The governor of the Landfall region of Fatrasta had, in short, done very well for himself.
Styke watched as a group on horseback came around from the side of the house to the front drive, where one of them dismounted and went inside. There were about twenty of them, and they all wore the little red feathers of the governor’s bodyguard.
These weren’t cheap Kez cuirassiers with little experience and less bravery. These were handpicked men, many of whom came straight from the grenadiers. Maybe not the equal of, say, Adran riflemen, but they were more than Styke wanted to wrestle in broad daylight.
Styke turned in the saddle, glancing back to see a wagon trundling toward him. He had passed it a few minutes before, and now he waited until it caught up and hailed the frail-looking man smoking a pipe in the driver’s seat. “Are you heading to the governor’s residence?” Styke asked.
“I am. Delivering salted fish from the Landfall market.” The old man squinted at Styke. “Boy, you’re a big one.”
Styke fished a few coins from his pocket and bent to hand them to the old man. “Do me a favor and deliver something for me. A gift for the governor.”
“Can’t deliver it yourself?”
Styke winced. “Used to sleep with the head maid of the household. She swore she’d shoot me if she ever saw me again.”
“All right, then. I’ll take your money. For the governor, you say?”
“It goes to him personally.” Styke untied the sea chest that he’d lashed to his saddlebags. “Tell him that it’s from a Major Prost.”
Styke woke up from a dream in which fires danced in the ruins of Landfall. He lay in the damp grass, hidden beside a stream in one of the long, thin groves of willow trees that divided the cotton fields a few miles north of the governor’s mansion. He felt sweat on his brow and a sharp pain like a bug bite on his left forearm. He swatted at the bug bite and rolled over.
He’d only just gotten comfortable when his eyes flew open, the sleep gone from him, at the sound of a soft grunt. He rolled to his knees, Rezi’s knife coming to hand, and he squinted into the darkness.
Two dark forms thrashed in the long grass. He caught the raised glint of a knife and dove forward, wrestling it away from the hand that held it, then threw his weight onto the two figures, pushing them both back until they lay one on the other with Styke’s knee on the chest of the one on top.
As his eyes adjusted, he quickly ascertained that the figure with the knife was being choked by the second figure that now lay on the bottom of the heap. The first was a woman, the second, on bottom, a muscular youth.
The second, he realized with a start, was the Palo boy, Jackal.
“Explain,” he said, pressing the knife to the woman’s throat.
She remained silent.
“I followed you at a distance,” Jackal said quickly. “This one was dispatched from the governor’s mansion not long after you passed it. She has been following you. She tried to cut you, so I will now kill her.”
The woman gave a strangled cry and began to thrash. Styke pressed his blade closer to her neck. “What is this? Do you work for the governor?”
“Don’t trust this boy,” the woman hissed. “I am…” she trailed off, and Styke snorted.
“If you’re not good at excuses, have one ready before you botch a job. Answer quickly if you want to live: Did the governor send you?”
There was a distinct erk sound, and she choked out, “Yes, yes he did!”
“Then why didn’t you slit my throat?”
The woman remained silent for some time, until Styke put slightly more weight on the knee on her chest. “I was sent to poison you. The governor wanted you intact to display to the world. We would slit your wrists later and tell everyone you killed yourself from shame.”
Styke scoffed. The idea that Sirod had an assassin at his beck and call was incredible for a provincial governor, but somehow unsurprising. Styke stood up, jerking the woman out of Jackal’s grip and quickly shoving her across the clearing. If she had poison on her, he would need to strip her down and examine everything she had on her. He didn’t relish the idea of this kind of work. Killing her would be simpler, but leaving her alive would send a strong message back to the governor: I don’t fear your minions. In Styke’s experience, the enemy’s terror was always worth the effort.
“Everything off,” he told her, pointing to the ground between them.
She peered at him, her face looking genuinely confused in the darkness. “I will not.” He suddenly felt tired and irritable, and wondered if maybe he should just kill her.
“That or the knife,” Styke offered. “I’m not going to touch you, but I damn well won’t let you get a chance with that poison.”
The woman seemed to consider this for a very long moment before removing her jacket. She laid it on the ground, every movement done with exaggerated slowness, and Styke wondered suddenly why she was taking so damned long to do everything.
“Faster,” he ordered.
She stopped, staring at him intently for several seconds. “Why aren’t you dying?” she demanded.
“Eh?” Styke didn’t have the chance to ask her what she meant before she leapt forward, a hidden weapon flashing.
He used Rezi’s knife to take off the woman’s hand at the wrist, then buried the blade in her heart. She was dead before she could scream, and Styke pushed the body off the knife and cleaned it on her jacket, feeling more than a little annoyed.
“You should have let me finish her,” Jackal said, picking himself off the grass.
“It’s done either way,” Styke said. He used the tip of Rezi’s knife to nudge the assassin’s jacket, trying to see if there was anything in the pockets. He would have to search her in the morning. “Why did you follow me?”
“It seemed like a good idea.”
“That’s it?”
“I couldn’t go home. I don’t know anyone to the north. You’re Ben Styke, aren’t you? The one they say died at Fernhollow.”
“I am.”
“You’re not dead. That seemed like good luck, so I decided to follow you.”
Styke snorted. Far be it from him to contradict a Palo’s instincts. He didn’t for a moment think that Jackal was in on the attempted murder. The boy had saved his life, that much was obvious, and for that Styke was grateful. He should send him off, though. He didn’t need a Palo whelp hanging around. He would, however, wait until morning.
“Hide the body,” Styke said, “I’m going to sleep a hundred yards downstream.”
“You have a scratch on your arm,” Jackal observed.
Styke’s mouth was suddenly dry. He remembered the bug bite and touched his forearm, his fingers coming away with a few drops of blood.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
Styke shivered violently despite the morning heat, arms wrapped around himself and wearing his extra cavalry jacket, while his extra pair of pants were draped around his shoulders. Sweat poured down his brow and soaked his clothing, leaving him sitting a in a sodden patch of grass with his saddle as a pillow. He stared across at Jackal, his eyes having trouble focusing. His skin hurt, and everything that touched him felt like the jab of a thousand needles.
It was morning, and Jackal squatted in the grass, watching him back. “We can’t start a fire,” he said. “They’re looking for you.”
“I’m aware,” Styke said, his teeth chattering. He could barely lift his head, barely move his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so incredibly helpless. He wondered, if a squad of grenadiers stumbled upon them right now, if he’d even be able to stand up.
“You can speak.”
“Very observant,” Styke replied.
“That’s good,” Jackal said, looking slightly put off by Styke’s sarcasm. “The poison should have killed you by now.”
Styke readjusted his second jacket to better cover his chest, every movement causing pain. He slowly pulled back his jacket sleeve to look at the scratch on his arm
. It was barely the scrape of a needle, already clotted over and well on the way to healing. “Do you know what it is?”
Jackal watched him for a few moments. He had a dour look on his face, and Styke couldn’t tell if that was his natural expression, a result of his recent attempted lynching, or if he was just a teenager. Styke was beginning to think Jackal wouldn’t answer when the boy finally said, “I think it is fallow root.”
“How do you know?” The name was vaguely familiar to Styke. He knew what fallow looked like, and had been told by a Palo guide long ago that he could eat the leaves while foraging but to never touch the white stem, nor the root.
“I said I think,” Jackal replied. “Do you have cramps? The shits?”
“You’d smell the shits,” Styke replied. “No cramps.”
“It might be fallow, then.”
“And?” Styke rubbed his arms, trying to get them warm. It felt like rubbing his arms across stinging nettle.
“Fallow causes a bad fever and weakness. Also paralysis. I’ve seen a man die from it before. It’s just…”
“What?”
Jackal seemed uncertain. “It kills in a couple hours. You should have felt the paralysis within minutes of being scratched.”
“It’s not that, then,” Styke grunted. He didn’t know what it was, only that it felt like an illness he’d had as a child, and the memory of that time came back to him along with the pain.
He remembered the fever seizing him, sending him to bed for almost two months. He’d drifted in and out, listening to a string of doctors tell his father that he would be dead within days. His mother had sat by his bedside, singing softly, and his baby sister had brought him sweets that she tucked under his tongue so that father wouldn’t find out. He felt as if he could taste those sweets now; the smell of the lemon honey, the slight flavor of ginger as the sweet dissolved. It was strange that he associated something so pleasant with this horrible pain.
He remembered his father pacing the halls outside, arguing loudly with his mother that Styke should be put out of his misery. He could still feel that cold, quiet rage—that determination that he wouldn’t give his father the satisfaction of dying. He didn’t remember growing well. One day, the fever was gone and he could walk again. He’d never had so much as a cold since.
Styke drifted through his memories, feeling the fever wax and wane. The passage of time meant nothing, and at one point he focused on Jackal through bleary eyes. “You were a field laborer?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know about poisons?”
“I . . .” Jackal trailed off, tilting his head to look at Styke. “When I was ten, the orphanage sold me to an apothecary to work as an assistant.”
“Then why the pit were you picking cotton?”
“Because my master used to beat me with a stick. I didn’t like that. She had an accident while I was away on an errand.”
Styke might be feverish, but the way Jackal said “accident” suggested it was otherwise. “How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
Styke tried to feel something. Horror. Empathy. Interest. He couldn’t summon the energy for emotion. “I was around that age when I killed my first,” Styke grunted.
“Another boy?”
“No. Never children. Even the worst little shits should get the chance to see adulthood. It was an older man.”
“Why?”
“Because he deserved it.”
Jackal nodded along, not pressing further, and Styke thought he could see that perpetually angry expression soften. Styke felt tired from talking, his tongue numb and his jaw sore. Perhaps this was the beginning of that paralysis. Perhaps Jackal was right about the fallow root.
“Rumors are spreading about Fernhollow,” Jackal said.
Styke grunted in response.
Jackal went on. “The survivors are saying that you killed seventy or eighty soldiers all on your own to save the town. Is that true?”
“You going to turn me in?”
“I don’t love the Kez any more than Fatrastans. You’re all the same to me. But you saved my life, so no.”
Styke coughed, and it felt like he’d just hacked up a piece of his lung. He waited for his chest to stop throbbing. “It was more like thirty, I think. Forty at most.”
Jackal’s eyebrows rose. “You joke?”
“No.”
“Boast?”
“I’ve got better things to boast about.”
There was a long silence, and then, “I believe you. How did you fight so many?”
“There was little fighting. It is not hard to kill forty men in the dark when their attention is on murder and looting. All it takes is a good knife and the will. I had both.”
Jackal’s brow furrowed, and he watched Styke with what Styke could only guess was concern. His lips pursed and his expression troubled, he said, “If you survive, I’ll come with you.”
“I’m fomenting rebellion,” Styke said.
“How?”
“I stopped by Landfall and made sure the story of Fernhollow would spread quickly. It won’t be hard to trace back to me.”
“The Kez are cruel. I approve.”
“I’m also going to murder the governor.”
“Because he deserves it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a good enough reason.”
Styke tried to scoff, but all the strength had gone out of him. He managed to roll onto his side, his thoughts growing fuzzy. It seemed that he could sense the paralysis now. He closed his eyes against the afternoon sun, clenched his fists, and waited to die.
Someone shook Styke from a feverish dream. He jerked his head to the side, trying to return to the warmth of Rezi’s strong, smoky arms, before remembering where he was.
“You’re not dead,” Jackal said.
“Don’t sound so goddamned surprised.”
“We can’t linger here. The governor’s bodyguards are scouring the countryside in large groups. They are beating the bushes and checking all the groves. If we stay, we’ll be found.”
Styke’s mouth was dry, but every scrap of his clothing soaked through with sweat. He opened his eyes, focusing on Deshnar as the stallion nibbled on the grass of the riverbank. He moved one arm experimentally, then the other. His body still felt uncomfortable, like he was wearing someone else’s skin that didn’t quite fit right, but he was able to move. He was not paralyzed.
He forced himself to sit up and find his saddlebags, searching them for his water skin and taking a long drink. Slowly, uncertainly, he crawled to the edge of the stream and refilled the skin, then dunked his head in the cool water.
“We have to go,” Jackal insisted again.
“How long?”
“Ten minutes at most.”
“Kresimir,” Styke swore. His legs were wobbly, but with the help of the trunk of a young willow, he was able to gain his feet. Jackal stared at him like he’d just crawled out of a grave. Styke felt like he had. “Help me get Deshnar’s saddle on him,” Styke instructed.
They managed to saddle Deshnar and, after an uncomfortably long attempt that included two willows and Jackal’s shoulders beneath Styke’s ass, he was once again sitting in the saddle. He swayed dangerously, gripping the saddle horn with all his strength.
“Where do we go?” he asked, wishing he had the strength to go out and look himself. They were currently protected by the willow grove and the banks of the stream, but it meant he couldn’t see any of the approaches to their position. He could, however, hear shouts in the distance.
Jackal scrambled up and over the bank, returning just a few seconds later. “Downstream! Go!”
Styke prodded Deshnar and leaned over, burying his face in Deshnar’s mane and holding on as tightly as he was able as the stallion sprang into motion, splashing down the center of the river at a leisurely canter. The very motion made Styke want to throw up, each step a jolt that shook his frame in a way he hadn’t experienced since he was first learning t
o ride.
Jackal sprinted alongside, dodging around trees and clinging to the riverbank with the kind of ease that made Styke suspect he’d done a lot more than pick cotton over the last few years.
Styke listened for the sounds of pursuit—the thunder of hooves, the shouts of men, the blast of a carbine—but none appeared as they followed the stream through the willows. They passed beneath a stone bridge, and soon the banks lowered to the point that they were no longer concealed. Styke could see cotton fields and a plantation house in the distance. He glimpsed a small group of soldiers riding away from them down the road they’d just passed under, and assumed they were part of the search parties Jackal had warned him about.
Jackal waved, slowing down, and Styke followed suit. The ride could not have been longer than a mile, but he was already exhausted, his whole body aching. Beneath him, he could feel Deshnar’s eagerness to break into a full gallop on open ground. That run through the stream had been nothing but a warm-up.
Jackal went to the edge of the nearest field and looked upstream for a moment before gesturing to Styke. “Come, come.” Styke joined him and followed a pointed finger. He could see a couple of cuirassiers milling about at the edge of the wood some ways off. “They’ve found where we camped,” Jackal said. “If they find our tracks in the stream, they will follow. We should keep moving.” He paused, then pointed to the nearby road. “South.”
South meant back toward Landfall. “That’s toward the governor’s mansion.”
“We’ll head west before long. I know a path that will take us well around.”
Styke considered his options. He’d meant to deliver Prost’s body parts to the governor and then hide out as Sirod went mad with grief and fury. The rumors spreading about Fernhollow would cause local unrest, while the confusion of everything going on up in Redstone would force Sirod to act—either to head north himself, or to send his personal troops. Styke would follow, and when Sirod was the most vulnerable, Styke would strike.
The Mad Lancers: A Powder Mage Novella Page 6
