Vlora leaned forward onto her saddle horn and frowned at Delia. The silence stretched into nearly a minute, and Valeer was the first one to break it, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle. “Did you hear her?” he asked. “You’ve been relieved of your post, effective immediately. You should gather your general staff to pass on the news and formalize the changing of command.”
“That’s not happening,” Vlora said.
“Pardon?” Delia looked taken aback.
Vlora made a show of checking her pockets, then removed a small book from one of them. She’d borrowed it from the Riflejack military attorney. She licked one finger and flipped through the book, then ran the tip of that finger along the page to a sentence that had already been underlined for her. She quoted, “Under extraordinary circumstances, and in possession of individual knowledge that affects the well-being of the motherland, a ranking general may operate his or her army in foreign territory independent of orders from Adopest.”
Delia sneered. “You believe that you can invoke Tamas’s Clause. At me?”
It took Valeer a moment to catch up, but eventually his eyes widened. “That clause was written during the Gurlish Wars to give Field Marshal Tamas leave to operate without waiting for orders that might take months to arrive.”
“The clause is still very much on the books,” Vlora assured him.
“And you think it applies to this circumstance?”
“Absolutely,” Vlora replied confidently. “These are extraordinary circumstances, and I possess individual knowledge that affects the well-being of the motherland.” She shrugged. “I’m afraid that since you must have left Adopest between six and eight weeks ago, you couldn’t possibly know about those extraordinary circumstances. Therefore, I can override your request to hand over command of this army.”
“It was not a request,” Valeer barked. “It was an order from your government!”
“Speak that way to Lady Flint again and I’ll slap that mustache off your face,” Sabastenien said coolly.
Both Vlora and Delia held up a hand in a mirror gesture to silence their subordinates. It almost made Vlora laugh. “An ill-informed government,” she assured them.
“Tamas’s Clause does not allow you to act with impunity,” Delia warned.
“No, of course not,” Vlora replied. “I would never dream of it. Accordingly, I will order a briefing drawn up for you and Valeer. It should be ready tomorrow. Once you know everything that I know, I’m sure you’ll agree that these circumstances are extraordinary and you will take your provosts and return to Adro.”
That last bit was, Vlora knew, wishful thinking. But she couldn’t help but try to steer them that way. Delia’s nostrils flared and her horse pranced to one side, as if sensing its rider’s anger. She spoke through clenched teeth. “We have the authority to take your command.”
“And I have the authority to tell you to buzz off,” Vlora replied. “Don’t think I mistook your intentions, showing up with two thousand provosts. You may hate me because of who my father was, but you can’t possibly think me a fool. I have no intention of risking my legacy on an unsanctioned foreign invasion—I will be vindicated in my actions.”
Delia snorted and turned her horse away. “Prepare your briefing,” she snapped over her shoulder as she began to ride back to her provosts. “We shall be the judge of this.”
Vlora felt herself once again missing Olem as she looked over a hastily-drawn-up briefing titled “The Dynize-Fatrasta Conflict.” Normally, Olem would handle this sort of thing and she trusted him so implicitly that she wouldn’t even have felt the need to read the draft. That sense of loneliness cut deep every time, refusing to go away until she consciously pushed it aside. She had no more time for self-pity. There was too much riding on her ability to think clearly.
She read through the briefing for a fourth and fifth time, adjusting the language here and there in light pencil. She finally called for a secretary to take it to be read over by a handful of her Riflejack officers. Instead of a secretary, it was Bo who popped inside.
He took the draft out of her hand without a word and dropped onto her cot, reading through it quickly. “This looks good,” he finally said, handing it back. “I would change ‘threat to Adran interests in the region’ to ‘Adran interests worldwide.’ A new god would, after all, be a worldwide threat.”
Vlora made the change without comment. “Hand this to the secretary outside.”
Bo did as she asked and returned, taking a seat back on her cot and frowning at the wall.
“Well?” she asked him.
“Well what?”
“I assume you’ve spent the last couple of hours making contact with any spies or old allies you have among the High Provosts.”
“Ah. Yes, that I have. Not a very good lot unfortunately. Delia specifically made sure that most of the High Provosts she brought with her have good reason to hate me.”
“She has always been annoyingly thorough.”
“Indeed. I was able to bribe a lieutenant.”
“Get anything good out of him?”
“Her,” Bo corrected. “But yes, a few interesting tidbits. It turns out that when Delia began to put together her expedition, she was absolutely convinced that I had just left to invade Fatrasta.”
“What did you tell everyone?”
“‘Cabal business.’” Bo shrugged.
“You got forty thousand soldiers into a fleet on ‘Cabal business’?”
“It’s easier than it sounds when you do it in little chunks. Only the generals actually knew what we were doing. The rest of the soldiers all thought they were going on small, isolated missions. They didn’t find out until they reached a rendezvous well off the coast.”
“You say that like it isn’t a terrifying feat of subterfuge.”
“It took some planning,” Bo admitted. “I’m honestly surprised we left without a major inquest by the First Minister.”
“Well, they’ve caught up with you.”
“Right! About that—so, they thought I was leaving to invade Fatrasta. However, they found out about the Dynize invasion just before they left and didn’t really get any new information until they reached our fleet a few days ago. They thought they were coming to arrest a rogue group of generals and a couple of Privileged—those provosts include half a dozen mage breakers among their number. Instead, they find out that I’ve handed command to you and that no one is planning any sort of foreign invasion. Everyone in the fleet, and indeed our own general staff, considers this a peacekeeping mission.”
Vlora frowned, feeling a tiny thread of optimism. “Are you saying we might be able to convince Delia that we’re in the right?”
“I’m saying that Delia is going to spend the next few days rethinking her position. She didn’t actually know you’d be here until she met with our fleet commanders. Seems to have thrown her off a bit. Quoting Tamas’s Clause at her has her in an absolute fury. I have no doubt she’s going to figure out how best to make your life miserable—but I’m fairly confident you can keep your command without going into open rebellion against the Adran government.”
“And if that happens?” Vlora asked.
Bo crossed his legs and tapped absently on his prosthetic. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I break a lot of rules because I can get away with it, but I’d really rather not get involved with actual treason. I imagine most of the general staff feels the same way.”
“So, no treason,” Vlora mused. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She took a few deep breaths. Delia had arrived and Vlora still had her command. One step at a time. But she had to remain vigilant. Delia hated her, Bo, and every other officer and soldier who’d helped with Tamas’s coup ten years ago. She wasn’t going to give up simply because of a clause named after the very man who had executed her family.
CHAPTER 37
Styke sat in the corner of the courtyard of Etzi’s Household compound, tucked in the shade while he whittled horses out of Cypress wood and wat
ched Celine play in the shallow bowl of the amphitheater. It was early afternoon, and the heat had already made him sweat through his shirt. All around him the Household carried on its duties; washerwomen, cleaners, and gardeners passed through the courtyard regularly. It had been two days since Styke had been introduced, and they still glanced at him furtively every time they came near.
The children seemed less bothered by his presence. Jerio, Celine’s quiet, serious, chubby little friend, had taken to stealing pastries from the kitchens every morning and bringing them to Styke. It was not a subtle gesture—very clearly meant to win Styke’s favor—and it was working well. Any boy clever enough to keep Celine’s attention was a good kid in Styke’s mind.
The pastries didn’t hurt.
He finished whittling a horse and blew the dust off his fingers, then set it down with a half-dozen others. He’d already distributed one to each of the children in the compound, but this group was being saved for something special.
He adjusted each of the horses so that they stood in a perfect line on the flagstone, then raised his eyes to check on Ka-poel. Unlike Celine, she hadn’t taken to the Household. The language barrier saw to that. She spent her time shadowing Styke, watching people come and go, and fiddling with little bobs and bits that she kept concealed in her lap. Knowing a little how her sorcery worked, he wondered if she was gathering leverage over the Household or simply taking stock of what she’d already gathered. She didn’t bother to tell him.
Etzi had very pointedly not told his Household that she was a bone-eye. He’d told them nothing about her, as far as Styke could discover, beyond the fact that she was a guest and was to be treated as such. Even her connection with Styke was not explicit, though the Household must have picked up on it at some point.
He left her to her devices and turned his head at the steady sound of approaching footsteps. A few moments later, Etzi emerged from a corridor, walking unhurriedly but businesslike toward Styke. It was the first time since Styke’s introduction to the Household that he’d even seen the Household head. Whether Etzi was avoiding him or just busy, Styke couldn’t say.
They exchanged a cool nod, and Styke climbed to his feet and dusted off his trousers. “Afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Ben,” Etzi said with a friendly but tired smile. “I apologize for my scarcity—this suit has taken up every second of my time the last few days.”
“Of course,” Styke said, resisting the urge to demand an update. He was still trying to follow Celine’s rules for going unnoticed, and one of them was simply not acting like himself. He needed to be polite. Gracious.
“I do have news, both good and bad,” Etzi said. “The bad news is that I haven’t been able to get your men released into my care.”
Styke wasn’t surprised. “And the good?”
“You have permission to speak with them. I have an hour of spare time right now, and a carriage waiting. It’ll go easier if I accompany you.”
“Excellent.” Styke forced himself to smile. He needed an opportunity to put his own plans in motion, and although Etzi might be a better chaperone than an escort of prison guards, he also spoke flawless Adran—which meant he could overhear whatever Styke said to his men. “I would appreciate it. Celine!” he called, then gestured at the horses he’d been carving. Celine paused in her play to nod. He then exchanged a glance with Ka-poel. “Let’s go,” he told Etzi.
The carriage was not ideal. It was small and narrow, with two seats facing each other in a covered box and a driver out front directing a single horse. The wheels squealed loudly beneath Styke’s weight, and he could tell by the nonplussed expression on Etzi’s face that such a sound was not common. They rode in silence for a couple of minutes before Etzi gave him an embarrassed smile.
“I’ll get a larger carriage next time,” he promised. “It’s easy to forget just how big you really are.”
Styke hunched his shoulders to keep them from splitting through the thin wooden walls, and resisted the urge to get out and walk. “Don’t mention it.”
“It’s better this way,” Etzi went on. “You’re the buzz of town right now, and even on foot you’re likely to draw crowds.”
Styke leaned forward to look out the narrow window, watching the people pass. Occasionally someone spotted his face and exclaimed to a companion, pointing, but by the time they’d made a ruckus, the carriage had long passed.
“You’ll be pleased to know that I was able to retrieve your men’s horses from the foreigner’s inn where they’d been lodged,” Etzi said.
Styke perked up. “Yes, I am. Thank you for that. And…”
“And that strange armor, yes, I’ve retrieved that, too.” Etzi got a peculiar look on his face. He reached beneath his seat and drew out a bundle. “You’re lucky the innkeep didn’t take too close a look at those saddlebags, else that armor would have disappeared by the end of the first day. Magical armor.” The last two words were more of a mutter than anything else, and he pinched the bundle by one corner and held it up in the small space between them, letting it unfurl. It was the skull-and-lance of the Mad Lancers. Probably came right from Jackal’s saddlebags.
“Company standard,” Styke explained. That peculiar look was beginning to bother him.
“Yes, so I gathered. Very striking. Striking enough that it caught my memory.” Etzi reached beneath the seat again and drew out a book—very nice, leatherbound, if rather worn. Styke recognized the stitched title down the side: A History of the Fatrastan Revolution. They’d only gotten books occasionally in the labor camps, but this one was hard to miss. It was written four years after the end of the Revolution and had become a best seller overnight.
Styke clenched his teeth while Etzi flipped to an earmarked page.
“Our spies have smuggled us many books over the last few years,” Etzi explained. “The heads of larger Households get the pick of them, of course, but a few trickled down to me. It says here that this is the standard of the Mad Lancers. There’s even a sketch, which is what caught my memory.” Etzi turned the book to show Styke a rendering of the flag that was lying across Etzi’s lap.
Etzi closed the book, set it on the seat beside him, then carefully folded the flag back up. Styke remained silent throughout the process. When he was done, Etzi said, “The odd thing to me was that Colonel Ben Styke, an apparently infamous hero of that war, was executed for treason. The Mad Lancers were disbanded. Odder still, a cavalry unit under this banner was seen at the Dynize capture of Landfall. Fighting for the Fatrastans.”
Styke stared at the banner for a few moments, considering. His position was fraught, and he’d never been a good liar. What was it that Markus had once told him? The easiest way to lie is to tell a half-truth? To steer the conversation? “Ben Styke wasn’t executed,” he finally said. “He was put up against a wall and shot.”
“That sounds an awful lot like an execution.”
Styke tapped the still-visible scar on the side of his jaw, then the one on the back of his hand. “Not if you’re more stubborn than a dozen bullets.”
“I see.” Etzi opened the book again, flipping through it seemingly at random. “This Ben Styke was a giant of a man, a monster and a hero. A god among men, if the author is to be believed.”
“There are a few exaggerations.”
“The one about killing a Kez Warden with your bare hands?”
Styke did not fail to notice that Etzi had switched from “he” to “you.” He grimaced. “I was a lot younger then.”
“You know, when you said that you’ve killed dragonmen, I assumed it a boast. Perhaps, I thought, you finished one on the battlefield. But the man described in this little chapter here—this tall tale—would be more than capable of fighting one of our emperor’s holy warriors.”
Styke cleared his throat and looked out the window. If Etzi knew who he was, and knew that Styke fought for the Fatrastans, it made both their positions weaker. It made Styke’s position downright dangerous.
“
I don’t want to know,” Etzi said.
“Eh?” Styke looked up at his host sharply.
“I don’t want to know,” Etzi repeated. “I don’t want to know why you’re here. I don’t want to know whose side you’re on, or what you intend to do in my country. I don’t believe you’re a spy, and if you’re part of an invasion force, your presence here on your own is testament that it has failed spectacularly.”
He continued, “Ignorance, as they say, is bliss. I’ve begun a legal battle that I cannot—that I will not—stop, and you and Orz are the linchpins. All this”—he gestured at the book and the folded battle standard—“will remain hidden. No need to let it out, as long as both you and your men remain silent. All you need is a few weeks for Orz to recover enough to walk. Then you’ll be out of my hands, and whatever comes out, I can claim ignorance.”
Styke decided not to tell him just how close his guess was. “You’re taking a great risk.”
“Revenge isn’t sweet without risk,” Etzi said with a cold smile that reminded Styke of Orz. “My greatest hope is to have Ji-Patten executed for the murder of my mother. But at the very least, I will have given Ka-Sedial a handful of sleepless nights.”
“That doesn’t seem worth it,” Styke observed.
“It takes a lot of work to make the Great Ka lose sleep.”
Their conversation was cut short by the carriage lurching to a stop. Etzi leaned forward and looked out the window. “We’re here,” he announced. A moment later the driver opened the door for them, and Styke followed Etzi out into the sunlight.
Styke found himself in a walled courtyard of rough-cut red stone. The courtyard was large enough to accommodate a dozen carriages like theirs, and was about half full. The traffic continued around them, citizens coming and going, and more than a few stopping to stare at Styke. Etzi ignored them, so Styke followed suit, continuing after his host across the dusty drive and up a wide set of stairs. They proceeded down a high-arched corridor and then a side hall toward a suite of offices.
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