Wrath of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  Ka-poel stopped beside him, watching him through half-lidded eyes.

  “I was watching that sign language you’re teaching Celine,” he said. “I hadn’t realized it before, but it looks like a jumble of Palo war signals and something else.”

  Ka-poel smiled coolly at him and nodded.

  Styke felt pleased to have remembered as well as he did. He hadn’t seen Palo war signals for over ten years, and even then he’d only picked up on the very basics while he was in the Tristan Basin. “Did Ibana tell you what I’m doing?” he asked.

  Ka-poel made a series of gestures.

  Styke shook his head. “I said I recognized it. Not that I understand it.”

  She pointed at him, then mimed hanging from a noose. You’re trying to get yourself killed.

  “I wouldn’t say I’m trying,” Styke said. He had a sudden worry that maybe he was trying to get himself killed and he didn’t even know it. He’d always chalked his own courage up to a lack of fear, but maybe it wasn’t so simple. “I’m not trying,” he insisted. “We need surgeons and protection while we put ourselves back together. But Dvory might try to kill me. If he does, I intend on taking him with me. You probably should go back to Ibana until I sort this out.”

  Ka-poel pursed her lips and tilted her head. That, Styke understood. “Suit yourself.”

  Ka-poel put her slate away as they rode up to the sentries. One of them stepped forward, eyeing Styke and his horse. “State your name, rank, and business.”

  “I need to see your quartermaster,” he said. “Then I need to see General Dvory.”

  “Name and rank?” the sentry demanded.

  “Colonel Ben Styke.”

  The sentry’s eyes widened. “Oh. Right. I, uh, better have someone escort you to the general.”

  Styke and Ka-poel were led through the camp. He was pleasantly surprised to find that the Fatrastan Army was significantly more organized than they had been during the War for Independence, with clean rows of tents and clearly marked regiments, companies, and platoons. It was the first time he’d been in a Fatrastan army camp in over ten years, and he felt more than a little nostalgia for the old days.

  They were led to a large tent in the middle of the camp. Two guards stood at the entrance, bayonets fixed, and Styke was able to tell which one recognized him by the way the man straightened, inhaling sharply.

  Their escort called out his name and rank and then went inside the tent, emerging a moment later. His face was pale. “General Dvory will see you now, Colonel Styke.”

  “That was quick,” Styke commented dryly. “Stay here,” he told Ka-poel, ducking into the tent.

  Dvory was much as Styke remembered him—an unassuming-looking man with the dusky skin of a full-blooded Rosvelean. He was slim, of medium height with black hair and a plain face. At some point in the last decade he’d begun to wear spectacles. His bottom lip drooped slightly, giving most people the impression he was stupid, which, Styke remembered quite clearly, was not the case.

  “Ben Styke,” Dvory said, standing up from behind his desk. He folded his spectacles and set them on a book he’d been reading.

  “Dvory,” Styke replied.

  “It’s General Dvory now. You may call me sir.”

  Styke ambled over to the chair on the opposite side of the table from Dvory and sat down, listening to it creak angrily under his weight. Dvory was an honest-to-god real general. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Dvory had always been competent, but not “make me a general” levels of competent. Nowhere close. “Fat goddamn chance of that. You’re welcome to try to have me beaten for insubordination. We’ll see how that goes for everyone involved.”

  Dvory managed a pained expression and lowered himself into his chair. “I expected you sooner or later,” he said. “Unfortunately, I expected the attitude as well. I heard you beheaded Fidelis Jes?”

  “I asked to see the quartermaster,” Styke replied. “I think it’s ironic they brought me straight to you, considering you used to be one of my quartermasters. Yeah, I beheaded Fidelis Jes. He had it coming.”

  “I see.” Dvory reached for a cigarette box, opened the lacquered lid, and plucked out a cigarette. He lit it with a match, inhaling deeply, and Styke thought he saw just the slightest tremble to his hand. “It’s a pity,” Dvory continued. “Fidelis Jes was a great man.”

  “He was a prick, and everyone knew it.”

  “Great men can be pricks,” Dvory said. “Take yourself, for instance.”

  Styke interrupted with a snort. “You think I’m a great man?”

  “Absolutely! You were, anyway. I understand you’re a shadow of your former self, but you still have that attitude—that disregard for your betters that got you put in front of a firing squad.” Dvory paused to smoke, looking over Styke’s shoulder thoughtfully. “You’ve always been a pompous piece of garbage and yet … still a great man.”

  Styke ignored the insults, focusing on Dvory’s careless appearance. Was he trying to goad Styke into attacking him? Or did he just assume he was safe in the middle of his army? Styke produced his most condescending smile. “Have you been practicing that speech in a mirror?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The ‘great man’ thing. I bet you’ve been practicing that ever since you found out I killed Jes.”

  Dvory’s eyes narrowed. He took a deep breath, ashing his cigarette into a half-empty glass of whiskey. Again, Styke noted that the carelessness of it seemed too performative. Dvory wanted Styke to think he didn’t give a damn about him anymore. “Why are you here, Styke? Did you come to kill me? I heard Agoston disappeared. Tenny Wiles, too. Valyaine, though … he beat the shit out of you in Bellport. That must have been something to see. Have you softened in your old age?”

  “I could kill you now,” Styke mused aloud.

  “And die by the hands of my guards. Not even you can fight a field army, Styke.”

  Styke leaned forward, listening to the chair creak. He drew his knife and planted the tip against the top of Dvory’s table, spinning it. To his credit, Dvory ignored the knife and kept his eyes on Styke’s face. But even with that bravado, he could almost hear Dvory wondering if the prospect of death would stop Styke from having his revenge. “No,” Styke said, watching his knife spin before plucking it up in his hand. “I’m not here to kill you.”

  “Oh?” Dvory blinked in surprise.

  “Of course not. We’re on the same side, aren’t we?”

  “Are we?” Dvory asked. “No one reinstated the Mad Lancers. No one made you a colonel again.”

  Styke used his boz knife to trim his fingernails. “That’s not entirely true. Lady Vlora Flint reinstated the Mad Lancers and my rank.”

  “A traitor with a price on her head,” Dvory scoffed.

  “A patriot who just happened to piss off Lindet,” Styke said. “Regardless, I’m killing Dynize. That puts us on the same side. Or would you like to go back to Bellport and ask the mayor who arrived to save the city in the nick of time?”

  “Ah,” Dvory said, as if something had just occurred to him. “I wondered where the old goat got a spine. You put him up to it, didn’t you? Told him not to let the army strip the city for supplies.” He shook his head. “He’s lucky we didn’t need anything or I would have had him hanged.” Dvory made a vexed sound in the back of his throat. “I should have you hanged for insubordination.”

  “Go ahead,” Styke said, calling what they both knew was a bluff.

  Dvory stubbed out his cigarette and scowled at Styke. “Don’t think I wouldn’t. Fortunately for you, I have strict instructions not to kill you or your men.”

  That did surprise Styke. He leaned back and put his knife away. “From who?”

  “Who do you think? From Lindet. I saw her a month ago on her trip from Landfall to Redstone. She specifically said she wanted you left to your own devices unless you outright attacked a Fatrastan army.” Dvory frowned at a spot above Styke’s head. “Jes warned me a decade ago that Lindet
had a soft spot for you.”

  “When he asked you to help separate me from Ibana and the others so he could execute me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I just wanted to be clear on that point,” Styke said. He considered lunging across the table. He could bury his knife in Dvory’s chest before he made a sound. He might even be able to make it to the edge of the camp before the alarm was raised. But it wasn’t worth the risk, not when he needed to look after his own. “You asked why I’m here. The lancers need a place to lie low for a couple of days. I want to do that inside your pickets.”

  Dvory looked like he’d been slapped. “Did you just ask me for help?”

  “I did.”

  “Wait. I told you straight out that I betrayed you, and you turn around and ask for my help?” He sounded truly incredulous.

  Styke resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “That’s right.”

  Dvory stood up, pacing from one end of the tent to the other before retaking his seat. He rocked back and forth like a child unable to come to grasp with their emotions, then plucked up another cigarette. “Why should I help you?”

  “Because I’m doing your job for you,” Styke said. “Because patching things up with Ben Styke would be a damned good career move right now. Because you used to be a Mad Lancer and unless you’re as cold as you’re pretending, some of those people riding with me were your friends.”

  Dvory swallowed hard, but did not respond.

  Styke sat forward and put his elbows on Dvory’s table. He said in a quiet voice, “Two days ago, we were ambushed by a force of Dynize dragoons. They ambushed us. Me, Ibana, Jackal, all the rest. They took us by surprise. Now, I know you don’t want to deal with a force of dragoons alone, not one skilled enough to sneak up on the Mad Lancers. They might not be able to crack a whole field army, but they can make your life miserable. But if you give us a couple of days to rest, we’ll be on our way without taxing your supplies—and then I intend on hunting down those dragoons and butchering them. Like I said … I’m doing your job for you.”

  “We’re heading west,” Dvory said. “We move on tomorrow.”

  “We’ll move with you,” Styke said. “And sleep inside your pickets. You can use a few of the old lancers as scouts if you want.”

  Dvory seemed genuinely torn. He fiddled with the butt of his extinguished cigarette, his face looking like he’d just swallowed a lime. “If I allow this,” he said, “are we square?”

  “We’re square.” Then Styke reached across the table and shook hands with a man who had once betrayed him. He forced a smile on his face and tightened his grip just a little.

  Ibana wasn’t going to let him hear the end of it.

  Dvory showed Styke out of the tent, and Styke was only slightly surprised that the initial two guards had become twenty, all of them with bayonets fixed and all of them pretending that they hadn’t been waiting for some kind of signal as the two men exited. Ka-poel stood by a nearby torch, arms folded, flames dancing in her eyes. Her face was unreadable.

  “Who is this?” Dvory asked, gesturing to her.

  “My servant,” Styke said.

  “A Palo, eh? I heard your tastes had gotten … significantly younger since you left the labor camps.”

  Styke leaned sideways as if whispering to a friend, a smile plastered on his face. “Speak like that of my girl again and you will live out the rest of your life as a torso and a head in a flour sack.”

  A bead of sweat rolled down Dvory’s forehead. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, quickly changing the subject.

  “Asking for your help.”

  “No. Here, on the Hammer.”

  “Killing Dynize.” Styke joined Ka-poel, touching her elbow and pointing in the direction they’d left their horses. “Good-bye, Dvory. Don’t forget to tell your pickets to expect my men.”

  When they were finally out of sight, Styke turned aside and spat into the grass. His mouth tasted of bile, his nerves shot, and he suddenly realized just how close he’d actually come to killing Dvory. Every muscle was sore and tight from the tension.

  “I just asked a favor of a man who once betrayed me,” he told Ka-poel.

  Ka-poel pursed her lips, pinching two fingers together and thrusting them in front of Styke’s face. It took several moments in the poor light to realize that she held a single human hair. It took him another few moments to realize the significance.

  He barked a laugh. “Does that belong to Dvory?”

  She nodded.

  He felt a little of the tension leak off, and rolled his shoulders to loosen his muscles. “Leave him alone for now,” he said. “You can keep the hair—it might come in handy. If I don’t kill him for betraying me, I can still kill him for his smug, stupid face.”

  CHAPTER 38

  You look like you haven’t slept in days.” Taniel sat on the chair by one of the tiny windows of his cell, contemplating the gallows sitting just outside. His sketchbook sat in his lap, and he examined Vlora with a frown. Her hair was unkempt, her jacket dirty, and she could only imagine the bags under her eyes.

  She leaned her head against the bars of Taniel’s jail cell. “They both know who I am.”

  He frowned as she spoke. “Who?”

  “The powder mage, Nohan. He put two and two together and called me out. Says he’s going to kill me and take the bounty that Lindet put out on me.”

  “Can he?”

  “Not in a fair fight.”

  “Right. Why didn’t you just kill him when he threatened you?”

  “Because I don’t want to end up in here with you,” Vlora replied.

  “So buy him off,” Taniel said, as if the answer were simple.

  Vlora stared at Taniel, furious with him for suggesting it, and furious with herself for not just doing it in the first place. “I will not buy off a man who has tried to kill me. It’s personal now—and I don’t think he would take me up on it. Apparently we have a history.”

  Taniel didn’t ask further, so Vlora didn’t bother to explain. He sketched furiously, his hand moving over the page manically, and she could tell that sitting in this cell was bothering the pit out of him. “Who else knows who you are?”

  “Prime Lektor.”

  Taniel’s sketching stopped. He looked up, staring at the wall, then looked over at her. “You saw him again?”

  “Twice more. Definitely him, even though I can’t sense his sorcery. The first time, I tried to follow him and he disappeared into thin air. I know where he lives, but I’m not touching a Predeii’s house. It’s probably warded as tight as a king’s palace. The second time I saw him—well, he spotted me first. Now he knows I’m here.”

  “That’s not great,” Taniel said with a frown.

  Vlora rubbed her eyes. “Do we really know anything about him? Why does he want the stone? He’s a scholar, isn’t he? Maybe he’s just studying it?”

  “He’s also part of the group that summoned Kresimir and caused the Bleakening,” Taniel warned.

  “But if we have our facts right, he didn’t want Kresimir to come back the second time. He helped turn Adro into a democracy.”

  “We can’t trust him.” Taniel looked down at his sketchbook. He suddenly dropped his charcoal and ripped the page out, crumpling it and tossing it into one corner of the cell. Vlora raised her eyebrows. It was the first time she’d ever seen him destroy a drawing in anger—even the terrible ones from his youth. “I need to get out of here,” he said.

  Vlora didn’t disagree.

  “I can try to break out tonight,” he said, “but there’s a ton of miscreants in here and a heavy guard on them. I’ll probably end up killing my way out.” He didn’t seem happy about this idea. “I don’t like killing decent people, and the deputies here are probably the only ones in the whole city.”

  Vlora didn’t like the idea, either. “We have to give it another week.”

  “You’ll get killed,” Taniel countered. “You can handle a rogue powder mage, but P
rime is out of your league.”

  “I won’t.” Her mind raced. “I can change hotels and keep my head down. Flerring tipped me off to men going mad at one of the mining sites. If I can get inside, I might be able to find the stone; by the time I find the stone, you’ll be out. We can deal with Prime and then bring Olem and the boys into town to claim the stone.”

  “It’s risky,” Taniel said slowly.

  Once again, Vlora didn’t disagree. But she could still move around the town freely, and she could still hide from both her antagonists. “Give me one more week,” she said. “Then we deal with both of them together, and Flerring will have enough blasting oil for us to try to destroy the stone. Have you heard any more news from your Palo friend?”

  “Not much that’s useful. You really want to do this on your own, don’t you?” he asked with a sigh.

  Vlora wanted to tell him that she couldn’t trust him anymore. She wanted to tell him that he was no longer human and that he was no longer the Adran patriot who had been a hero of two wars. She wanted to tell him that she did need to do this herself. “I want to do this without you having to kill decent people,” she reasoned. “And without drawing any more attention.”

  “Even if it gets you killed?”

  “I’ve fought worse.”

  “I know,” Taniel said softly, “but you’re my friend. I don’t want you to die.”

  Vlora almost told him her thoughts, overwhelmed by a feeling of guilt over her mistrust of him. She bit her tongue. “I’m glad,” she managed.

  Taniel paced the cell. “The Palo Nation definitely has a presence in the camp, but I can’t figure out how big. According to my Palo friend, their representative is an underling to one of the big bosses. Most of the Palo have aligned with Burt, so I’m guessing it’s one of his lieutenants. If I can get word without raising any suspicions, we might have ourselves some allies.”