“Do you want to go hunting?” he asked Blye.
“More than anything.”
“Good. Take the boys in an arc around the mansion. Kill anyone wearing a Kez uniform. If they outnumber you, lead them on a merry chase.”
Blye’s brow furrowed. “What are you going to do?”
Styke thought of what Blye had told him of Sirod’s personal sorcerer. For most men, the strength of a Privileged didn’t matter—their reputation alone was enough to give them a wide berth. Styke was not most men. All he needed was will and a good knife. He had both.
“You’re going to bait the guard. I’m going to go kill a Privileged.”
Styke ignored Blye’s objections and took Deshnar, heading directly toward the governor’s mansion. He was a few hundred yards from their small field of battle when he remembered Jackal and turned around to find the Palo boy following at a distance with the horse he could not ride.
Styke rode back to him. “You should go. No room for someone on foot today.”
“You swore to teach me to ride,” Jackal said, expressionless.
Styke felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “You said you didn’t want to.”
“I want,” Jackal responded in slow, deliberate words, “to watch you kill a Privileged. I will suffer learning to ride if I get to see that.”
Styke considered this. “That sounds fair.”
They proceeded slowly, cutting across fields, following the small, wooded streams that divided plantations, and using ridgelines to their advantage. It took them most of the rest of the day to reach the outskirts of the governor’s mansion grounds, where they circled and approached from the deep, old forest that served as the governor’s private hunting ground.
The occasional baying of hounds reached them through the woods, but it always seemed to be heading in the opposite direction.
As the sun began to set, Styke left Deshnar tied to a tree beside Jackal’s nameless horse and crept to the edge of the wood, where he watched the distant manor. The sun was behind him, and he felt confident that no one would spot their spying.
They lay in last fall’s leaves, occasionally swatting at the flies as the shadows slowly grew longer and longer until the shade of the forest itself touched the distant manor.
“What are we watching for?” Jackal finally asked.
Styke tapped a finger against his nose. “Not watching. Smelling.”
Jackal responded with a look of bafflement.
“I have a Knack,” Styke explained. “A minor sorcery. It allows me to smell sorcery. Not terribly useful, all things considered, but it comes in handy on occasion.” He lifted his nose to the wind and breathed in deeply. The smell of brimstone he had imagined hours before was now real, and he tested it several times. “There’s a Privileged in there,” he told Jackal.
“If you’re a Knacked, can’t you just see Privileged?”
“Never practiced the skill required,” Styke responded. “Never needed it. Come on.”
The sun had finally gone across the horizon when Styke and Jackal, leading their horses and keeping a small hill between them and the mansion, crept close to the house and tied their horses in a small grove just a few hundred yards from the east wing. They moved from there toward the stables, which they found empty but for a handful of racing stallions.
“Let them out,” Styke instructed, “and make sure they get far away.” Once Jackal rushed to do his bidding, Styke crouched in the hay and waited. The brief rest was welcome, and he breathed deeply, steadying himself against whatever violence was to follow, hoping that his strength wouldn’t fail him. He would need it all—and more than a little luck as well—against a Privileged sorcerer.
Once he felt he’d waited long enough, he produced a match and set it to the dry straw.
It was ablaze within moments. He ran from the stables, catching Jackal by the arm and giving the last of the horses a good swat to send it running. They heard the yells from the mansion almost immediately, and they cut across the darkening yard to the very end of the east wing, where they waited another two minutes to let the blaze completely engulf the farm—and attract the attention of the entire staff—before slipping in through a garden door.
Styke paused for a moment just inside, before stopping Jackal with a hand on his chest. “Keep an eye out. You should be able to see the front drive from that room there. Watch for Sirod leaving, or his bodyguard returning.” He handed Jackal his carbine. “Fire off a shot if you see them.” With that, he set off on his own.
The house was enormous, and this servant’s corridor along the east wing stretched nearly as long as a drill field. It was dark but for a few gas lamps and the dancing of the flames from the stables through the occasional high window. Styke paused beside each of those long enough to look for any familiar figures out in the yard. He could see the rush of servants trying to put out the fires, reminding him of the people of Fernhollow attempting to do the same—only to be cut down.
Styke had no quarrel with the servants. Just with one man and his Privileged bodyguard.
He finally reached the end of the corridor, pausing to listen to shouts coming from what he guessed were the kitchens. He tried to orient himself, getting an idea of the layout of the house. He could smell that brimstone stronger here. The Privileged was close.
Styke slipped from doorway to doorway, soon catching sight of the servants as people rushed into the kitchens, the head maid shouting for buckets and bowls, and sending all the young men out to the garden pumps. A few of the maids crouched by a window, watching the whole event, whispering to each other.
One last glance out a window made Styke freeze. He saw a single figure—a man, six feet tall or more with broad shoulders—framed by the flames and walking toward them with arms outspread. Even as Styke watched, the smell of brimstone in his nostrils grew stronger. The flames of the barn suddenly flickered, as if being battered by an invisible wind, and then began to subside.
The Privileged, Bierutka.
Styke did not know how long it would take him to contain the fire. He hurried through the halls, looking this way and that, opening each door with a soft hand to check inside. He knew the general design of these manors, and he knew that the study would be near the center of the manor, perhaps just off into one of the wings.
He found it within the minute, opening the door just a fraction and seeing the soft gaslight within, noting the built-in mahogany shelves and the high, wing-backed chairs. He pushed the door open in silence, then closed it behind him and took a long look at the man sitting in one of those chairs.
Sirod wore a dressing gown over bedclothes, a pipe in one hand. He looked at Styke over the top of his book like one might look at a flea-bitten dog that had just stolen into the kitchen. One eyebrow raised, and then Sirod’s lip curled in disgust. Styke wondered how he looked—looming in the dim light with his forehead stitched, his jacket and shirt stained with dried blood. Sirod slowly closed his book and set it in his lap. “What the pit is this?”
Styke took a step into the room.
Sirod inhaled sharply. “You’re him, aren’t you? Yes, I recognize you from that damned little village. The lancer who attacked my brother.”
Styke glanced around the room. There was a gilded hunting rifle above the mantelpiece but no other weapons, and he was surprised at how calmly Sirod took a giant of a murderer slipping into his study. “Did you get my message?”
“Message?” Sirod echoed.
“The box.”
Sirod looked disgusted. “You mean the hands, feet, and head of my brother?” Sirod’s eyes narrowed, his hands drawing up over his book to steeple beneath his chin. He was calm and collected, but Styke could see a smolder in his eyes. “Yes, I got that. You’re a monster, Styke.”
“Fine words, coming from you.”
“You think me a monster?” Sirod seemed genuinely surprised.
“You ordered the death of a whole town because they insulted you.”
�
�I have a duty to keep order. Fernhollow would have started something that may have put the empire in danger. What are the lives of a thousand commoners next to the fate of an empire? Attending to my duty is far from monstrous.”
“Yeah? Your brother messed up. He didn’t kill me or the garrison. He just made it all worse. Everyone within a hundred miles of Landfall knows what he did, and that you ordered it.”
Sirod considered this for a moment before giving a slight shrug. “Perhaps you’re right that I overreacted. People make mistakes. Martial law will make them forget it.”
“That’s not a mistake. Just proof that you’re a piece of shit.” Styke drew Rezi’s knife.
Sirod shifted in his chair, the first bit of genuine consternation crossing his face as Styke stepped toward him. “You mean to kill me?”
“That’s about right.”
“I am the governor of this province!”
“You look like a dead man to me.”
Styke was feet from Sirod when he felt a breeze across his neck and his nostrils filled with brimstone. He whirled, hurling the knife with all his strength at the Privileged who had opened the door behind him.
There was a faint pop, and Rezi’s knife shattered into a thousand pieces. Styke didn’t even wait for the shards to hit the ground, throwing himself at the Privileged as quickly as his legs could carry him. He only made it a few steps when what felt like an enormous wind swept beneath his feet and lifted him, hurling him through the wall.
The impact knocked his breath out. Every bone rattled as he smashed like a cannonball through one wall, then another, then another. A table finally slowed his momentum, one wooden leg splintering as his shin went through it, and he finally rolled to a stop in a cloud of plaster dust.
Styke lay in a heap for several moments, the wind knocked out of him and his whole body aching. He tried to think through it, forcing his arms to move, to get them beneath his chest so he could get up to his knees and then, if nothing was broken, to his feet—where he might be able to fight. As he struggled, he could hear loud talking from several rooms over.
“Sorry I was late, my lord.”
“By Kresimir, Bierutka, why the pit did you do that?”
“Pure instinct, my lord. I wanted to get him away from you quickly. You saw what he did to your poor brother.”
Sirod gave a sigh, as if throwing his arms up. “Fine. Go kill the dog and get this over with so we can deal with the Lindet situation.”
Styke finally gained his knees. His eyes began to focus again, his breath returned, and he saw that he was in the kitchens. A single cook stared at him, her eyes wide and her apron dirty, and then gave a loud scream before fleeing the room. Styke crawled to the closest preparation table, using it as support to get to his feet.
He’d no sooner lifted his head above the table than he glimpsed Bierutka looking through the hole Styke’s body had made in the wall. The Privileged had a strong chest and a powerful frame, and he stretched his arms as he stalked around the wall and in through the kitchen door.
“Still alive, are you?” Bierutka asked. “Still moving. Very impressive.”
Styke fumbled for a butcher’s knife, flinging it at Bierutka. There was no real strength behind the throw, and it clattered harmlessly against the far wall to Bierutka’s left. Styke shook his head, still trying to clear his vision, and leaned heavily on the preparation table. “I heard you were a shitty Privileged.”
Bierutka paused, blinking in surprise. “Where did you hear a thing like that?”
“That’s what people say.” Styke looked around for something—anything—to use as a weapon.
Bierutka took a few steps forward and hesitated before raising his hands. His pinkie wiggled, and a ball of flame appeared over his shoulder. His middle finger wiggled next, and the flame shot toward Styke. Styke ducked, but he needn’t have bothered, as the flames splashed against the wall behind him as ineffectually as the knife he’d thrown a moment ago. Plaster immediately cracked and popped, smoke filling the room.
“Shit,” Bierutka said loudly. He stood up straight, chin thrust haughtily at Styke. “I am not a combat Privileged, if that’s what you mean. But that doesn’t mean I can’t kill you as easily as this.” He thrust his left hand forward, the little finger of his right hand twitching. Styke felt a breeze on his neck and braced himself to be thrown through another wall.
The blow did not fall. Bierutka stared at his hands for a second, shook them both out, and struck the same pose as if to try again. Still, nothing happened.
Sirod appeared behind Bierutka’s shoulder. “You’ve set the house on fire,” he complained. “You really are an idiot.”
Bierutka pulled a face, and Styke wanted to laugh. He’d never seen a genuinely daft Privileged before. He took a half step over, ignoring the flames that began to curl from the wall behind him, and snatched up an iron frying pan. Bierutka switched stances, his fingers twitching as another fireball appeared over his shoulder and streaked toward Styke. Styke swatted it away as if he and the Privileged were playing a game of tennis, and the fire caught just above one of the nearby windows. The effort caused Styke to stumble into a stove, scattering pots and pans with a loud clatter.
“What are you doing?” Sirod demanded of his Privileged.
“I’ll deal with it, my lord,” Bierutka said, his voice sharp. “Go to the museum for the night.” Bierutka stalked into the kitchen, tugging angrily at his gloves as Sirod made his exit. “You’re a nuisance, Major Styke,” Bierutka said.
The next bit of sorcery took Styke by surprise—a gust of wind punching him in the stomach hard enough that he swore a rib cracked. The frying pan flew out of his hand, and Styke bounced off the stove and fell to the ground. Flailing for purchase, Styke caught himself on one of the big iron pots, the kind that cooks used to make soup for the entire household staff.
Bierutka, clearly frustrated, closed the distance between them at a quick stride as he shook out the fingers of both hands.
Styke gathered all his strength and lifted the immense pot, standing up and swinging it as Bierutka rounded the preparation table. He stumbled forward into Bierutka, and the Privileged’s hands rose in defense. Styke felt the pot impact with something before it suddenly shot out of his hands and flew across the room, raising an enormous racket. Styke reeled backward into the stove.
Bierutka stared at his left hand. The pot had slammed into his fingers at the same moment his sorcery sent it flying, leaving the hand bent at an odd angle, the knuckles bashed and bleeding through the white gloves. He blinked in shock. “You’re beginning to—”
Seeing double and barely able to stand, Styke snatched up a frying pan and staved in Bierutka’s head before he could finish the sentence.
The Privileged crumpled, leaving Styke alone in the room, choking on the spreading smoke. He dropped the frying pan on top of the body and lurched out into the hallway, looking for Sirod. He found Jackal instead.
“What’s going on?” Styke asked.
“I fired the carbine, but you didn’t hear it,” Jackal said.
“And?” Styke demanded.
“Sirod is fleeing.”
“Shit.” Styke fought through the pain and the confusion and forced himself to run toward the front door, only for Jackal to catch his arm. “He’s headed toward the museum.”
Styke reversed direction and followed Jackal back down the east wing, stopping to rest every few dozen yards. Servants rushed to and fro, a general alarm going up over the fires in the kitchen, and no one seemed to pay Styke any mind as he burst from the garden door and headed toward the grove where they’d hidden the horses. Jackal pointed into the darkness as they ran, and Styke could make out the silhouettes of a few riders galloping toward the museum in the corner of the property.
Styke untied Deshnar and pulled himself into the saddle, and within moments they burst from the grove and galloped through the darkness after Sirod.
Styke leaned down, urging Deshnar on and then t
urning control over to the horse. The ground seemed to disappear beneath them, Deshnar’s legs a blur, flying over the surface of the earth as if he sensed the sudden urgency swelling in Styke’s chest. The hot night air whipped at Styke’s face, forcing tears from his eyes.
In his dazed fury, realized that Rezi’s knife, the only thing he had kept of hers, was now gone. She was nothing but mist in his memory, and he could do nothing to change any of it. He wondered, as Deshnar barreled forward, if there was any point to this—if Rezi would care what he did or didn’t do. If perhaps he should turn Deshnar and disappear into the night forever, leaving Sirod to wonder about the man who’d killed his brother and his personal Privileged.
Styke thought of the lancers he’d sent out to draw off Sirod’s bodyguard, and he wondered if Blye, Cardin, and the rest were even still alive. Styke banished all of these thoughts, leaning further still against Deshnar’s neck, and feeling the powerful muscles of the warhorse roll beneath him. He breathed in Deshnar’s scent, drawing strength from it, before focusing his mind and unlimbering his lance.
He caught up to Sirod and his few bodyguards less than fifty yards from the torches glowing in the high windows of the museum. Styke left his lance in the back of one of the bodyguards and slashed his cavalry sword across the spine of another. The second man’s scream alerted the rest to Styke’s pursuit, and three more soldiers turned to fight him.
He was through them in moments, taking off the hand of the first as he drew his sword, slashing the neck of another, then letting Deshnar’s powerful shoulders bowl over the horse of the third. Deshnar barely broke stride through the whole thing, and within moments Styke was at the thick, ironwood door of the museum as Sirod slammed it in his face.
Styke smacked the butt of his saber into the door, then his shoulder—again and again. It refused to budge, even with all his strength. He could feel his frustration and that sense of urgency growing, and he choked it down and returned to the saddle, backing Deshnar up to the door.
The Mad Lancers: A Powder Mage Novella Page 8
