“Why are you avoiding it?” she demanded.
His attention finally shifted to her, and his tone took on an imperious note that she associated more with that of an ancient sorcerer. “I would like to remind you who I am and that your friend Taniel is no longer here. I will not be bullied and disrespected.”
Vlora resisted the urge to back down. Prime was immensely powerful, it was true, but she just couldn’t bring herself to care. She couldn’t afford to. Either he was a threat that could destroy them all, or he wasn’t. And she suspected that despite his willingness to kill her back at Yellow Creek, he didn’t have the nerve to make a move against four powder mages, two Privileged, and a whole field army. “Why are you afraid of Nila?” she asked.
Prime’s expression visibly tightened.
“Is she stronger than you?” Vlora pushed.
“No,” Prime said confidently. “She is not.”
“Then why are you afraid?”
“I’m not…” He trailed off, then gave a frustrated huff. “She doesn’t need gloves.”
“Is that scary?”
“No gloves to touch the Else. That is unheard of outside of the gods themselves. Combine that with her considerable strength, and yes, she is terrifying. But not personally. Not for the reasons you think.”
“Then for what reasons?”
Prime fixed her with a serious consideration. “Because it means that sorcery is continuing to evolve. It means that things are changing again. She might be an aberration, or she might be the beginning of a new pattern.”
“You mean that Privileged won’t need gloves in the future?” That was, Vlora admitted silently, a little terrifying. Their need for gloves was one of their biggest weaknesses.
“It won’t be immediate. I suspect that if this is an evolution, it will take hundreds of years.” Prime fell into a contemplative silence, then drew his own gloves out of his pockets and tugged them on. “Yes, I’ve been avoiding this. I don’t know what it is, and that also scares me. I sense nothing from it, but it very clearly matches the godstone. My lack of knowledge—as in the case of your friend Nila—terrifies me. But I’m here now, so I might as well get to it.” Once his gloves were on, he made a shooing gesture. “Let us work, Vlora. We’ll tell you what we can, when we can. In the meantime, I expect you have a very large battle to prepare for.”
CHAPTER 49
Styke stood in the hallway just outside the Quorum Hall in his dress uniform, trying not to look as annoyed as he felt. His feet and back hurt from standing for hours, and his head ached from trying to listen to the proceedings as voices echoed out of the hall and arguments often stumbled over one another, becoming difficult to keep up with for a nonnative speaker.
Etzi had assured him that his presence wasn’t necessary, but Styke had felt it his duty to attend these last three days since Zak’s execution. He had many reasons: the hope that he could keep any more of his men from being dragged in to be used as pawns; to get out of the compound; even as a sort of penance for being unable to prevent Zak’s death.
For these three days, Styke had barely slept. His mind raced. His knife hand twitched. The world felt on the edge of disaster, and he wasn’t even allowed to speak to the rest of his Lancers. He wondered where Jackal had gotten to—if he’d managed to locate Ibana—and when or if he’d return. Styke stared at his big skull ring, twirling it absently.
In the Quorum Hall, Etzi thundered on. Etzi was in a fury—he spoke passionately about the need for oversight of the emperor’s tools, for the reduction of Ka-Sedial’s local power, and for the legal loopholes that allowed the bone-eyes to operate with impunity. Occasionally one of his allies would join in, adding that they needed better representation of the provinces or pointing out that the emperor hadn’t done his customary tour of the empire for two whole years.
It was these latter arguments that really began to impress Styke with how big Dynize really was. He’d seen it on a map of the world, of course, but his entire experience had been limited to the eastern coast—and just a tiny sliver of that. Dynize was as big as the Nine, and though the people shared a common racial identity, it became clear that they were much divided. Of thirty total provinces, four in the west were already in open revolt after having their resources stripped by Ka-Sedial to fund the Fatrastan War. Another seven had sent envoys to the capital to request that Ka-Sedial be forced into retirement.
This was, as Etzi had put it, a powder keg. He hoped to control it. Styke was beginning to think that getting out of the capital and waiting for it to blow up might be his best option—but he had no idea how to do so.
One thing at a time, he reminded himself as he listened to one of Etzi’s enemies rail against the “weak-willed mice” that would see the empire crumble. He recognized that rhetoric well. It was used by politicians and their financiers when they stood to gain from the continuation of conflict. It was the same rhetoric Lindet had used to silence her enemies just after the revolution—though she had used it to justify the formation of the secret police rather than continue a foreign war.
Ka-Sedial and his allies, Styke realized, needed this war to tighten their power. The emperor was either their puppet or he was impotent. Styke couldn’t help but wonder how long until, like Lindet and her Blackhats, Ka-Sedial turned the knives against his internal enemies.
As soon as the war was won, he imagined.
His thoughts were cut off when the impassioned speeches gave way to the quiet roar of hundreds of people breaking out in small discussions. Styke turned to see Etzi emerge from the Quorum Hall. Etzi walked with purpose, his head up and face flushed, looking like a man who could see some sort of victory on the horizon, but when he got closer, Styke noted the small signs of exhaustion—the crow’s feet, the drooping shoulders, the deep, slow breaths.
Etzi scowled as he approached. “I’ve asked them to bring you a chair every day for three days.” He glanced over his shoulder. “They refuse to do it. What kind of petty…”
Styke waved it off. “How are the debates going?”
“Well, I think,” Etzi said, running a hand through his hair and then straightening his formal tunic. “The debates themselves are.” He shrugged, as if to say only slightly more than unimportant. “It’s these moments of discussion that are important. We have a ten-minute recess for toilet and refreshment, but most everyone will remain in the Hall discussing the debates, forging deals, strengthening alliances—or preparing to break them.”
“I’m not experienced in politics, but doesn’t all of that happen in private?” Styke had been to plenty of Lindet’s parties during the war, and he’d been keen enough to realize that’s where all the important dealing happened.
“Yes,” Etzi confirmed, “but the groundwork for them will be laid here. A glance, a gesture, a few token words—they’re all just preparations for later meetings. This evening will be a busy one. The Quorum has spent the last few days trying to decide how they feel about your man’s execution.”
Styke forced himself to contain his anger at the fresh wound. “I haven’t even heard my name spoken, let alone the event discussed.”
“Formally?” Etzi asked, shaking his head. “Of course not. No one wants to be on the record directly addressing the emperor’s justice. But we’ll talk about overreach and Sedial’s position of power.”
“So it’s all between the lines?”
“And in private, yes.”
“So…” Styke ground his teeth. “What does everyone think?”
Etzi cleared his throat, avoiding Styke’s gaze. “Everyone thinks that Ji-Patten was within his rights to execute a foreigner convicted of murder.”
“I—” Styke began angrily.
Etzi cut him off. “However, they’re not stupid. Everyone, even Sedial’s allies, acknowledge that the judgment was less than legitimate and the execution of the sentence rushed. Ji-Patten made that obvious when he tried to provoke you after the fact.”
Styke rubbed his chin. He could still
feel the sting of the slap, and the spot on his chest that Ji-Patten had full-on punched had developed into a bruise that looked like he’d been kicked by a mule. “Are they going to do anything about it?”
“Actively? They can’t. But it has convinced several of the unaligned Households that Sedial is out of control.”
“That’s not good enough.” Styke could hear the anger in his voice, tried to rein it in, and did not succeed.
To his surprise, Etzi smirked.
“What?” Styke demanded.
“It’s…” Etzi tilted his head, as if considering his words. “Ji-Patten struck you. Three times.”
“So?”
“And you laughed at him. Belittled him. Any other time they might have taken that as an insult against the emperor, but considering the current climate, the fact that you spat in the face of a dragonman has garnered you quite the following.”
“In the Hall?” Styke asked in confusion. He had done his best to hold on to his anger but had still expected the political fallout to go poorly for him.
“In the Hall. In the public. Word leaked. Those roving mobs that have been killing foreigners and some of my men? One of them was attacked by another band this morning. They tore each other to shreds. I don’t have any interest in mobs of any kind wandering the capital, but it gives me a distinct amount of pleasure to hear that the common people won’t just lie down for Sedial’s paid thugs.”
“You’re certain those mobs are paid thugs and not just angry citizens?”
Etzi gave a small but confident nod. “It was leaked from Sedial’s Household. One of his cupbearers has been arming and paying unemployed citizens to attack foreign slaves. An ally of mine is going to gather witnesses and prepare a suit against the cupbearer for inciting insurrection.”
Styke bit his tongue, cutting off an outburst about lawsuits, lawyers, and politicians. Etzi had made it very clear that he and his allies didn’t want to reignite the civil war—that their intention was to use the law to destroy Sedial’s power base. But Styke had followed this kind of naivety in the newspapers during his own sister’s rise to power. She had won because she had kept her enemies engaged with lawyers of her own, and all while conducting an operation of blackmail, spying, and violence on the sly.
If Sedial was anything like Lindet, he wouldn’t allow Etzi’s long game to continue for enough time to actually do real damage. Though, to be fair, Sedial was on a whole different continent and distracted by a war. Maybe, Styke allowed himself to hope, just maybe Etzi’s people could play this game through to the end.
Etzi reached up and patted Styke on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, my friend. Sedial is losing the unaligned Households. The winds are shifting. My mother and your man will be avenged.”
“Will they?” Styke asked quietly.
“I promise.” With that, Etzi gave a nod to himself and then turned to head back inside the Quorum Hall.
Styke sagged against the wall, watching him go. He had no doubt that Etzi was on his side—though he still wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be thrown under the turnip cart if push came to shove. His fear was that Etzi would lose.
Styke considered what Valyaine had told him back in Bellport. About how the Mad Lancers had been monsters, using the war to sate their base desires. The words rang truer the more Styke thought about them, but he also knew that without her own monsters, Fatrasta would never have won the war against a bigger, meaner nation. He was a necessary evil.
Etzi didn’t have that necessary evil. He didn’t want it, didn’t think he needed it. But Styke had his own agenda, his own vengeance to be had.
A small group emerged from the Quorum Hall, and Styke looked up at them coolly. It was Ji-Patten, escorted by four of his black-clad soldiers. Styke resisted the urge to reach for his knife. They marched down the center of the hallway, and it became clear that they weren’t going to acknowledge Styke’s presence.
“You ever heard of a dragonman by the name of Ji-Kushel?” Styke asked in Dynize.
Ji-Patten took several more steps before slowing. He gestured to his men, who came to a stop around him.
“Ask one of your boss’s puppets what I did to Ji-Kushel. Then ask him what I did to the dragonmen who he sent to avenge Ji-Kushel. Ask him why he hates me so much.”
“Wait for me outside.” The order came in a clipped, emotionless tone. Ji-Patten’s escort responded without hesitation, marching on to leave him and Styke alone in the hallway. Once they’d gone, Ji-Patten turned toward Styke. “What did you do to Ji-Kushel?”
“We dueled.”
Ji-Patten’s nostrils flared.
Styke continued, “It took me all day to clean his brains out of my ring. Sedial dug up Orz and five other disgraced dragonmen and sent them after me. I killed two of them. The rest died fighting my people.” He leaned forward. “You’re not special.”
“We have the blessings of the bone-eyes.”
“Little good it did any of you. Sedial doesn’t just hate me. He fears me. He fears anything stronger than one of his precious dragonmen.”
Ji-Patten stiffened. “You’re not stronger than a dragonman.”
“I’ve got three notches on my knife that say otherwise,” Styke told him. “Ask Sedial. Or one of his puppets, or however the pit you communicate with him.”
“You’re trying to provoke me.”
“What? Like that weak slap you gave me the other day?” Styke gave him a toothy grin, trying to make sure it looked insolent rather than leaking out the pure rage inside him. He didn’t want to give Ji-Patten the satisfaction of knowing how close he’d come to succeeding. “No. I’ve been told that you don’t duel here in Dynize, so there’s no point in provoking you. Didn’t bother Ji-Kushel, but I guess he was on another continent.” Styke shrugged. “I’m just letting you know that Sedial is trying to cover for your brotherhood. He tried to avenge their honor and only made things worse.”
He saw a flicker in Ji-Patten’s eyes, but the dragonman didn’t betray anything else. They stared at each other for several moments, until the quiet roar of discussion in the Quorum Hall subsided and Etzi began another long, passionate speech.
“Your men are waiting for you,” Styke said, jerking his head toward the exit. “Be a good dog and go terrorize whoever else Sedial doesn’t like.”
Ji-Patten snorted, then pivoted on one foot and headed for the exit without a word. Styke didn’t bother watching him leave. He let his head fall back against the wall, feeling the tension in his own shoulders and letting out a deep breath. He would have to wait a few more hours until Etzi finished with the Quorum for the day. But he wouldn’t need to come back tomorrow.
His message had been delivered.
CHAPTER 50
Michel worked his way along the back of a crowd in Upper Landfall. He was surprised at the size of it—thousands of people, mostly Palo, waving signs and shouting slogans. They took up the entire center of the square, with even more marching in a continuous circle around them. Everyone was angry, and he couldn’t help but feel a confused mix of pride, guilt, and terror.
Pride because he’d organized the anger behind this protest. Guilt because he knew that eventually people were going to get hurt.
And terrified because the Sons of the Red Hand had nothing to do with this gathering. The anger that he’d stirred up by having Survivor tell his story around the Depths had taken on a mind of its own. He’d nudged community leaders, conducted an enormous propaganda campaign, and paid hundreds of gossips to spread the word, but this… this wasn’t him. He could feel the vibrato of the furious crowd deep in his chest. He could sense the impending violence.
The protest was, if he wasn’t mistaken, occurring in the very same public square where the Blackhats executed the decoy Mama Palo earlier in the year. He wondered if that had been planned, or if this was some kind of coincidence. He wondered if anyone even remembered the poor old woman.
He continued to stay near the edges of the mob, but made his way toward the b
andstands set up to one side of the square. A few dozen Palo were already on them, speaking among themselves or shouting back and forth to whip up the crowd. Michel recognized many of them as prominent speakers, activists, and leaders of the Palo community. None of them were as rich or powerful as Meln-Dun had been before his fall, but they were still a force to be reckoned with.
Once Michel had found himself a good spot to listen to the speeches, he craned his head toward the nearby streets. Stone-faced Dynize soldiers were already gathered in tight knots on the roads or positioned on the rooftops. Their muskets were still shouldered, but Michel knew how quickly that would change. He hoped that nothing here turned violent and rethought his own positioning in the crowd.
Better to not be able to hear very well but have a clean exit than to get caught up in a stampede if this got nasty.
He repositioned himself near a wide alley just as a shush went through the crowd. One of the men on the bandstand approached the podium. He clutched a speech in one hand and waved with the other, looking out over the assembled masses with a stern visage.
He introduced himself as Horiallen, and Michel remembered that he owned a mill that provided most of the grain to Greenfire Depths. Jiniel had met with him two days ago.
“My friends!” he began. “Thank you for joining me here today, for a show of solidarity.” There was a cheer that quickly died out. “We’ve gathered as a people to ask questions of the new rulers of Landfall—to demand answers.” He pointed at a particularly prominent group of mounted Dynize soldiers watching from nearby. “Vicious rumors are being spread about our new overlords. These whispers are almost too horrible for me to mention, but I know for a fact that we’ve all heard them by now. Rumors about Dynize sorcery. Rumors about blood sacrifice!” His voice rose to a fever pitch. The crowd grumbled, people shifting about angrily.
“We want to know if these rumors are true! We want to know who will pay for the blood of our children and our grandparents!”
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