To his surprise, Gustar smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that. Hit ’em from the rear and they won’t see what’s coming. I’m only worried about the Privileged. We don’t have a powder mage to put a bullet in their head.”
Styke handed Gustar back his looking glass. “Leave the Privileged to me.”
The Mad Lancers swung south, using the hills beyond the floodplain as cover and coming up directly behind the Dynize position to slam into their supply train at a gallop. Styke gave the order to keep formation tight and only slow enough to kill anyone who raised a weapon. Then they came over the hills and found themselves less than a hundred yards from the rear lines of the enemy infantry.
Styke paused long enough to assess the situation, and was surprised to find Ka-poel riding up to him through the chaos they’d left of the Dynize train.
“You need to be back with our reserves,” he said. “Find Sunin and Celine. Stay with them.”
Ka-poel shook her head emphatically and showed him her slate. Enemy bone-eye.
Styke inhaled sharply. He was familiar enough with Privileged to know when to show caution and when to charge. But he was not familiar with bone-eyes beyond the ones in Landfall who’d kept the Dynize lines from breaking. “Will they be dangerous to our men?”
Ka-poel shrugged and spread her arms. I don’t know.
Styke ground his teeth. “All right, change of plans. You’re coming with me. Stay on horseback and stay close. We’re going to kill the Privileged first, then run down the bone-eye.” He flipped his reins and raced to the edge of the hilltop, where the Mad Lancers had just finished spreading out into a line formation. The old lancers were on the left flank, led by Ibana, with the Riflejacks on the center and right, Gustar out on their wing. New recruits were mixed in equally.
Styke rode past the old lancers and pointed. “Gamble, Jackal, Chraston, Ferlisia. Bring your boys and follow me. We have a Privileged to kill.”
Styke took command of the center with about two dozen of the old lancers directly behind him and Ka-poel at his side. Down on the floodplains some of the Dynize infantry had just noticed them and were desperately trying to get the attention of their officers.
“Send ’em to the pit!” Styke roared.
Amrec leapt forward. They galloped down the hill, flying over the soft grass and leveling out on the plain. Mere seconds passed before he drew his carbine, fired off a shot, then exchanged the weapon for his lance. Carbine blasts went off all around him, and the Dynize lines turned in a panic, attempting to fix their bayonets.
They were too late.
The tip of Styke’s lance tore through a woman’s shoulder as she tried to raise her musket, and her companion fell beneath Amrec’s hooves a split second later. The sound of the line being trampled beneath iron-shod hooves made Styke’s heart sing, and he dug his knees into Amrec’s sides.
They were through the rear lines in moments. Styke raised his lance, gesturing for the old lancers he’d set aside to follow him as he slowed and cut sharply mere yards behind his own left flank. Amrec leapt the bodies of crushed Dynize soldiers, and they swung out wide, beyond the lines of Dynize infantry that began to organize as the charge faltered.
Styke checked over his shoulder to see if Ka-poel was still with him, only to find her at his side. Her horse foamed at the mouth from the hard run, and her brow was furrowed with concentration.
“The trick to killing a Privileged,” Styke shouted to her, “is to take them by surprise. Privileged are just like any other fool—in the middle of the battle they get tunnel vision. Any minute now someone is going to turn him away from his bombardment and direct him at the lancers. Our goal is to reach him before—”
Styke’s words were cut off by a sudden jet of flame shooting across the battlefield. It was startlingly close and heading toward the Mad Lancer line where Styke had been mere moments before. Dynize and cavalry alike were consumed, and the air was filled with the screams of men and horses and the sickening smell of charred flesh.
“Before that happens!” Styke finished, sawing hard on the reins and directing his small squad of lancers back into the chaotic line of Dynize soldiers. They plowed the poor bastards down with the force of their charge, not even bothering to lower their lances. Styke caught the scent of brimstone on the wind and followed his nose. He soon saw the flash of white gloves among the teal uniforms and shiny breastplates. “Lances!” he bellowed.
His small entourage sprang into a V formation, lances lowering. The Privileged’s bodyguard was turned toward the main attack, and they didn’t see Styke’s flanking maneuver until the last moment. The sound of horses hitting soldiers was an audible crack, and Styke saw a gloved hand flash upward and wave toward him.
His lance struck the Privileged in the left eye and came out the back of his skull, tearing the entire side of his face off as Styke’s momentum carried him onward. Styke whooped loudly, laughing as blood spattered across his stolen breastplate and Amrec’s mane. “Where is the bone-eye?” he shouted at Ka-poel.
Ka-poel’s horse suddenly leapt out in front of Amrec, and Styke found himself following her as she clung closely to her horse’s neck, weaving the creature expertly through lines of confused soldiers. He could smell the copper of her sorcery, trying to differentiate it from the other bone-eye’s, but soon realized that he shouldn’t have bothered.
Still clinging closely to her horse, Ka-poel drew a machete with one hand and leaned down, letting her speed carry the blade into the back of a woman’s neck. The woman spun, blood spurting, and fell to the ground with a cry. Ka-poel immediately jerked back on the reins, and Styke had to do the same to keep from plowing into her. She leapt from her horse and straddled the woman, finishing the job with two blows from her machete.
The Dynize soldiers, who until now had been confused but not disorganized, broke with a suddenness that shocked Styke. They began to run immediately, throwing down their weapons and fleeing. Styke drew his sword and laid about him until there was nothing else to swing at, then took a moment to breathe.
Cleaning the blood from his face, he watched as the Mad Lancers crushed the Dynize against the river.
“Two hundred of ours dead,” Ibana reported. “Twice that many again wounded.”
Styke nodded at the number, pleased. He sat astride Amrec, flanked by Ibana and Gustar while the lancers mopped up what remained of the Dynize forces. As he’d expected, killing the Privileged had been as simple as flanking the bodyguard. So few people were brave enough—or stupid enough—to charge directly at a Privileged that it was surprisingly easy to take them unaware.
The bone-eye, however, had been the breaking force. He remembered that particular sorcery from Landfall, how the Dynize had been impossible to break until enough of their bone-eyes had died. Their will had shattered with the same suddenness here.
“You know,” he said to Ibana, “the Dynize at Windy River didn’t break like this. They were tough bastards, even after Flint put them through the grinder.”
“The army at Windy River didn’t have a bone-eye,” Ibana said.
“Right. Logically, they should have broken faster, like these guys did when their bone-eye died.”
Ibana seemed to consider the conundrum. “Maybe they’re trained very well. Naturally tough. A bone-eye strengthens their will but makes them brittle so that when the bone-eye dies, they are temporarily weak.”
Styke turned to look at her, surprised by the observation.
“I’ve been giving this thought since Windy River,” Ibana admitted. “A few years back I read a book on the effect sorcery has on the human mind. It was mostly incomprehensible rubbish, but I took away a few things.”
“I’ll be damned.”
Ibana gave him one of her rare smiles.
“I mean,” Styke continued, “I didn’t know you could read.”
Ibana leaned over and punched him hard in the shoulder.
Gustar finished taking a report from one of his cuirassiers and turned tow
ard them. “A Privileged, a bone-eye, and an entire brigade shattered in exchange for a few hundred men? That’s a damned fine trade, Colonel. Congratulations.” Gustar’s Riflejacks had taken the brunt of the Privileged’s sorcery, but he, too, seemed very pleased with the results. “I think the boys have earned a day off in Bellport.”
“I don’t disagree,” Ibana said.
Styke eyed the gates of Bellport. They had opened moments before, and he’d spied a small force riding out to greet them under a Fatrastan flag. “Strip the dead and wounded of supplies,” he ordered. “Grab everything we can carry from the Dynize supply train. We’ll camp here tonight and give the men leave in the city in the morning, then move the next day.”
In the meantime, Styke had personal business to attend to.
CHAPTER 28
Michel sat on the floor of his room in the Merryweather Hotel in Upper Landfall. Since the occupation, the hotel had been taken over by midlevel Dynize bureaucrats unable to get a proper townhome near the capitol building. It was a posh place, far above his old pay grade, but he’d managed to use Yaret’s name to secure a room there—and to take advantage of the fact the hotel was well guarded and unlikely to be infiltrated by Blackhats attempting to take his head.
The contents of Forgula’s pocketbook were spread in front of him: seven Dynize ration cards, a bundle of cigarette rolling papers, a number of Fatrastan and Dynize coins, and a booklet filled with names and addresses on both sides of the ocean as well as a calendar of appointments.
It was the appointments that Michel had spent the last couple of days poring over. Everything in the book was written in Dynize shorthand and a sort of minimal cypher, and it had taken him and Tenik together two afternoons just to establish a working translation.
Michel stared at the calendar of appointments, reading over the last three weeks for the umpteenth time. He started from one point in time—the hour that Forgula met with Marhoush in Claden Park—and worked backward, trying to find a similarity between the three letters and two numbers she’d used to mark that appointment with any other appointment since the invasion. He was searching for a trail: evidence that Forgula had met with Marhoush many times in the past or would again in the future.
He finished his examination as the door to his room opened and Tenik slipped inside.
“Anything on Marhoush?” Michel asked, tossing the calendar of appointments on the floor.
“Nothing new,” Tenik answered. “He’s holed up in an old warehouse to the west of the industrial quarter. It seems he’s being cautious since we raided his last hideout.”
“Are we certain that he’s staying put?”
“As certain as can be. One of our people saw his face less than two hours ago. He has people coming and going, but seems to have remained in one spot himself.”
Michel snorted. “Damned fool. If he really thinks we’re on to him, he should be moving every chance he gets. Staying in one spot makes it easier to find him. I’ve been telling the Blackhats for years that everyone should have some espionage training.”
“I take it they didn’t listen?”
“They wouldn’t even let me give our actual spies enough training.” Michel rubbed his eyes. They felt tired and bloodshot after spending so much time staring at paper. He needed to get up, go out onto the balcony—maybe even take a walk. He dismissed the notion. No time—and no need to put a target on himself. It had occurred to him last night just how much of a risk he’d taken by following Hendres himself. He should have pointed her out to some of Yaret’s men and let them do the footwork. The more time he spent out among the populace, the greater chance he had of being recognized, even with his dyed hair and new mustache.
“Tell our watchers to keep their distance. I don’t want Marhoush getting spooked. The sooner he moves, the more chance we have of following him directly to je Tura.” Stifling a yawn, Michel wondered if he shouldn’t go spend the next few days watching Marhoush’s new safe house. He was, after all, the one who would recognize anyone else of importance.
There was just too much work to do.
“Any progress there?” Tenik asked, nodding at the calendar of appointments.
“Nothing,” Michel responded. He picked up the book, tapping a pen against a bookmarked page. “We have her shorthand here for the meeting with Marhoush, and we figured out last night her system for marking names, places, and dates. But I haven’t found a single match for Marhoush anywhere else in her calendar. She’s either never met with him before or this was the only time she actually jotted the meeting down.”
“And if it’s the former?”
“If it’s the former”—Michel tapped the pen against the page—“then maybe our first guess was right. Perhaps Forgula is attempting to turn Marhoush directly. She’s not a traitor, or up to anything more insidious than recruiting an enemy. Which is exactly what we’ve been doing.”
Tenik seemed doubtful. “Either way, Yaret wants to know.”
“That’s fair.” Michel continued to tap away, considering his options. There might be something in this calendar that he missed—a hidden message jotted between the lines. Invisible ink. Even sorcery. But Forgula didn’t have easy access to that kind of sorcery and this was, after all, just a calendar. She wasn’t high-ranking enough to think it would be lifted by a pickpocket. This was probably a dead end.
He tossed the calendar aside and picked up Forgula’s thin address book. This wasn’t in shorthand or lightly ciphered, not like the calendar. It was simply a list of contacts and addresses, just like any government aide might carry with them. He’d flipped through it twice now and nothing had struck him as peculiar. But late last night, it had given him an idea.
“Do you have access to census records?” Michel asked.
“I do.”
“I need the records of all the bureaucrats and civilians who came over from Dynize.”
Tenik’s eyebrows furrowed. “What do you need those for?”
Michel shook the address book over his head. “Because I want to compare her address book to the census records. If I can eliminate all the people who came with you from overseas, then I’ll be able to tell who her local contacts are. From there, we can find out if any of them are known Blackhats and we’ll have a new trail to follow.”
Tenik walked over to the window, pushing aside the curtain and looking out for a few moments before answering. “Can’t you differentiate between Fatrastan names and Dynize names?”
“In a pinch, yes. But I don’t know every Dynize name, and you don’t know every Kressian, Fatrastan, or Palo name. I’m not going to look for every single name—just the ones I’m curious about. It’ll be a couple hours of work at most, and might save me a boatload of time in the future.”
Or, Michel added silently, I could just look for the latest entries in her address book. But that wouldn’t allow him to get his hands on the census data. He waited for Tenik to tell him he was being obtuse, watching carefully for an ounce of suspicion.
Tenik shrugged. “If you wish. There is a single book that lists every civilian that came over with the army. I can get a copy to you within thirty minutes. I’m not sure it’ll be as helpful as you think, but I’ll provide it.”
“And someone to help me compare the names,” Michel added, hoping it would allay any suspicion.
“Of course.”
Tenik headed to the door, but stopped suddenly and turned to Michel. Michel swallowed hard, waiting for a sudden accusation, but Tenik had something else on his mind. “A warning to you, my friend.”
“Eh?”
“Ichtracia has been asking about you. Your stunt with Forgula last night has piqued her interest.”
Michel’s throat began to feel tight. “She doesn’t have better things to do?”
“Most of the Privileged are with the army,” Tenik said with a shrug. “Ichtracia remains with the government because of her grandfather’s wishes, but there isn’t a lot for a Privileged to do in a new seat of governmen
t. Aside from the odd task that comes her way, she finds … other diversions.”
“And you’re worried I might be a new diversion?”
“Just warning you that she’s been asking around, is all.” Tenik raised his eyebrows. “However, I suppose everyone’s been asking around about you. Before, you were a curiosity. Since you confronted Forgula, you’ve suddenly become very interesting.”
Tenik left Michel alone with the contents of Forgula’s pocketbook, which he spent the next little while glancing through once more before there was a knock on the door. A young woman arrived with the census data Michel requested. She was one of Yaret’s Household clerks who’d picked up a little Palo and Adran, and they spent the rest of the evening comparing Forgula’s address book with the census data.
The work was tedious. They marked each person as either Dynize or Fatrastan, then went back through and double-checked all of the names. Only thirteen—all of them written in at the end of the address book—were Fatrastan, and most of those were readily recognizable sympathizers already helping the Dynize stabilize the government.
Michel didn’t much care about the information. It might be useful, but his real goal was to look through the census data himself. He scoured it whenever his assistant didn’t need the book. He sorted through the tiny writing, poring over it like he might check the books of a crooked accountant, looking for any sign of this “Mara” whom Taniel needed smuggled out of the city. After four hours he bought himself some more time with the book by ordering his assistant to triple-check the list that they’d made, and at the end of the fifth hour he gave the book to her and sent her back to the Yaret Household.
He stood by the hotel room window in frustration, watching as the evening guard did their rounds. He considered his path to this place, wondering at the idea that he was now working for a powerful Dynize minister, and he tried to imagine where Taniel and Ka-poel were now.
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