Blood of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  He worked the razor carefully around her ear. Locks of hair fell to the floor, forming a skirt around the feet of the stool. He was careful to leave about an inch on the top, half an inch on the sides—a common northern look for city Palo women. The shade of her hair was fine, but he wanted to convince both the Palo and Dynize that she was a native—that meant making her unrecognizable. The fact that most of the Dynize upper crust knew her face made this particularly difficult, so he’d need to lighten her hair with the lime and ash mixture.

  “We’ll need a name for you.”

  “I don’t know Palo names.”

  “I was thinking ‘Avenya’?”

  Ichtracia repeated the name several times. “I like it.”

  “I had a great-aunt named Avenya,” Michel told her. “She helped raise me for a few years before she died. It’s not a common Palo name, but it’s known.”

  “Avenya,” Ichtracia said out loud again. “Yes, that will do.”

  “Good.” Michel continued his instructions. “When you’re infiltrating a group, confidence is easily half the job. Talk, walk, and act like you belong. Be useful, engaging, charming. Avoid confrontation.”

  “Be like you,” Ichtracia said.

  Their eyes met for a moment. She had made it very clear that despite their continued codependence and cohabitation, she had not forgiven him for lying about who and what he was. “Yes. Like me.”

  She nodded for him to continue.

  “Because we don’t know who to trust, we’re going to approach the Palo under our pseudonyms. We’re not their enemies, but if they discover our real identities, they will think that we’re their enemies. So we, in our own minds, must consider them the target of deception. The Dynize probably have hundreds, maybe thousands, of spies and informants in Greenfire Depths, and that makes it doubly difficult to decide who we can trust.”

  “Is there anyone?” Most people would have had a tinge of despair in their voices when asking such a question, but Ichtracia seemed to take it as a matter of course.

  “To trust?” Michel asked. “There will be. Starting with Emerald.” He finished with the razor and tossed it on the bed. “It’s a hack job, but I couldn’t find scissors on short notice. I can tidy it up when we get to the Depths.”

  “You couldn’t find scissors, but you could find a face-painting kit?”

  “You’d be surprised at how many people have one on hand at all times, even in a Palo fishing village. Doesn’t matter where you are—people want to look nice for a day at the fair or to impress a loved one.” He picked up the kit and rummaged through it until he found a bit of charcoal. He stepped back, looking closely at Ichtracia’s face. “Your features are distinctly Dynize. Anyone with half a brain can tell by looking at you.”

  “You’re going to fix that with face paint?”

  “I’m not giving you rosy cheeks and a blue forehead,” he assured her. “I’ve met face painters—professionals who would never stoop to working a children’s street festival. The very best of them could make you look exactly like me.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “It wouldn’t last through a rainy day or a particularly sweaty afternoon, but yes,” Michel said. “They’re damned artists, and I’m not going to do anything so severe. What I can do is apply a bit of shading to your nose and cheekbones. A little back here”—he brushed his fingertips across the nape of her neck, then over her brow—“and a little here. Very subtle alterations to the angles.”

  “And this isn’t immediately obvious to anyone who looks at me?”

  “I sure hope not,” Michel said, only half joking. “It should stand up to most scrutiny, and it shouldn’t be so heavy that if you do get caught in the rain, anyone will really notice that much of a difference. They’ll just think something is a bit off, but pass it off as nothing. A person’s brain will trick them in all sorts of ways if they think they already know who you are.”

  He put one hand under her chin and tilted it up, examining her for several minutes before he finally lifted the bit of charcoal. Their eyes met briefly, and he found her expression oddly determined. He’d already taken note of the thrill she seemed to get when no one recognized her, and he wondered if this next step was just an extension of that. The problem was, they were going into Palo life in the Depths. No more private rooms. No servants or free access to booze and mala. No comforts to which a high-ranking Privileged might be accustomed. He’d tried to impress this upon her for days without any emotional response from her.

  He considered something he’d been thinking about since they left Landfall with Sedial’s goons on their heels. He opened his mouth, reconsidered, then licked his lips several times before rushing ahead. “I have a question for you.”

  “Yes?” One of her eyebrows flickered upward.

  “Why do you trust me?”

  “I don’t,” she said firmly.

  “Clearly you do,” he replied, somewhat more forcefully than he’d intended. “You followed me out of Landfall on my word, hid in a fishing town for weeks with barely a complaint, and now you’re letting me change your entire face and take you into one of the most dangerous places in Fatrasta…”

  “Greenfire Depths is that bad?”

  “Yes, it is. And don’t change the subject.” Michel had momentum now, and he didn’t want to lose it. “Aside from wanting to see your sister, what could possibly convince you to come with me?”

  “Are you trying to get me to say I’m in love with you?”

  The question brought him up short. He froze like a panicked deer, mouth suddenly dry. The idea hadn’t even occurred to him. He fumbled for an answer.

  “Because I’m not,” she said calmly. “I’m not even sure I like you after all of this. But I suppose I do trust you. Back in the fishing village, when you told me and Taniel that you planned on going back into Landfall to save your people? That was the first time I’ve truly felt like I saw the real you. I think I’ve found your true intentions, and that intrigues me.” She took a deep breath. “And there’s the blood sacrifices.”

  They hadn’t spoken about it since her outburst at the fishing village. “You think there’s truth in what je Tura told me?” Michel asked carefully.

  “You do.”

  “Yes, but I’m just a spy. I only have my suspicions. You’re a Dynize Privileged.” She was evading the question. Michel fixed her with a look that, he hoped, told her that he wasn’t going to let her get around it.

  Several moments passed. Finally, she said, “I do think there’s truth in it. Since I was a child, my grandfather has made it very clear that I am a tool. His little Mara. Blood holds the key to unlocking the stones, and as a Privileged and his granddaughter, my blood is stronger than most. But I’m not there, so…”

  “Why didn’t you mention it before?”

  “Because it never occurred to me that he would turn to other options. Stupid, I know. Sedial would never let my absence damage his plans.”

  “So you think he’s using the blood of others to unlock the stone?”

  “A lot of others,” Ichtracia said flatly.

  “How many?”

  “Thousands.”

  Michel shivered. “Pit.”

  “Exactly.” Ichtracia raised her chin imperiously. “I don’t much care about the Palo. I’m not here to fight for their freedom. But I can’t help but feel as if the murder of all those people could have been avoided if I’d just volunteered. I can’t let that pass.”

  “It’s not your fault, you know.”

  “I know,” she snapped. There were tears in the corners of her eyes, but she wiped them away before they could fall. The gesture smudged the face paint Michel had just applied, and he made a mental note to fix it. “I’m not a fool. But something has been twisting my guts around ever since you mentioned the sacrifices. I have to do something about it. You know, I want to meet my sister more than anything. To find out I have kin, and to find out that she is fighting for something, rather than sitting i
n a mala haze. It shames me into action. I can meet her when this is all over.”

  Michel decided it would be prudent not to push her any further. He gave her a curt nod.

  She wiped her eyes once more and suddenly smiled. “I do not like you, Michel, but I do enjoy you. Watching you work. I can’t help but be impressed. You convinced an entire Dynize Household that you were a spy, and then convinced them that you’d changed your ways for good. And then I find that you hadn’t actually been a spy for the people we thought you were a spy for in the first place. If I hadn’t been personally involved, I would have found that very funny. I think it will be a pleasure to see what you do next.”

  “Weirdly, that puts a lot of pressure on my shoulders,” Michel answered.

  “Good. You deserve it. Are you done already?” She gestured at her hair and face.

  He shook away his thoughts and stepped back up to her. “We still need to dye your hair.”

  “Fine. Go on. Have I answered your question?”

  She did trust him, but she didn’t like him. And they were still sharing a bed. An emotionally confusing answer. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Then answer one for me: What do you plan on doing to hide your hand?”

  Michel swallowed hard. He’d been avoiding this subject for days, and it made his stomach churn. “The same thing I do with the rest of my body: hide it in plain sight.”

  She gave him a quizzical look.

  “That sorcerous surgery technique you used on me…”

  “If you want me to reattach your finger, we would need the finger in the first place.”

  Michel chuckled nervously. “That’s not quite what I had in mind.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Michel stood on the southern rim of Greenfire Depths, trying to ignore the terrible pain in his left hand. The stubs of his now two missing fingers felt like they were on fire, and it had taken several shots of the worst kind of rotgut Palo whiskey to get to the point where he could even think through the agony. Despite the very fresh feeling of losing his ring finger and having had the wound over the pinkie stub reopened, what remained of both fingers was expertly handled by precise applications of sorcery and bits from his face-painting kit.

  The wound looked healed-over naturally, at least a year old, with no sign of bruising around the knuckle of either finger. It was, he decided, the worst thing he’d ever done to sink into a character. He hoped it was worth it. The Dynize were looking for a man with the month-old scar of a single missing finger—not the healed-over stubs of two.

  He breathed in deeply, attempting to put the pain from his mind, and took in the familiar smell of garbage, shit, piss, and sweat that rose from the Depths on the afternoon heat. The mixture of smells was joined by the stale odor of burned wood and garbage, residual from the fires set by rioters during the siege of Landfall. He hadn’t returned to the Depths proper since well before the invasion. Blackhats never went down there alone, and only seldom in force. Even for someone like him, who had friends scattered throughout the cavernous slum, it would have meant taking his own life in his hands.

  Now, masquerading as a full-blooded Palo, he should be fine to walk the winding web of enclosed corridors that passed as streets—at least during the day.

  Should be.

  The idea of heading down there sent a flutter through his stomach. Beside him, Ichtracia stared into the Depths with a look of mild disgust. Her presence was a gamble. If they ran into real danger, she would resort to her sorcery without hesitation, and the moment that happened they would paint a large red flag over their heads for the Privileged and bone-eyes in Landfall.

  She’d taken well to her disguise. He’d thought that cutting her hair and giving her softer features would lessen her imposing presence. If anything, it had increased it. Wearing loose workman’s trousers and a sharp vest over a cotton button-down, her pale skin and confident demeanor told the story of a northern Palo businesswoman, someone who was more used to the confines of factories or political buildings but with a history of giving orders.

  At least, he hoped that’s what other people saw when they looked at her. Creating a disguise to match an amateur could be extremely difficult.

  “People live down there?” Ichtracia asked, craning her neck to get a better view of the immense quarry as it wrapped around the nest of patchwork buildings below.

  “You’ve seen it before, haven’t you?” Michel asked in surprise.

  “Driven past it in a carriage,” she replied. “I never stopped to get a good look.”

  “You don’t sound thrilled.”

  “I’m certain we have slums in Dynize. I have never seen them.”

  Michel opened his mouth, but Ichtracia cut him off. “If you ask me if I’m sure about this one more time, I’m going to toss you off the edge of this cliff. You just had me cut off your bloody finger for the sake of a disguise. I think I can handle a slum and some dangerous Palo.”

  He snapped his jaw shut. “Understood. We have an appointment to keep. Shall we?”

  They descended by a narrow series of switchbacks carved into the wall of the quarry known as the Southern Ladder, steep enough that Michel’s shins hurt like the pit by the time they reached the bottom. The towering hive of buildings blocked out the sun and a good part of the midday heat, leaving the bottom of the Ladder cool, dark, and very damp. The smell of soot was so strong down here that it gave him a headache, and he wondered how the Palo continued existing in such a place.

  The air felt closer, more oppressive, and Michel had to force himself to breathe so as not to get overcome by claustrophobia. Ichtracia’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightened, but she did not comment on the stifling atmosphere.

  Michel had worried that the slums would be abandoned from the fires, that the bulk of the Palo population would have been conscripted for Dynize labor or had fled the riots or had left of their own accord. But the bottom of the Ladder was as crowded as ever, people shouldering past them. No one seemed to give either him or Ichtracia a second glance, though within ten steps he had to wave off three different street vendors trying to sell them unidentifiable meat, half-rotten vegetables, and used boots that had probably come off the corpse of an Adran mercenary.

  Michel headed into the interior at a measured pace, slipping into the rhythm of this place with almost startling ease, a hard, Don’t talk to me look on his face, and with one shoulder forward to cut through the jostling crowd like a knife. He paused every few moments to make sure Ichtracia was behind him. It became instantly clear that she was not used to navigating crowds; after all, she was used to people moving for her. Not the other way around. She was shoved and buffeted so badly that she was almost thrown to the grime-encrusted street.

  He finally moved back to stand beside her when he spotted her reaching for a pocket in anger. He took her by the hand. “Your gloves,” he whispered, pulling her along, “they’re in your pockets?”

  “Yes.”

  He swore silently to himself. “That’s a good way to get them stolen.”

  “I couldn’t leave them back in the room.”

  Michel pulled her into a recess where two disjointed buildings met and took the bag off his shoulder. “Put them in here. My bag is less likely to get stolen off my shoulder than your pockets are to get picked.”

  “I want them at hand,” Ichtracia protested. Her tone was almost pleading rather than commanding. He could tell that she was feeling this place already—learning why it was still a fetid slum even after a decade of effort by Lindet.

  “You have an extra pair tucked beneath the soles of your shoes, right?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “We can’t risk anyone snatching a glove off you and selling it to Sedial,” he said in a low, urgent tone. “Would Sedial hesitate even a moment in marching a whole field army down here to find you, no matter the cost?” A vein on Ichtracia’s left temple throbbed visibly. She finally reached into her pockets, pulling the gloves out in a wad, and stuffed them to the bottom
of Michel’s pack. He said, “Next time we get some privacy, I’ll show you a little trick Taniel showed me that a friend of his uses to hide his gloves and keep them at hand.”

  Ichtracia nodded. She looked visibly ill, and Michel tried not to feel a little bit vindicated. This, he wanted to tell her, is what it feels like to be powerless like the rest of us. He wisely kept his mouth shut.

  As they proceeded deeper into the interior, he noticed that more than just the fires had changed Greenfire Depths. There was a glut of Dynize propaganda. Posters and handbills had been plastered to every wayward intersection of roads and hallways, proclaiming a better life for the Palo under Dynize rule. A common motif was a printed drawing of two freckled hands clasped in friendship, and “DYNIZE AND PALO: COUSINS UNITED” written in big block letters in Palo, Adran, and Dynize.

  Michel stopped to examine one of the posters and found a tiny checkmark hidden inside one of the freckles of the left hand of the drawing. He pointed it out to Ichtracia. “I know the artist. He used to work as a Blackhat propagandist. The Dynize must have turned him.”

  “It’s easier to make friends than enemies,” Ichtracia said.

  “If only Lindet had learned that.” Michel bit off a further reply. He still only half believed that the Dynize were sacrificing Palo. It was impossible to buy into it completely. All the newspapers and propaganda spoke of unification. The Palo seemed to be treated well enough. He struggled with the thought of the changes he’d already noticed compared to what he had expected. What had he expected? As much as the fires and propaganda had left a mark, this was still Greenfire Depths.

  They continued on until they reached a narrow strip of road where there was stone beneath their feet and sky above their heads—a sliver of blue between two tall, dilapidated buildings. A view of the clear sky was a rarity in the Depths, and the road was flanked by shops crammed in as tightly as humanly possible as well as dozens of dark entrances that led to mala dens, whorehouses, gambling houses, and a thousand hidden crannies. The road was packed to the point of barely being able to move, and Michel had to take Ichtracia firmly by the arm and shove a path through.