill him for traversing their secret paths, Barbayir’s blessing or no.

  Over his ragged breathing, he began to hear a distant throb. A pounding. At first he thought it was the beat of his heart but it grew steadily louder. Soon he was able to separate out individual beats. It was some sort of drumming, some strange music which grew louder until it felt as if the path was vibrating in a complex rhythm alien to Cal.

  Ahead the pacca turned and abruptly climbed the side of the ditch. Cal watched in surprise, lost in the hypnotic drumming. He could see the pacca’s lean, almost mechanical grace as it mounted the ten foot rise in three deliberate, effortless steps. The path was brighter now. The light had grown along with the relentless drumming. The slivers of sky above the path were red with firelight.

  As Cal surfaced, gracelessly clutching his throbbing side, the noise hit him like a wall. Laid out before him was an enormous gathering, lit torches ringing a bowl or valley. Sand covered the ground. A massive bonfire stretched to the sky. All around it were Borhele, in a frenzy of dancing and drumming. There must have been more than two hundred of the creatures. It was some sort of party or ceremony. One in every three was spinning a fiery stick, lit at both ends like a torch. Others were beating on drums they wore around their necks. Still more were dancing wildly about. Some stood completely still as the chaos raged around them.

  One Borhele stood facing the bonfire not far ahead of Cal, just outside the ring which held the dancers. Cal’s eyes drew to him as the pacca passed the Borhele, headed right into the center of the mass of tall creatures. He was tall, a good foot taller than Cal. Thin, lean. Humanoid, but his skin was a deep dusky color, like sand. He wore just a loincloth. Eerily smooth body, front uninterrupted by nipples or navel. Where his face should be there was simply hair. It grew down from his head and was neatly trimmed just under his chin. It covered all sides of his head entirely, falling before his face like a thick curtain.

  You will never see a Borhele’s face until it is dead. And since they always take their dead back with them and burn them, do not anticipate seeing a Borhele’s face in this lifetime.

  Cal drew a deep breath and moved to follow the pacca into the crowd. The Borhele ahead of him had appeared to be ignorant or unaware of Cal’s presence, yet as Cal moved past him, a hand was raised. The head slowly turned. That same mechanical grace the pacca had shown, even tied to so simple a movement. The blank slate of hair looked at Cal. The Borhele made a strange gesture, like tugging on a shirt. It took Cal a moment, then he realized he was supposed to take his shirt off.

  The Borhele will respect your marks. They understand them. They follow a similar process with their sticks. You will be expected to expose them, the way they carry their marks openly.

  Cal carefully pulled his shirt over his head, sparing a quick glance at his wound. It did not look well. He dropped the shirt to the ground, not particularly caring if he found it again. The Borhele let him pass this time.

  The crowd of dancing, fire-twirling, drumming Borhele parted as Cal entered their midst, following the path the pacca had taken. He saw other pacca lounging at the edges of the dance. The drumming continued, rising and falling in the incomprehensible rhythm. Some of the Borhele appeared to be female, though Cal would be hard-pressed to pin down how he could tell.

  As the crowd parted, just past the bonfire, Cal saw the pacca he had followed sit at the right hand of a Borhele. The Borhele looked just like the others. Long, spindly limbs held with an alien grace, helmet of hair covering his face. This Borhele was in a place of honor, however, facing the fire, seated crosslegged on an ornate rug, the pacca now curled beside him. Cal had no doubt this was Barbayir. No other Borhele sat. It appeared this was Barbayir’s party. DeMarco had underestimated Barbayir’s status among his people. This was no spy, hovering at the fringes of conversations. This was a ruler.

  Barbayir gave a slow gesture to the open space on his left side. Cal walked past the fire and sat. Was this an honor, the only other seat on the rug? Or had Cal just announced himself as a pet to match the pacca on Barbayir’s other side? DeMarco’s instruction fell short.

  Over the next few minutes, Cal patiently watched and listened. From the seated position, the dance raging around them suddenly took on a different perspective. Cal could now see that the feet of the Borhele were stamping out an intricate counter-rhythm to the drumbeats. The noise was tremendous. Cal, admittedly no student of music, was confused by the beat. There seemed to be no uniformity or repetition. It was somehow more mathematical than chaotic. The Borhele were all in unison despite the complexity. Each cycle ended with a slight jump when every single drum and every single footfall came down together. Cal realized this brief window into the Borhele was a sort of gift. He’d wanted to see one. Now he was seeing hundreds, occupied in a breathtaking ceremony.

  He slowly began to recognize the musical cycles were ending faster. As he recognized this, they were suddenly crashing to an end at a much greater rate. Then there was no space between them. Finally, there was an abrupt last beat and the dance was over. Silence fell across the camp. There was no heavy breathing from the dancers. No indications of celebration, accomplishment. They simply stopped, stood where they had delivered their last beat. Every covered face was pointed towards Barbayir. The only sound was the crackling of the fire, seeming impossibly arrhythmic after the precision of the music had ended.

  Barbayir stood. He gestured to Cal to do the same. With Cal standing next to him, he raised his stick, notched for nearly its entire length, and slowly rotated it in the firelight. He looked at Cal, then lowered it.

  This was an identity check, Cal realized. Barbayir was verifying who he was. In front of his entire clan. The irony of being a spy and carrying your deeds and affiliations clearly marked. Cal knew it well.

  Feeling foolish, Cal raised his arms, making visible the marks which traversed his ribs, wound over onto his shoulders and back, and ran down his arms to the elbows. He turned slowly. His performance was met with more silence.

  Barbayir gave him the slightest nod, which Cal could tell only because the fringe of his hair lowered by a half inch momentarily. Then Barbayir gestured towards a tent behind him, the only tent visible in the canyon. They walked towards it through the silence. Barbayir made a show of holding the flap open with his stick. Cal entered.

  Chapter 12. Spies of Dragon and Chalk

  Barbayir’s tent was well lit by candles. The sandy ground was uncovered save for two small rugs, placed a few feet apart. Barbayir lowered himself onto one of them, gestured towards Cal then the ot
her. They looked at each other. The hair which hung in front of Barbayir’s face was impenetrable, presenting Cal with a flat, dusky brown surface. There was no telling what was going on behind it. Barbayir abruptly raised his stick and placed its far end in the sand between them. He lifted the stick, leaving a small indentation in the sand. Then lowered the stick, placing it onto his lap. A moment passed. Cal did nothing.

  At some unknown signal, Barbayir relaxed, as if a formality had been completed. He folded his hands in his lap, studied Cal. The silence in the tent was absolute. Cal found it hard to believe there were well over a hundred other Borhele outside the tent. He didn’t hear the shuffle of a single foot. No conversation. Even the crackling fire had fallen silent.

  “For it is many months since I hear from the SDC.” Barbayir’s voice was a whisper pushed out with great strength. The hair covering his face shifted slightly with each word. “For once DeMarco Seller’s identity is exposed to NEST, he retreats to Conners Toren. To New Wyelin. To the Hall of Far East. Many months ago. Months in which NEST grows stronger in the west in the eve of war. SDC grows weaker. For this is how it appears to me. This is how the west understands.”

  Barbayir spoke without hesitation, comfortable with the language despite his unusual word choice. Cal noted Barbayir spoke names as a single word, no break to indicate he saw a difference between first and last.

  Barbayir cocked his head. “For but tonight makes me wonder. Tonight makes me curious in a way DeMarco Sellers does not. Cal Mast and Aaron Lorne, the Spies of Dragon and Chalk, together in Eostre.” Barbayir looked up, then back to Cal. “Aaron Lorne’s deeds are well known to the ears. Cal Mast’s deeds are less spoken of, no less great. For I am intrigued, honored even, to share this tent.