“If you want something to eat, Mast, you could just ask,” came the voice from inside.
Cal opened the door the rest of the way. A man was standing in the center of the kitchen, lantern held high in the otherwise dark space. The light illuminated a few tables and chairs and faded into the distance where the stoves, food preparation areas, and pantries were.
The man wore light armor and had a sword belted on. Cal recognized him as DeFlorre security. His name was Ben. He had short grey hair and a reputation for competence. Even if Ben didn’t hold the title of head of security for the DeFlorres, he was probably running the show.
“How are you, Ben?” Cal said.
“Well enough,” he replied, followed with a long pause. “If you’ve got a moment, Mister DeFlorre would care for a word.”
“By all means,” Cal said. It was an odd request given the time, and odd to hear it so politely phrased. Cal had expected anger or at least annoyance. Regardless, he had little choice in the matter. The opportunity to slip out unnoticed had passed. It would be deeply offensive to leave without paying his respects at this point.
Ben picked up a tray, several drinking glasses on it, and balanced it carefully on his right hand. Cal was amused to see the soldier playing waiter, but it deepened his confusion. Had Ben been waiting for him in the middle of the night? Had Ben really been sent for him? Why did Master DeFlorre want to speak with him? He might be upset about the Daria-Darlene situation but that still didn’t merit a face-to-face with a lower level noble like Cal. Mast was a recognized house to the west, Cal’s father being the Steward of the small nation of Castalan. This far east that meant little. And Cal was just his fifth son by way of his third wife.
An invitation for drinks with one of Delhonne’s most powerful families, as a midnight summons from his presumed dead partner pressed on his mind. It seemed Cal’s night was just beginning.
Chapter 3. A Glass with Ice
Ben led Cal down a short hall to a sitting room. It was brightly lit with expensive oil lamps. They tossed pools of light over ornate, well-stocked ceiling-high bookshelves, over a green felt gaming table, and into a small sitting area. Maric DeFlorre sat at the edge of a padded chair.
Cal recognized Maric as the younger and abler brother of the nominal head of the DeFlorre family, Earl Aldric DeFlorre. If Maric held a title, Cal couldn’t remember it. But he knew enough of the DeFlorre affairs to understand that much of the continued success of the family lay at Maric’s feet.
Maric looked up as Cal entered behind Ben. He was wrapped tightly in a blanket. It was unclear if he was wearing evening clothes or a sleeping gown. That made it more likely it was the latter. He had thinning grey hair, spectacles hovering over a sharp face, and a slight build.
Maric showed Cal a tight smile. “Mr. Mast, it certainly is an interesting evening to find you wandering my halls.”
Cal gave a cautious nod of greeting. His mind raced. Maric had only recently been roused. The powerful man would have preferred to have faced any visitors in his full evening clothes. That meant he was playing this situation as much on the fly as Cal himself was. It must be that Cal wasn’t the only one aware of Aaron’s return. It was the only reason Cal could merit such attention. Cal was unsure why the DeFlorres would care about Aaron. Aaron held no title in Delhonne. Men like Maric DeFlorre had no cause to know his name. Still, hard to believe the interest in Cal was unrelated to Aaron’s apparent return.
Ben handed Maric and then Cal a glass with three fingers of a fine whiskey. Cal noted the ice in the glass, a luxury only afforded the truly wealthy. They had to store it through these hot and dry summer months. Cal took a long pull, forced himself to relax. As he took control of his heart rate, Cal found he was rather enjoying his evening. He took the visitor’s prerogative and waited for Maric to speak.
After a rather long silence, Maric asked, “I understand your father is well?”
Cal replied, “Yes.” A long pause followed, and when Maric refused to break it Cal reluctantly continued. “Castalan has been dealing with its share of issues, but they have enjoyed the fruits of several good trading seasons on the Western Sea. I know House DeFlorre is a well-respected participant on the textiles trade routes.”
Maric nodded modestly. Both men were well aware that the textiles trade was almost entirely controlled by the DeFlorre House and their subsidiaries. Its future was probably decided in this very room. When Cal had been active in Castalan’s intelligence work, knowledge of the ambitions of the DeFlorre House was highly prized. A few years ago, he would have killed for a seat in this room. Lately he’d fallen off of even feeding basic reports to the Castalan Embassy. He still drew two salaries, one on top of the table and one below it. But he couldn’t recall if he’d even picked up either in the past few months. He certainly had done little to earn it, but it wasn’t so easy for them to cut off the son of the Steward regardless of how little he produced. It was peacetime anyway. There was little happening between Delhonne and Castalan.
“Well you must let us know if you or your father have any needs of us,” Maric said.
Cal nodded again, slightly deeper this time. Inside he was puzzled by the nature of the offer. It seemed some alliance was being explored, yet he and his father likely had little to offer the DeFlorres. Anything the DeFlorres wanted they would have already taken. Maric must somehow know that Aaron had returned. And for some reason he cared, wanted something from Aaron. Which meant the DeFlorres wanted Cal on their side. Aaron must have done something dramatic to draw the attention of a man of this stature. Cal felt like he was joining a game of cards where everyone knew his hand except for him. He eyed the door. It had been about a quarter of an hour since Aaron called out for his help. He needed to leave.
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of another senior DeFlorre, also in a sleeping robe. He was introduced as a cousin of the Earl. His arrival gave Cal an excuse to beg the lateness of the hour and move towards the exit. Maric reluctantly gave him a curt dismissal, no doubt frustrated to find so little information from what he had hoped would be an asset.
Cal headed for the front door. He was dismayed to find that Ben intended to accompany him to “make sure he got home safe.” After a brief pause for Ben to throw on a cloak conspicuously bearing the crest of the DeFlorre House, the men walked out of the door and down the walkway into the warm late night.
Cal looked back and studied the large manor. He paused to roll a cigarette for the walk and briefly savor the memory of Daria-Darlene. He doubted he would see her again. At least with so few clothes on.
“Well, let’s go then,” he said, as if Ben were the one slowing them. They started down the street. “A lot of night left.”
Chapter 4. Crossing Lines
Cal’s boots echoed on the well-maintained cobblestones of the wealthy uptown neighborhood. It housed the mansions of the oldest and most powerful families in Delhonne. Evenly spaced and immaculately clean light posts illuminated the few people scurrying about late in the evening. They were mostly servants on odd shifts, running late night errands.
He had very little idea of where he was going, a not unfamiliar sensation. He simply walked, something he had done a lot of the past few years. This time, however, there was something ahead, an object of interest on the horizon. His friend was alive, probably, and was making Delhonne awaken and dance in the middle of the night. Cal was finally having fun, maybe for the first time since being left rudderless after Aaron’s presumed death.
Without a precise destination, Cal headed south towards the City Center. It would get him closer to home. There was also a chance that if Aaron had created some sort of ruckus it would have the taverns buzzing. Ben silently paced Cal.
Delhonne had been Cal’s home for the past three years. It was the largest city in the state of Tannes and the civilized portion of the east. The second largest city on the continent. Delhonne was a city knitted together of small neighborhoods, a few steps taking one from extreme wea
lth to the utmost poverty. Neighbors rubbed shoulders uncomfortably and settled disputes with blades just as often as with words. The city had carved itself out of the east by sheer will. It was landlocked, bordered on the north with mountains and on the east with endless plains run by nomadic tribes. For those east of Delhonne, it was viewed as the gateway to civilization. The people to the west viewed it as one step from savagery. Despite its disadvantages in geography, Delhonne had steadily grown over the past decades, buoyed by the strength of a strong manufacturing industry and the rich farmland surrounding the city.
The area around Delhonne was largely flat, but there were a few vantage points which gave travelers a view of the massive urban mess. From such a view, one could see the highways scarring the fields and forest that surrounded Delhonne. The old city walls barely interrupted the outward spread of the sprawling neighborhoods. Within the walls, some hills and valleys gave the city texture, and the high buildings of City Center and the towering palace which housed the King of Tannes cut into the sky.
A traveler looking over Delhonne tonight would see an unusual number of campfires along the roads into the city. The population was gathering for the Festival of Clouds, to take place in six days. It would signify the transition from the dry season into the growing season. Soon fresh rainfalls would reach emerging crops that had survived on moisture trapped in the soil through the long dry season. Delhonne would celebrate by drinking itself stupid. Its population would swell uncomfortably over the next few days.
After they had walked about half a mile, Cal and Ben’s feet moved off of finely manicured cobblestones onto the rougher dirt and gravel mix that dominated the city outside of the richest neighborhoods. As they transitioned from the homes of the wealthy to the streets of mingled middle class and poor, both men completed the many small gestures which are second nature to travelers of dark and dangerous paths. The tug of a strap to ensure its tightness. The brush of a weapon’s hilt to check its readiness. One of the many blurry reasons Cal ended up at the DeFlorre mansion had to do with getting on the right side of this imaginary boundary of safety they had just crossed. It was a line Cullmore wouldn’t cross lightly.
Now the action was picking up. Foot traffic included some of the remnants of the tavern-going crowd, trying a little too hard to make the night last. A messenger went by at a full sprint. His arms pumped in tight movements. He was flawlessly conditioned, built to run across Delhonne with the latest news to his employers. He headed the way Cal and Ben had come. The noble families liked to stay informed. Apparently the news was worth a late night visit, at urgency. At least Cal now knew he was headed in the right direction. He followed the turn he had seen the runner make on approach.
One of Cal’s men, Erik, was approaching as they rounded the corner. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but fell silent as he noticed Ben. Cal had resolved to not be surprised again this evening and took Erik’s presence in stride. Once again it seemed others had the jump on him regarding Aaron’s return. Erik read Cal’s face and fell into step with them, sliding subtly into the lead, directing the group towards the southeast.
Cal was relieved that he no longer had to pretend he knew where he was going. He focused his attention on the events of this evening and the likely ramifications of the drama that seemed to be unfolding.
The fifth son of the Steward of Castalan, Cal grew up on the edges of royalty. It was a comfortable position. He had lived in a small palace with servants, teachers, plenty of food and safety. But as the fifth son, there was little room for him in the power structure of the family. His father’s position was not hereditary, and Cal’s older brothers had long locked up the best table scraps in Castalan. Cal found the remaining options unappealing. Luckily he had the freedom to explore and try to make a name for himself on his own terms. He had tried municipal politics, trade, some military work. With these failures at his back, he fell into endless travel and the search for adventure like many other well-funded younger sons.
Cal had been with a Vylass crew hunting near the Ashlands when he first encountered Aaron. Aaron Lorne was well-known by many in the area. He was a source of good intelligence on the movements of the dangerous creatures of the Ashland border region: trolls, dark pixies, and especially the rare group of Chalk to be found outside the Ashlands. All were coveted kills for trophy-seeking warriors and nobles alike.
Aaron had spent several years making a decent living hosting group hunts in the region. He would meet groups in the camp taverns, some by appointment, others by luck. He guided them in tours of the eastern wilds, mostly the former Corvale hunting grounds. Aaron’s chosen profession was dangerous. The warriors and nobles who hired him wanted the big kills. They didn’t want the inconvenience of the careful tracking and precautions to ensure you killed the game and not the other way around.
Aaron, driven by the ghosts of his past, had tired of flirting with the edges of the Ashlands. He started penetrating deep into the dismal, chalky white terrain. The lands had drawn his blood, but he emerged as a fearsome warrior and unequaled scout. He stopped being a guide to any but the most ruthless and motivated warriors. Many of these late charges died, and the people began to consider Aaron bad luck, dangerous.
When Cal met him, Aaron was headed back into the Ashlands alone, and Cal offered to accompany him. Aaron accepted. He didn’t trust Cal to be anything but another pampered and ill-equipped noble, but he was eager to have the crucial second set of eyes that enabled occasional sleep.
The trip had tested both of their swords. They were attacked by a group of Chalk not long after entering the Ashlands. They barely escaped alive. The ensuing chase lasted several days. It ended with a desperate trap that enabled them to kill ten Chalk between the two of them. When the fight was over, Cal and Aaron talked deep into the night. Cal told Aaron about his recurring nightmares of falling into his father’s shadow and being lost. Aaron told Cal about his fear of tight spaces where you can’t turn around and face what’s behind you. By the time they returned to civilization, they were fast friends and shared a deep trust of each other.
Over the next few years, Aaron set an agenda and Cal followed. They had worked as assassins, spies, hunters, rescuers, wherever they could get paid. Aaron’s attempts at rebuilding his broken nation and past were at the heart of all their efforts, but steps in that direction had generally gone so badly that there was little to do but find the next job. After several years as a team, they had bonded like brothers. It was only when Aaron took on the Dura Mati that their relationship had become troubled. And shortly after that Aaron had died, or at least seemed to. Which had left Cal alone in Delhonne. No one around to prevent him from making a mess of things, which he did rather quickly. His reputation had been dependent on Aaron and once he was gone a harsh reckoning had come, the most tangible outcome being the murder of Dom Beres. Cal had been powerless to stop or avenge it. He had funded a trip to the Ashlands searching for signs of Aaron. It had done nothing other than bankrupt him. On his return Cal slid farther away from what he had once been, nothing holding his attention beyond cards, drink, and the occasional woman. Eventually, with nothing of greater meaning on his plate, the foolish idea of targeting some vengeance Cullmore’s way had surfaced. But besting the Weyler brothers on a lark was no way out of the hole he’d dug.
Growing noise pulled Cal back to the present. He noted that the street they were on was unusually crowded for so late at night. The crowd was wrong. Too many sword belts and sharp eyes. The drunk, stumbling sets of lovers had been replaced by groups of men talking quietly in circles with eyes in all directions. Cal put his game face on. They were nearing the action.
Erik led them around the next corner, slowing expectantly as he did so. The largest cluster of men yet was gathered at the mouth of an alley, peering into the shadows near its end. Several held torches, which added to the ambient light of the moon and the streetlamps.
Cal couldn’t immediately see past the gathering. He started pushing his way throug
h. The men he slid past studied him. Cal heard the name Aaron Lorne float through the quiet mutters. Aaron must have been recognized, was somewhere down that alley. For the first time, Cal considered that he might be dead. Or, at least, dead again.
Cal passed a thin man wearing the cloak of the Tannes State Government. The man was explaining to his small group that they should keep an eye out for Lorne’s “little prick friend.” Cal flushed with anger.
He had endured a rough readjustment of his social status after Aaron left. He had fallen out of fashion. The vultures had not hesitated to circle and then pick at the carcass of his reputation. Cal almost turned to face the government man, fighting the urge to feed him his own teeth. Ignoring the pounding pulse he could feel in his head, Cal resisted and pressed forward. He reached the edge of the crowd and was finally able to see into the alley.
The collective light only slightly illuminated the alley. A small tent had been hastily thrown up. It issued a soft blue light from the interior. A slight shift in the shadows at the left side of the alley drew Cal’s eyes. His breath caught as he saw what had awakened the city of Delhonne and was actively shaking its foundations. “Fuck,” he swore softly.
The moonlight played along the neck of the giant beast as it slowly shifted from one taloned foot to the other. The dark grey, nearly black scales covering the creature seemed in some places to swallow the light and in others to throw it back defiantly. The dragon—Cal could only assume that’s what he was looking at—was easily twice as tall as a man and maybe three times as long. Cal could see long wings rising from its shoulder blades. Four muscled limbs ended in sharp claws. It had a lizard’s face with a short snout. Cal couldn’t see its teeth and was glad for that.
Night of the Chalk (Spies of Dragon and Chalk Book 1) Page 2