Wrath of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  “Have you been able to find out about anything strange going on around town?” she asked.

  Flerring waved down the cart driver, slipping him several extra coins, before returning to Vlora and rubbing her chin. “You mentioned a madness thing last time you were here, right?”

  “Taniel did. Apparently madness seized people at random if they spent too much time near the artifact.”

  “Not a lot of weird stuff going on,” Flerring said thoughtfully. “Aside from the usual fights and killings and mining accidents. But a handful of miners up in Nighttime Vale have been hauled away raving mad over the last few weeks.”

  Vlora perked up. This was the kind of information she’d been waiting to hear. “You couldn’t have mentioned this sooner?”

  “I didn’t know sooner. Just found out a few hours ago. Miners are superstitious by nature, and Jezzy has been paying the local doctors a heavy fee to keep quiet about the whole thing.”

  “Jezzy’s territory, eh?” Vlora swore under her breath. Burt, she might be able to bribe or cajole, but Jezzy probably didn’t feel all that kindly toward Vlora right now. “What can you tell me about the Vale?”

  “It’s a canyon northeast of here,” Flerring answered. “Easy to miss, actually. The entrance makes it look tiny, but it opens up into a rather large valley. It would be a great spot for a summer home if there weren’t five hundred miners living up there blowing the whole thing to the pit.”

  “Does Jezzy own the whole valley?”

  “That she does. Apparently there’s a real easy gold vein close to the surface. No one goes into that valley if they don’t work for her.”

  Vlora considered the information, feeling at once jubilant and annoyed. In almost two weeks this was the first bit of solid intelligence she had. It wasn’t guaranteed, of course. Miners weren’t a stable lot, and madness could set in with this heat and dangerous work. But she would give it a thorough look, if she could sneak in past Jezzy’s guards. She swore to herself, wishing it was Burt’s territory.

  “I need a favor,” Vlora said.

  Flerring frowned down the path leading back to the city as another ox-drawn cart trundled toward them, stacked high with barrels. “What kind of favor? I’m awfully busy right now.”

  “That artifact I told you about?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I need you ready to blow it up at a moment’s notice.”

  “Now?” Flerring asked incredulously.

  “Any time in the next week.”

  “Pit.” Flerring hawked a wad of phlegm into the bushes. “I’ve got to cook up a special batch of blasting oil, if what you said about black powder is true.”

  “Right, your most powerful stuff.”

  “That takes time.”

  “Time I don’t have.”

  Flerring eyed Vlora for a few moments. “Look, I work in batches, and I take orders. I started putting aside a little of the good stuff the moment you told me there would be a job, but if you want enough to crack through sorcery, you’re going to have to wait in line. Jezzy, Burt, and eight independent mining companies are all expecting blasting oil this month. And they pay ahead of time.”

  “To the pit with all of them,” Vlora said flatly. She cursed herself for not putting in an order properly the moment she laid eyes on Flerring.

  Flerring rubbed her fingers together beneath Vlora’s nose. “They pay ahead of time, and they pay in gold. Or cash krana. Either is fine with me.”

  “How about a promissory note from the Adran government?”

  Flerring snorted. “A promissory note isn’t gold.”

  “Gold won’t keep all your permits up to date with the Adran government,” Vlora responded. “I seem to remember your main headquarters being not that far outside of Adopest.”

  Flerring narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I’m not,” Vlora promised. “But I do still have friends in the government. I won’t make bad things happen for you—I don’t do business like that—but I will be there to make sure bad things don’t happen to you. Catch my meaning?”

  “So you’re saying the next time some asshole minister tries to turn the public against explosives makers as a publicity stunt, you’ll get involved?”

  “Personally.”

  Flerring seemed to consider this. Over the years since the Kez Civil War, plenty of politicians had run for public office on the platform of demilitarizing Adro. Some succeeded, which was why Vlora had scooped up a whole brigade of Adro’s finest who’d found themselves disbanded. Others aimed for infrastructure and logistics, hoping to shut down the powder makers and gunsmiths.

  “All right,” Flerring said finally. She made a shooing motion with her hands as the next cart of saltpeter arrived. “You give me your word, and a damned fat promissory note, and I’ll make sure you have as much blasting oil as you need any time this coming week.”

  Vlora took that as a victory and returned to her hotel for dinner, taking a covert snort of powder as she entered the hotel great room and leaving a pair of coins on the manager’s podium. She didn’t like him, but keeping his palms greased might have its uses down the road.

  She took her usual table and ordered whatever gruel the hotel kitchen had cooked up, sitting back and falling into her own head as she tried to work out her new strategy. She was going to have to reconnoiter Nighttime Vale, and it sounded like it was already heavily guarded because of Jezzy’s gold mine. She briefly considered if Jezzy was working for Lindet directly—maybe Jezzy’s men were excavating the second godstone, under the pretense of mining.

  Maybe, she considered, Nohan was actually one of Lindet’s agents and he was here to oversee the excavation.

  Vlora tried to make the pieces work, but it didn’t add up. Nohan was obviously a greedy git, and his suggestion that he and Vlora team up and steal all the gold meant he didn’t know the real item of value hiding under his nose. Besides, Lindet seemed too heavy-handed to use this kind of subtlety. If she was already excavating the godstone, this whole place would be crawling with Blackhats.

  Vlora put her head in her hands. That didn’t add up, either. Lindet was heavy-handed, but she wasn’t stupid. Working through intermediaries would keep her from drawing attention to the spot, and not tip off Dynize spies by sending an army of Blackhats up here.

  And where did Prime Lektor fit into all this? Was he working for Lindet?

  In short, Vlora didn’t have any idea what was going on in this damned city. But she needed to find out, and quick.

  She felt him before she saw him—a dark smudge on her senses, the feel of powder grains running down the back of her neck. Nohan entered the front door of the hotel a moment later. He wore short sleeves, showing off a number of bruises from their fight the other day, and an easy, friendly smile on his lips as he approached her table.

  He sat down across from her, his pupils dilated from a powder trance. His eyes betrayed a brief wince as he moved, telling Vlora that he was still hurting from being thrown through a table. The knowledge gave her a brief stab of satisfaction, which disappeared almost immediately.

  “I know who you are,” he said in a low voice.

  Vlora didn’t answer him. She pushed aside her meal and leaned back, reaching slowly for the pistol at her belt.

  He continued. “You’re Lady Flint.”

  “That’s preposterous,” she scoffed.

  “Don’t play me for a fool,” he spat, that easy smile disappearing in the blink of an eye. “The latest newspaper from Redstone has a bounty on your head and says your last location was just a couple hundred miles south of here.” He kicked his chair back to rock on the back legs, looking angry but self-satisfied. “There aren’t that many powder mages in Fatrasta. Certainly not many that fit your description. You’re Flint.”

  Vlora didn’t bother to deny it. He was too sure of himself—further denial would just make him more so. “So what do you want?”

  He tapped two fingers on the table. “You know what
you did to me?”

  “Put you in considerable pain, I hope,” Vlora said flatly, looking at the bruises on his arms. Her fingers wrapped around the butt of her pistol. She could try for a quick shot, but he was burning such a strong powder trance that he would doubtlessly be ready for it. Beating him to death in front of thirty witnesses seemed like it might not be the best option.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not talking about that. A fight is a fight, and I did try to kill you, didn’t I? No, I’m talking about my letter.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He slammed both fists on the table, making her jump. “Don’t play me for a fool!” he growled. “I wrote you a letter three years ago. I offered you my services—I offered to join the Adran Cabal—and you turned me down like I was some useless Knacked.”

  Vlora was bewildered. She didn’t remember this at all. She got perhaps two hundred such letters every year, and almost all of them were hoaxes from madmen and disillusioned fools. A secretary usually sorted through them; then Olem examined those that remained. It was—

  Her thoughts cut off as the name finally clicked. Nohan. The powder mage who got kicked out of the Starlish Cabal on accusations of treachery and cruelty. She could scarcely believe she’d forgotten the situation, because she’d written to the head of the Starlish Cabal herself to find out if Nohan had any real talent.

  “You remember now, don’t you,” Nohan said, his eyes intent on her face. “I can’t believe you forgot. Arrogant bitch.”

  “I forgot,” Vlora said, “because you weren’t worth my time.”

  Nohan exhaled sharply. “Not worth your time? You’re the most famous powder mage alive, and I almost killed you the other day. How is that for not worth your time?”

  “Killed me?” Vlora scoffed. “It was a damned fistfight. Besides, it’s not all about skill. I turned you down because the head of the Starlish Cabal kicked you out for being a sadist.” She leaned forward, seriously reconsidering beating him to death in front of witnesses. The Starlish Cabal had included a list of his crimes in their reply, and among them was the murder of children. “I know what goes on in a royal cabal. If they think you’re a sadist, then Adom help your blasted soul.”

  Nohan stared daggers at her, and she silently willed him to flip the table and come at her. At least then she could kill him in self-defense. She might end up in a cell next to Taniel, but at least she wouldn’t be chased out of town by the city deputies.

  Nohan gripped the lip of the table, his fingers turning white.

  Vlora looked away from him, as if he was beneath her very notice, hoping he’d use the chance to attack her. She swept her eyes out the window, barely noticing the passing traffic as she waited for him to make his move.

  And her gaze landed squarely on Prime Lektor.

  The Privileged sorcerer stood in the street, frowning, staring through the window directly at her. He was exactly how she remembered him, from the thoughtlessly rumpled clothes to the purple birthmark on his face. It was definitely him, and she could see in his eyes that he had just decided it was definitely her, too.

  Vlora wrenched her attention away from Prime Lektor, preparing to throw herself onto the floor if he decided to unleash sorcery at her. Not that it would help. With so much warning, a Privileged of his caliber could destroy the entire block without breaking a sweat.

  “Go on,” Vlora grunted at Nohan. “If you’re so bitter, see if you can take me.” Her only consolation if Prime Lektor attacked was that Nohan would die in the same sorcerous conflagration.

  Nohan remained frozen in place, and she could see in his eyes how much he wanted to leap at her. Sweat began to pour down Vlora’s face, and she resisted looking back out the window. She couldn’t take Prime in a fair fight on a good day, and she wasn’t going to be able to take both him and Nohan. Might as well focus on one asshole at a time. She wondered if Nohan took her sudden nerves for fear of him. Laughable.

  It felt like minutes before Nohan finally broke his stare. He got up, looking down at her with a sneer. “I don’t know why you’re here,” he said quietly, “but I’m going to kill you and claim that bounty. Pissing on your corpse before I take it to Redstone will be the best revenge. Watch yourself, Lady Flint.”

  He strode out before Vlora could react, and she turned desperately toward the window once he’d left the building. Prime Lektor, however, was gone.

  CHAPTER 37

  The engagement with the Dynize dragoons had left the Mad Lancers badly mauled. Unwilling to chance another fight, Styke and Ibana agreed to retrace their steps along the coast for two days until, late in the evening, they spotted Fatrastan flags on the horizon.

  Styke sat slumped in the saddle, tired as pit and feeling like he’d been kicked in the head by a warhorse. He turned his eyes to the eastern horizon, where he could see the edge of a Fatrastan camp. Their flags waved in the breeze, torches flickering to life as the sun went down. Styke watched the distant approach of one of his scouts.

  “I think I’m a hypocrite,” he said, giving voice to something he’d been considering for several days.

  Ibana looked sidelong at him. “What kind of nonsense is this?”

  He shrugged. “I came to the realization that I’m a hypocrite,” he said with more confidence. He’d been thinking about what Valyaine had said, sorting through his own memories of the War for Independence all that time ago and realizing that maybe that treacherous bastard was right—maybe Styke was looking at his own participation in the war through the rosy lenses of the past. “I’ve always known I was a killer, a monster. But I never thought of myself as a hypocrite.”

  “And this is bothering you more than murder?” Ibana asked.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I think it is.”

  “You’re a strange man, Ben Styke.” Ibana spurred her horse, riding out to meet the scout.

  Styke exchanged a look with Jackal. The Palo bannerman shrugged. Styke sighed and rode out after Ibana, meeting the scout on a nearby hill. It was Ferlisia, one of the longest-standing members of the lancers. She snapped a salute.

  “Did you talk to them?” Styke asked.

  “Just briefly,” Ferlisia reported. “It’s the Third Army.”

  Styke nodded to himself. When he’d decided to pull back after that fight with the Dynize, he’d figured they would have to head all the way back to Bellport to find some relief. He hadn’t expected to find the Third Army already out on the Hammer. They must have marched straight past Bellport without stopping.

  Styke had a glimmer of suspicion that they’d been sent after the lancers but dismissed the notion. Lindet wouldn’t send a field army of infantry to chase a highly mobile cavalry force.

  She would, however, send them to secure the godstone.

  Regardless, the Mad Lancers needed somewhere to lie low. “I’ll go see if they’ll let us lick our wounds inside their pickets,” he said, lifting his reins.

  Both Ibana and Ferlisia looked alarmed. “Sir, the commanding officer is—”

  Styke waved Ferlisia off. “I know who it is. Dvory. That’s why I’m going to ask myself.”

  “That’s not a great idea,” Ibana said in a low voice.

  Styke looked over his shoulder at his column of lancers. They’d lost nearly half their number to death or wounds in the Dynize ambush. They didn’t have healing Privileged or proper surgeons to deal with the wounded. They’d done so well and come so far, only to be blindsided by a superior cavalry force. Styke did not want to meet that force again without taking some time to recover.

  “If Dvory betrayed you once, he’ll do it again,” Ibana said.

  “Perhaps. He might not know I’ve been killing his old conspirators, though.”

  “He’ll have passed through Bellport. There’s no way he won’t have gotten word from Valyaine. You damn well should have killed Valyaine when you had the chance.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Styke wasn’t thrilled about the idea of marching in there to ask for help fr
om someone who’d betrayed him. But his meditations over hypocrisy the last few days had given him a more optimistic outlook than he’d expected. “Look, if those dragoons snuck up on us once, they can do it again. We need to recover, and this saves us having to go all the way back to Bellport. We get inside their pickets and we’ll be safe until we can regroup.”

  Ibana pursed her lips, clearly wanting to argue.

  Styke forestalled it with a raised hand. “I’ll deal with Dvory. If I’m not back in two hours, head south and try to throw them off your trail.”

  He began to ride toward the camp without explaining himself further and tried to gather his thoughts. He wondered if maybe he’d known all along that he was a hypocrite, and that’s what had truly kept him from killing Tenny Wiles. He wondered if maybe being broken by the labor camps had been a blessing to everyone around him, rather than the blow against the brave Mad Lancers that he’d always considered it.

  He frowned into the setting sun at one point, only to see a small group of figures sitting on the horizon less than two miles away. They were all on horseback—four of them, if his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.

  Those goddamn dragonmen, still plaguing his trail. Another good reason to spend a few days hugging a field army.

  He was pulled from his contemplations by the sound of a horse whinny behind him. He turned in his saddle, a rebuke on his lips to send Celine back to the lancers.

  But it wasn’t Celine. It was Ka-poel.

  Of course it was.

  He waited for her to catch up, trying to figure out what he could say to send her away. Going to see Dvory was already a dangerous gamble. A wild card like Ka-poel might make things worse. But she’d already made it abundantly clear that he couldn’t leave her behind.

  “I think,” he told her as she arrived, “that some dysfunction in the back of my brain silently tells me that I’m invincible.” He wasn’t sure why he shared the thought, but he continued. “Maybe I’ve had it my whole life. Maybe it was surviving the firing squad. Maybe it wasn’t until more recently, when I survived that fight with Fidelis Jes. Or maybe it was something you put in my head with your damned blood sorcery. I don’t really care, but I have the feeling that it’s going to get me killed.”