Wrath of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  “Not me,” Michel said, tapping the front of his jacket. She looked down, seeing the way he was dressed for the first time—a teal uniform, worn by ministerial servants on official business. It was similar to a Dynize soldier’s outfit, though the cut of the pants was slightly different. This one had been tailored specifically for Michel just yesterday and it fit him rather splendidly. The jacket bore the crest scroll of Yaret’s Household, and beneath that a small stitched cup.

  “Why are you wearing that uniform?” Forgula demanded. She scowled at him, and he could see the first inkling in her eye that she knew something was off. “You have no right.”

  “I have a lot of right,” Michel responded. “I saved the Yaret Household from a bombing. Hadn’t you heard?” Michel knew for a fact that she hadn’t heard. The last time she saw him, he was being carted off by Ichtracia just before the bombing. At his request, everything about his activities the last few days had been kept quiet. As far as anyone knew, Yaret had barely escaped the bombing because of an anonymous tip, and the Blackhat spy Michel Bravis was in Yaret’s custody and being questioned.

  “You didn’t save them,” Forgula said. She was uneasy now, lacking conviction. This had taken her completely by surprise.

  Don’t smile, Michel. “I did, actually. You remember that day, don’t you? It was just earlier this week. You and your cronies tried to chase me down, even though I could barely walk. It’s all right, though. Fortune smiled on me, and I still managed to warn Yaret about the bomb.”

  “You could only know about that bomb if you were the one to plant it.”

  Everyone was watching now, as if glued to the floor. There wasn’t a sound within forty feet as people strained to hear the conversation. Michel was using his best Dynize, though he had to throw in a Palo word once in a while. He was certain that everyone was getting the gist. “Or,” Michel said, “if I found this.” He drew out the list of addresses he had stolen from her files. It was fragile from being caked with his dry blood, so he presented it to her in a stiff folder. She reached for it involuntarily, and he snatched it away. “This,” Michel said, “is a list of addresses that includes—”

  “I know what that is,” Forgula hissed, glancing desperately at the crowd around her.

  Michel went on in a louder voice. “It’s a list of addresses that includes every location that has been attacked since the bombings started. It was found among your files last week, and is written in your—”

  “Shut up!” Forgula said, grabbing Michel by the wrist.

  “Unhand me,” Michel responded coldly.

  “Give me that.” Before he could stop her, Forgula snatched the folder out of his hand and opened it up, staring at the list of addresses. There was a rustling nearby, and several soldiers took up positions along the edges of the hall, watching Forgula carefully. Michel almost wanted her to run, just to see what would happen. Yaret had ordered his men to be emphatic if necessary.

  Michel took a half step toward her and lowered his voice so that only she could hear. “The thing is, if you’re going to spread a rumor that I was shot by a Blackhat, you should consider the fact that there were no other witnesses besides me and the shooter—and you didn’t hear about it from me. Also, having me shot by a Blackhat contradicts your story that I’m still working for them. Never cross your narratives and”—he tapped the folder in her hands—“never keep a copy of addresses where you intend to have people killed.”

  To Michel’s left, a door opened and Tenik emerged with four more soldiers, taking up a position close enough to snatch Forgula if she attempted to attack him.

  There was a sudden commotion, and then three emphatic clicks on the marble flooring. A corridor opened in the throng of people to reveal Ka-Sedial standing just inside the war game arena, a scowl on his face, quietly demanding to know what was going on. When his eyes fell on Michel and Forgula, he immediately began to stride toward them, cane in hand. Ichtracia stood just behind him, following with a curious look on her face.

  Michel swallowed his nerves and glanced at Tenik, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Waiting until Sedial was almost upon them, right as the Ka’s mouth opened with a demand, Michel gave a quick, respectful bow and spoke first. “Great Ka, thank you for coming. We have a grave matter to bring to your attention.”

  Ka-Sedial glanced from Forgula to Michel to Tenik, the irritation on his face fading to something more neutral in the space of an instant. The old bastard knew a trap when he saw one, and he would wait to see how this played out before publicly castigating Michel.

  Which was all Michel needed.

  “What matter is at hand?” Sedial asked.

  Michel bowed again. “By order of Yaret, we have come to arrest Devin-Forgula on charges of murder and treason.” He half expected Sedial to bark a reply—to sweep in to cover for his cupbearer. Instead, the old man simply lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes as if to say, Continue. So Michel did. “We have evidence that Devin-Forgula has conspired with enemies of the state in order to kill off her rivals among the Dynize.” Michel so very much wanted to say “your rivals,” but he kept to his script. This had to fall on Forgula’s shoulders, and hers alone. “The bombings conducted by the Blackhats over the last few weeks were coordinated by Forgula.”

  “You have no evidence,” Forgula said, finally finding her tongue. She snatched up the list of addresses and crumpled it, throwing it at Michel’s face. “Just a damned bloody piece of paper.”

  Michel let the paper bounce off his cheek without comment. “We do, actually. We have a second copy of that paper found among the effects of a captured Blackhat. We also have the word of that Blackhat that you worked with him directly. And that, Great Ka, is why Yaret has asked for your assistance. We formally request a bone-eye inquisition of the Blackhat prisoner in question, followed by an inquisition into Forgula herself. We want to gain nothing but the truth, and we request that you aid us in that process.”

  To his credit, Sedial didn’t even blink at the request. He remained silent for several moments, no doubt fully aware that the eyes of the Dynize upper crust were on him. He looked coolly at Forgula, then at Michel. “Of course,” he said.

  Forgula gave an anguished cry, lurching forward and snatching the sword from the Dynize soldier at Tenik’s side.

  “Stop her!” Michel cried.

  Forgula leapt back, waving the sword once and looking Sedial in the face before taking it by the blade and pressing the tip to her chest and falling upon it. Her sobbing was cut short, body spasming as her weight caused the blade to pierce her heart. She slumped, then fell to one side with a thump, a pool of blood immediately beginning to widen around her.

  Several of the crowd gasped. People attempted to step away from the blood. Ka-Sedial did not, so Michel didn’t, either.

  “I’m sorry, Great Ka,” Michel said gently in the silence. “That was not at all how we wanted this to go.” It was exactly how they wanted it to go.

  And just for an instant, when he raised his face from the gruesome display, Michel could see raw fury in Ka-Sedial’s eyes. Sedial knew this was what was meant to happen, and he knew that the message sent by this event came directly from Yaret—despite Yaret’s absence. The fury was gone in the blink of an eye, replaced by the sad resolve of an old man. Ka-Sedial shook his head, tutting, before raising his voice.

  “May Devin-Forgula’s body be fed to the dogs,” Sedial proclaimed, “and her name be forever struck from the records of the Sedial Household. May she be crushed and forgotten. Such is the fate of a traitor.” His eyes landed on Michel’s face on that final word, and Michel suppressed a shudder. He would not get out of this unscathed.

  “That,” he said quietly, “will not happen. Forgula will be remembered for what she was, and her crime publicized and recorded. Her name will be struck from your Household records, but not the public ones.”

  Sedial’s eyes narrowed. “I make those decisions.”

  “I apologize, Great Ka, but you do not.
The Ministry of Scrolls does.”

  “I see.” Sedial settled both hands on his cane, shoulders slumped as if he was a man under a great weight, and gazed into Michel’s eyes in an almost placid manner for a few moments before hobbling off. The crowd gave way before him, and Michel watched as he tracked Forgula’s blood down the hall without seeming to care. Michel wondered if that was a metaphor for Ka-Sedial’s whole career, and decided not to pursue the thought any further.

  Slowly, the crowd began to move again. Conversation resumed, and people stopped staring at Michel or the body at his feet. A pair of soldiers approached, checking Forgula for any sign of life before lifting her by the hands and feet and carrying her off.

  “That was well done,” Tenik said.

  Michel let out a long breath. He dragged his sleeve across his brow and dabbed the sweat off the back of his neck. “Pit, I never want to do that again.”

  “That’s too bad. You did it well enough that Yaret might use you again in the future.”

  “I’m a spy, damn it. Not a constable.”

  Tenik tapped the cup insignia on Michel’s uniform. “You’re whatever Yaret needs you to be, cupbearer.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Tenik gave him a small smile. “I will, and frequently. You still have a lot to learn.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “Have we gotten anything from Marhoush?”

  “The names of a half-dozen more safe houses and perhaps thirty Blackhats,” Tenik answered.

  “Do we know where je Tura is?”

  “Marhoush has no idea. He thinks that je Tura uses the catacombs beneath the city to get around, but we’ve searched dozens of miles of that damned spiderweb and found little evidence of a giant network of Blackhat powder monkeys.”

  Michel growled in the back of his throat, frustrated. With Marhoush handed over to the bone-eyes, there would be no secrets left to learn—and he was their best chance of finding je Tura. “Keep looking. Send more men into the catacombs if you have to.” He suddenly became aware that he and Tenik were not isolated in their conversation. He glanced over his shoulder to find Ichtracia leaning against the wall a few feet behind him, just out of the pool of Forgula’s blood, watching him with a tight-lipped smile.

  “I’ll see to the body,” Tenik suddenly said.

  “Tenik, wait, I—” Tenik was gone before Michel could stop him, leaving him alone with Ichtracia. He turned, putting on his most charming smile. “Good evening, Saen-Ichtracia.”

  “Good evening, Devin-Michel a Yaret.”

  Michel felt goose bumps on the backs of his arms at the title. His smile faltered for a split second, but he didn’t think Ichtracia noticed. “I’m sorry for the mess,” he said.

  “I’m not the one standing in it,” Ichtracia said with a shrug.

  Michel looked down to realize that he was, indeed, standing in Forgula’s blood. He lifted one foot, looked around for somewhere to wipe it, then gave up. “What can I do for you, Saen?”

  “I’m curious; did Sedial put her up to it?” Ichtracia nodded to where Forgula’s body had been a minute before.

  “Of course not. She acted alone, against her enemies.”

  “You mean the enemies of the Sedial Household. I’m not stupid, Michel, and I know who died in those explosions. None were allies of Sedial.”

  Michel licked his lips, glancing over his shoulder. The crowd had gotten out quickly, and he imagined that in a few minutes no one would be left but whatever poor sod of a soldier was tasked with cleaning up this blood. Most of the crowd had deftly avoided the pool, but the blood Ka-Sedial tracked down the hallway was smeared everywhere.

  “Was it that obvious?” he asked.

  “It will be after the gossip has gone around the city a few times,” Ichtracia answered. “You showed everyone the math, after all.”

  “Good.”

  Ichtracia’s eyebrows went up in surprise; then she smiled. “Oh, I see. Very clever. You want everyone to know that Sedial has broken the Dynize truce without actually calling him out in public. It erodes his power base without forcing him to respond immediately. Tell me, was this Yaret’s idea or yours?”

  Michel shook his head.

  “Oh, I’ll bet it was yours. Yaret is a very intelligent man, but he’s not much of a schemer. You, however …” Ichtracia stepped over to Michel, putting her face just inches from Michel’s to look him in the eyes. She was shorter than he by over two inches, but he felt as if she were staring down at him.

  Michel cleared his throat. “I want to thank you again for saving my life.”

  “And how are you feeling?”

  “Not fantastic. But it’s better than being dead.”

  “Good. I suggest that you deliver on that dinner you offered me.”

  “I’m, uh, afraid that my favorite restaurant burned down during the riots.” Michel thought that his mouth should be dry, his heart hammering, but to his surprise he found that he was calmer now than he had been ten minutes ago. Why would that be? Flirting with a Privileged was infinitely more dangerous than arresting an enemy of the state.

  But, he realized, it was also more private. More intimate. This was what he knew how to do. A memory suddenly leapt to his mind, of watching his mother’s cat play with a mouse for several days. When asked, his mother told him that the mouse was the safest critter on the block for as long as the cat found it entertaining.

  “Your excuse fails to impress me,” Ichtracia noted.

  “Perhaps you have a chef at your townhouse?” Michel asked. Yaret was a fine master, but Michel had seen the fury in Sedial’s eyes. He needed someone who could protect him right now.

  Ichtracia cocked an eyebrow. She opened her mouth, closed it, then grinned. “I think you’ll be a lot of fun.”

  Said the cat to the mouse, Michel thought. He linked arms with Ichtracia, falling in beside her. “Come, we must find somewhere to clean the blood from my shoes and pants.”

  CHAPTER 44

  The Dynize dragoons appeared within hours of the Mad Lancers leaving the safety of the Third Army and harassed them all along the length of the Hammer for two more days. On the third, Styke called for a rest at midday and sent for his officers.

  “Why are they riding my ass so hard?” Styke asked Ka-poel as he waited for his men to gather. Through his looking glass he watched a Dynize scout, wearing the now-familiar turquoise jacket and black pants of the Dynize dragoons. The scout was about three miles away and, from the way he was standing out in the open, clearly wanted to be seen. The Dynize were trying to get under his skin.

  They were succeeding.

  “Eh?” he asked, lowering his glass. “Why do they dog me? Did that prick of a Dynize commander order them after me as well?”

  Ka-poel remained intractable, her face a mask of mild irritation, though whether that was directed at Styke, at the Dynize, or at their slow progress across the Hammer, he couldn’t be sure. She finally shook her head. I don’t know.

  Styke made a vexed sound in the back of his throat. He’d been hunted plenty of times—the Kez had sent a whole field army after the Mad Lancers at one point during the war—but he’d never been ambushed so successfully as by these dragoons, nor followed so closely without his own scouts knowing exactly where the enemy was at all times.

  He was struck by a thought that brought a smile to his lips. It was not that funny, but he soon found himself roaring, slapping his knee, bent double. When he was finally able to stand, he turned to find Ka-poel’s facade broken and an expression on her face that clearly asked, What the pit is wrong with you?

  “Ka-Sedial,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “He must have been so incredibly pissed that someone crushed one of his dragonmen. When he found out I was a cripple … I can just imagine his face!” He made Ka-poel suffer through another round of chuckles, then gasped for breath.

  Ka-poel smirked.

  “I should write him a letter,” Styke said. “Tell him that I killed another
one. And that a third had her head blown off by a little girl!”

  His mirth was interrupted by the arrival of Ibana and Jackal. Ibana had a fresh cut across her cheek from where a Dynize bullet had barely missed her face in a sortie less than three hours ago. They’d lost seven Mad Lancers and only managed to down two of the Dynize, and she was clearly not in a smiling mood.

  “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

  Styke waved it off and forced himself to sober. “Nothing, nothing. Jackal, have you managed to wrangle any of your damned spirits so we can find out when and where these sons of bitches are going to hit us next?”

  “I have, actually.”

  Both Ibana and Gustar adopted dubious expressions. Styke held a finger out to them. “Only interrupt if you have any better ideas,” he said. They both remained silent, and he pointed to Jackal.

  “There is one,” Jackal said. “She was an officer until Ibana killed her two days ago—their equivalent of a lieutenant. She does not fear Ka-poel like the others.”

  Ka-poel seemed mildly intrigued by this. Styke asked, “Why not?”

  “She will not say and I can’t coax it out of her. From what she tells me, the Dynize are not …” He paused as if trying to come up with the right phrase. “They are not of one mind.”

  “Divided?” Styke asked. Ji-Orz had said as much, but it was interesting to have this confirmed by Jackal.

  “They spent the better part of the last century locked in a bitter civil war. There were ultimately two sides and dozens of factions in each. She was a member of the side that eventually capitulated. She does not believe in Ka-Sedial’s plan to unite the country by invading Fatrasta, and she did not want to be here in the first place.”

  “And that’s why she’s talking to you?”

  “That, and she thinks her commanding officer is an asshole.”

  Styke wondered briefly if this whole conversation was more evidence that he had come unhinged. If someone had claimed to speak with spirits back during the old war, he would have sent them to the front of the next charge and hoped they either became a spirit themselves or got the sense knocked into them. “I like her,” Styke said, referring to the spirit. “Does she know why they’re after us?”