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

  Contents

  The Night of the Crash

  Chapter 1. Boots on the Stairs

  Chapter 2. The Daria-Darlene Situation

  Chapter 3. A Glass with Ice

  Chapter 4. Crossing Lines

  Chapter 5. An Overdue Reunion

  Chapter 6. The Parade

  Chapter 7. Sleepy Jon Wakes

  Chapter 8. Just a Few Drinks

  Chapter 9. Blood on the Floor

  Chapter 10. The Man in the Shadows

  The Night of Rejoining

  Chapter 11. A Way Home

  Chapter 12. A Promotion

  Chapter 13. The Slaughter

  Chapter 14. On the Trail

  Chapter 15. Hounds, Storms, and Witnesses

  Chapter 16. Cries on the Wind

  Chapter 17. A Different Sort of Struggle

  The Night of the Scattering

  Chapter 18. Catching Up

  Chapter 19. The Water and the Dragons

  Chapter 20. The War Room

  Chapter 21. Break Interrupted

  Chapter 22. A Cultured Affair with a Little Fish

  Chapter 23. Cleaning the Gutters

  Chapter 24. A Quiet Place

  The Night of Deepening Shadows

  Chapter 25. A Corner Huddle

  Chapter 26. To the Lower Sweeps

  Chapter 27. A Message for Grace

  Chapter 28. Deeper Than Anticipated

  Chapter 29. Gelden Carr’s Office

  Chapter 30. Up the Tunnel

  Chapter 31. A Long Walk Home

  Chapter 32. An Exercise in Thought

  Chapter 33. The Room of Stained Glass

  Chapter 34. A New Location

  Chapter 35. A Plan and an Offer

  The Night of the Chalk

  Chapter 36. Some Work at the Palace

  Chapter 37. The Setting Sun

  Chapter 38. Another Rough Landing

  Chapter 39. Control of the Skies

  Chapter 40. A Shared History

  Chapter 41. The Lid

  Chapter 42. A Meandered Speech

  Chapter 43. A Noose of Wood and Water

  Chapter 44. A Parting Gift

  Chapter 45. The Other End

  Chapter 46. The Alleys of the Outer Rim

  The Festival of Clouds (an Epilogue)

  Chapter 47. Twilight Journeys

  Author’s Notes

  Preview Chapter - Rise of the Falsemarked

  The Night of the Crash

  Chapter 1. Boots on the Stairs

  A sharp cough came from the corner, Cal’s first warning Cullmore had sent men. Cal had come to the card game alone. He might not be leaving that way. It was no secret Cullmore was looking for him. Cal’s debts had been piling up for some time and by now his mere presence at one of the gangster’s card games was cause for offense. He’d tried to stay a step ahead of the network of eyes and ears set to track him, especially those who could speak directly to the big man. The rest waited in line, reporting up a slow and inefficient chain, feeding Cullmore’s inner circle Cal’s whereabouts two days after he’d run through another game. After he’d left another reminder that he hadn’t forgotten who was protecting the men who killed Dom Beres.

  Cal had slipped up somewhere. He’d come here one too many times. Or, more likely, someone at the table was closer to Cullmore than expected. The cough again. There must be some real steel approaching, alarming enough and open enough that it alerted the kid in the corner Cal was paying to watch the street.

  Cal dipped his head slightly, acknowledging his thanks for the warning, then drew two cards from the deck. He’d finish the hand. If anyone else at the table sensed trouble, they hid it well. The men were hunched over their cards, focus directed inwards to the stacks of coin. The bartender had given up refilling any glasses aside from Cal’s. The room was quieter than he generally preferred, but the game was fast and high stakes. A good fit given the agenda Cal had followed the past few weeks.

  He got two queens, a good draw, and sighed. He’d have to fold or else he’d win. He threw his cards heavily onto the pot, making a mess of the piles of gold coins. A door opened below, down the stairs, with a small jangle and the sound of a warm breeze entering the stairwell. The game was above a tavern. Six men around the dirty table, the kid in the corner near the window, a bartender back at the upstairs bar, bored and smoking.

  As the sound of boots on the stairs drifted up to the game, Cal studied the table. The men were absorbed in the cards, having lost all interest in Cal the second he folded. Cal leaned back in the smooth wooden chair. The upstairs part of the tavern pretended to be seedy, but that was just to set an atmosphere designed to appeal to the big spenders. They liked the idea they were living dangerously by coming here. Theatrically surly service and a dirty table were part of the façade, but the chairs were comfortable, lamps were well lit, and drinks were comped, strong, and served in glass. Cal looked at his own empty glass, noting this was the first time the bartender hadn’t materialized at his side as soon as it ran low. Cal wasn’t the only one who grasped the significance of the boots making their way up the stairwell.

  Cal set his glass down on the table, waited a beat, then casually pushed it off the edge. When it struck the wooden floor, shattering on impact, most of the men at the table looked up sharply in surprise. One had almost no reaction, giving away that he’d been watching Cal rather than the cards. Owen Barber. Unexpected. Cal never would have put the dull man, with his endless stories of foolish customers at his lumberyard, in Cullmore’s employ. Yet here he was, and it looked as though he’d done his job well in keeping Cal at the game until the steel arrived. Owen gave Cal a dark grin, bold where Cal would have expected meekness or shame. Cal’s stock must have fallen even farther than he thought if a lumber salesman felt comfortable baring his teeth. Both knew Cal would be facing whoever owned those boots climbing the stairs, maybe two pair by the sound. There was only one way in and out, an unfortunate hallmark of any of the games hosted by Cullmore.

  Cal cursed himself, felt his calm threatening to run away. Part of him wanted to duck under the table and hide. He should have known. Cullmore had finally put two and two together, realized Cal was racking up debt all over the city of Delhonne. All to Cullmore. Far too coordinated, systematic, to be an accident. It was both an insult and a threat. Neither were the kind of thing the most powerful gangster in the east’s greatest city was about to tolerate from the likes of Cal Mast. Now that the consequences were marching up the stairs, the whole thing seemed like a fool’s errand.

  Cal slid a hand into his pocket, touching the stone locust carving he carried. He toyed with the idea of using it, summoning its twin, then quietly laughed at his desperation. The other was likely buried out in the Ashlands, keeping Cal’s friend and former partner Aaron Lorne company in a shallow grave. Or discarded on the ground if the Chalk hadn’t bothered burying him. Cal would be facing this alone, same as he’d been doing for the last three years.

  It was the Weyler brothers who arrived at the door, the bigger of the two ducking to avoid the doorframe. Swords drawn. As the rest of the room tensed, Cal relaxed. If this was the best Cullmore could bring, Cal might still be able to make the party at the Plaza DeMarre tonight.

  He was never one to pass up an opportunity to banter with the enemy, but with the Weyler brothers he’d rather just skip it. He stood, drawing all eyes to him, and looked expectantly at the large unwashed duo of mustached men approaching the table. He lit a cigarette. “Deal me out of the next hand,” he said, slowly sliding around the table.

  The closer of the two brothers raised his
hand, stopping Cal. He pointed to Cal’s sword. “Why don’t you sweeten that pot a little bit before we take our walk?”

  Cal shrugged, unbuckled his swordbelt, and threw it on the table. Coin fell onto the floor, some resting near the broken shards of Cal’s last drink. “The dagger too,” said the Weyler. Cal added it to the pile.

  He walked to the door, forcing the brothers to part. They followed just behind him. At the door, Cal called back over his shoulder, “Don’t get too attached to those, I’ll be back for them.”

  “He won’t,” the Weyler brother behind him said.

  It was a short flight of stairs to the back door. The alley was dark, the air warm and dry. It was only a few days before the Festival of Clouds. Delhonne’s population had already begun to swell, but the alley was empty. Cal walked with his back held straight. He was mindful of the fact that the game was likely suspended as the players pressed against the window, speculating on his fate. Wagers would change hands.

  There was a sword point at his back, steering him towards a doorway just across the alleyway, as the other Weyler brother slid ahead of him. It looked as if Cullmore had a quiet disappearance in mind. The card players might talk a bit, but if Cal died out of the public eye, leaving no body behind, the Castalan Embassy would have trouble putting the pieces together. It wouldn’t matter much if they could. No one was eager to take on Cullmore within Delhonne. One looks for walls at their back before taking a swing at someone like him. Or they end up with a sword point in their back directing them closer to a reckoning with a set of killers, no friends in sight.

  It wasn’t the one who had the sword pressed against Cal’s back that he had to worry about. It was the other one, the older Weyler brother, Cal needed to watch. The younger brother at Cal’s back would wait for orders. He was slow, had a reputation for it. By the time he got a nod from the older brother, Cal would be well away from the sword point. They’d stripped him of his weapons, but they seemed comfortable with Cal’s hands free. They had too much faith in numbers. Too much faith in each other. Too long together, working on easier prey than Cal Mast.

  They entered what looked like an abandoned warehouse, moonlight streaming through a partially collapsed wooden ceiling. Cal had heard the Weyler brothers were loud in public, ruthless in private. There would be a speech, an official notification of why Cal was to be shown to the man in the shadows. But it would be brief, and before it was done the sword at his back would punch through his thin shirt and spill the blood of the youngest son of Castalan on the dirty floor.

  Cal looked around, feigning disinterest as he took in the warehouse, all busted crates and deep shadows, a thick layer of dust on the floor. The only weapons close by were those of his enemies. He’d have to work with the hand he was dealt.

  When the older brother opened his mouth, ready to tell Cal all about how Ty Cullmore wasn’t a man to be trifled with, Cal lunged. Forward, away from the blade at his back. He landed a crisp punch on the nose of the older brother, who’d let his sword fall out of a guard position. The younger Weyler leapt into the fray, late as expected, sword leveled right at Cal, again, as expected. Cal spun right, coming around to grasp his attacker’s wrist as the man’s lunge pulled him off balance. Cal pulled him forward, helping to drive the blade home, deep into the older Weyler brother’s gut. As blood splashed up the arm of the younger Weyler, horror on his face, Cal drove an elbow down hard onto his neck, breaking his collarbone. The fight should have ended there, but the strength and rage of the younger Weyler brother fueled him through a few sweaty and bloody exchanges. Dust filled the air.

  By the time Cal ended the fight, burying the older’s sword into the younger, completing the grim circle, he was breathing heavily, shirtsleeves soaked in blood. The dust seared his throat and he spat to clear it. This wasn’t where he’d wanted to end up when he’d set his sad little plan for some small vengeance in motion months ago. This wasn’t where he wanted to be, bloody, broke, and friendless. Things just hadn’t been going his way lately. Still, he wasn’t about to roll over for the likes of the Weyler brothers or their bloated boss. His reputation may have softened over the past few years. Stacking nights of losing at cards, swallowing insults. But he had no intention of letting scum like the Weylers take a piece of him home with them.

  Cal spat in the dust again, then stepped out onto the street, not bothering to look back towards the card game or return for his weapons. If he wanted to make the Plaza DeMarre before the party died down, he needed to get moving. And he would need a new shirt. And a drink.

  Chapter 2. The Daria-Darlene Situation

  Cal lay awake, the sleep that had claimed the rest of Delhonne eluding him. A beautiful, half-naked girl, her face turned towards his, was in bed next to him. They shared a quiet room in the rear upper corner of a stately mansion in the richest neighborhood of the city. The room was nicely appointed if a little bare, a small dresser, elegant dressing table with mirror, wardrobe, and a large four post bed. The sounds from the street were faint this far back in the house. The quiet was only disturbed by the gentle breathing of the girl.

  Her name was either Daria or Darlene, Cal couldn’t remember which. He’d met her earlier while crashing the party at the Plaza DeMarre. The fountains had been lit, drinks were poured freely. She was lovely, even more so now with the nervousness on display at the party behind her, relaxed in sleep. Her innocent face was framed by long, wavy brown hair. Cal had no doubt she was a DeFlorre, one of the oldest and wealthiest families of Delhonne. They were in the DeFlorre mansion right now. She was, perhaps, a distant cousin rather than part of the regular Delhonne household. Probably visiting the big city for the Festival of Clouds and the parties leading up to it. That may explain this no doubt temporary room and how he came to be in it. He had just enough of a family name to appeal to a country girl, even one of distinguished lineage.

  Sneaking into the DeFlorre estate drunk and full of lust had seemed fun earlier, but now that he was sobering up the doubts began to creep in. His presence would be noted, surely had already been noted. Security in a place like this was discreet, effective, and sleepless. The DeFlorres would likely regard him as no more than a nuisance, the visiting girl’s prerogative, but they could still make things uncomfortable for him if they chose.

  There was nothing to do except wait for daylight, make a quiet and courteous exit. Cal lay back, forcing himself to relax. He put aside concerns about where he was and who might be looking for him, a contract for his death in hand. Even if anybody cared about the Weylers, the story would take a while to spread. Cal had nearly convinced himself of that and found sleep, eyes drifting shut, when the sharp call of a locust erupted from a pile of clothes in the corner.

  His eyes flew open at the sound. His breathing slowed as he scanned the room. He leaned forward as if to rise, then fell back. It couldn’t be real. It had been three years. The girl had not stirred. Nothing had changed.

  Cal lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, trying not to count the passing seconds. The locust song would return if it was genuine, something other than the dip of a toe into a dream or a memory.

  The sound came again from the pile of clothes, a sharp insectile buzz. Now Cal rose. The uncertainty left his eyes. He quietly crossed the floor and picked up his pants. In the pocket was the small stone locust carving. It was slightly warm to the touch and emitted a sulfurous smell, a typical side effect of the rare and valuable magic that powered it. Somewhere, and somewhere nearby, the twin of the carving had called out to its brother. After three years of no word, Aaron Lorne was alive.

  The pair of stone locusts were a treasured possession of Cal and Aaron’s, a priceless magical tool that had served them well over the years. One had to simply grasp one of the locusts and slam it into a rock or the ground and it produced a locust’s song in its twin. They had tested the distance and it worked for about five miles. That meant Aaron, if it was Aaron who still held the twin, was in or around the city of Delhonne. They had devel
oped many codes to get as much as possible out of the tools. A single song meant nothing on its own. A double song, spaced about half a minute apart, told one to rejoin the other with all possible haste.

  Cal dressed quickly, pulling his pants on and throwing his black shirt over his head, covering a series of scars and the sets of black and copper tattoos marching up his waist over his ribs and onto his left arm. He ran his hand through his short-cropped dark brown hair and paused to look in the mirror and take his bearings.

  He stared deeply into the glass. His eyes were bloodshot, his clothes a mess. He hadn’t shaved for days. Or eaten for that matter. Cal was too often lured into drinking early and often. When he did, he rarely ate. The stream of card games and parties the last few days had proven too much of a temptation.

  Cal pondered next steps. Getting out of hostile territory came first. His presence was unwelcome here in the DeFlorre House. It was doubly so if he was sneaking off in the middle of the night rather than having the decency to wait until first light. He would head back to his family’s house in the southern part of Delhonne. He hadn’t been there for several days. Cullmore’s men may be watching it. But once there he could kick a few of his men awake and start casting a search net for Aaron. It might even be Aaron was already at the Mast House and they could catch up over a bottle. It had been three long years. Cal had believed Aaron dead, as had everyone else.

  Cal leaned over the bed and gently stroked the cheek of the sleeping girl. He wished her well, but knew she wouldn’t be happy when she woke up to find him gone. He looked around for his sword belt, then remembered he’d lost it in the run-in with the Weyler brothers. He might come to regret having not returned to the card game to collect his weapons. Cal took a breath and slipped out into the hall.

  He counted doors, regretting he hadn’t paid more attention to the layout during the giggling, whispering trip in. She was the fourth door on the left. He moved swiftly to the end of the hall, walking on the outer edges of the floorboards. From there he could scan the master staircase over the central entryway, lit by moonlight streaming in from the second-floor windows. All was quiet. His gaze ran along the walls of the second-floor landing. He spied the unobtrusive side door that would give the servants access to the second floor while avoiding the conspicuous central staircase. He slid towards the door and opened it to find a small set of dark stairs. Cursing his lack of light, he carefully made his way down and inched open the door to the kitchen. The light of a lantern spilled through the door onto the stairs.