Wrath of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  Michel felt himself stiffen up. Ichtracia’s tone was helpful, but he couldn’t help but hear a note of something sinister in her words. That was exactly what he had convinced Yaret he was up here doing, and Ichtracia had seen through it effortlessly. It didn’t bode well for his long-term career in Dynize politics.

  “What I suggest,” Ichtracia continued, “is that you focus on the Blackhats. Even if you attack all his people, you won’t get ahead of Sedial. He’s been playing this game for longer than you and I together have been alive. But if you continue to add to your accomplishments, you will be harder for him to take his vengeance on … and he has been known to be forgiving to people who make themselves useful.”

  Michel tried to enjoy the back rub, pressing the back of his head against her chest. Rumors had it that Ichtracia and her grandfather didn’t exactly get along, so maybe she really was on his side. Or perhaps she was lulling him into a false sense of security.

  He pushed the book away from him, eyes closed, trying to form his own plans. “Do I have a future with the Dynize?” he asked.

  Ichtracia’s hands stopped moving. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I’m an outsider. I know what happens to outsiders. The moment I am no longer useful, I will be either forgotten or destroyed.”

  “You should have thought of that before coming to our doorstep.” Again, the tone was not unkind, but in it she made it very clear that she’d be offering little sympathy. She paused, then let out a soft sigh. “You may,” she said cautiously. “You’re quite clever, though whether you’re just the right amount to keep from being eaten alive remains to be seen. You’re also useful. I’ve always thought of the Dynize as xenophobic, but next to you Kressians we’re practically loving of other cultures.” She let go of his shoulders and crossed to the other side of the table from him. “Put away the books,” she suggested. “Come to the Foxhead Club with me for the rest of the evening.”

  The Foxhead Club was a bit of a joke among the Dynize. They’d taken an exclusive gentleman’s club in the center of Landfall and turned out the Kressians, making it available only to Dynize and Palo upper crust. Michel wondered briefly if he’d be turned away, but imagined that no one would turn away the guest of a Privileged. He leaned forward, examining her face, wondering what time it was. Perhaps he should take a break. “Where do you fit into all of this?” he asked.

  “All of what?”

  “This.” Michel gestured expansively around him. “Sedial. Yaret. The Households. Tenik told me that Privileged aren’t allowed to be political in your culture. In Kressian culture they have their fingers in everything, and …” Michel trailed off, realizing that he’d let himself forget who he was talking to. When he was in the Blackhats, he probably would have balked at even addressing a Privileged, let alone speaking so candidly with one.

  Ichtracia regarded him casually, tapping on the table with one long fingernail. “It is complicated, as you may imagine.” She paused, frowning down at her hands, and for a moment Michel thought that perhaps her cool, collected mask had slipped. “Do you know about dragonmen?” she asked.

  “I’ve heard the rumors.”

  “Dragonmen and Privileged hold the same position in Dynize society. We belong to the emperor. We are not people, nor citizens. We are tools. When we are needed, we serve without flinching, without questioning. When we are not needed, we are left to our own devices. We have no power of our own, not in a political sense, but we have a sort of power simply by being tools of the emperor.”

  Michel opened his mouth to respond, but found he had nothing to say. The idea of being a possession had never even occurred to him, and the slight crack in Ichtracia’s voice when she spoke of it told volumes. “I …” He hesitated. “If you’re a possession of the emperor’s, and Sedial is the emperor’s man on this continent, then …”

  Ichtracia’s slipping facade suddenly became cool and casual again and she regarded him with a dispassionate sort of annoyance. “I wouldn’t worry too much about your own skin. Sedial may think he is the emperor, but he definitely is not. It’s no secret that he and I do not get along. I have no intention of handing you over to him.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  She cut him off. “It’s all right. You want to know where you stand, and I won’t begrudge you that. So here is this: I find you fascinating. You are an innocuous and boring person on the surface, but there are layers beneath your facade that I think I’d enjoy peeling away. I intend on playing with you for at least a few months before I cut you loose and move on to the husband of a minister or the daughter of a general. I will enjoy our time together, and I suspect you intend on doing the same. Do not expect anything more of me than you would a tool of the state, and I won’t expect more of you than I would a spy who knows he needs someone to protect him from the lions among my people.”

  For a moment, Michel felt as if he’d been slapped. The shock was gone within seconds, and he found himself laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Ichtracia demanded.

  Michel reached out a hand. “Thank you for that. It’s incredibly refreshing.” She knew that he was using her to protect himself from Sedial, and she didn’t give a damn. Somehow that knowledge relieved Michel, the idea that he wasn’t hiding just one more thing from another person. “I’m sorry if I’m being rude, but you’re far more pragmatic than I expected. I like that.”

  Ichtracia took his hand with a look of wariness. Slowly, that feline smile spread across her face. “Don’t apologize. It’s tiresome, and I don’t want to find you tiresome quite yet.” She released his hand and slid the ledger he’d been reading off the table with a clatter. “Your work is done for the night. Come with me to the club.”

  “Can I meet you there?”

  “How long?”

  “An hour.”

  “Don’t keep me waiting.” With a single glance back, Ichtracia strode from the room.

  Michel waited for about ten minutes before cleaning up the ledgers he’d been looking through and then scrawling a quick note on a piece of paper and heading for the door. He stopped for a moment before leaving the room to look around at all the records, wondering how much longer he should continue with this farce. Ichtracia was right—he couldn’t focus on looking through records anymore. He needed to focus on the Blackhats. He could abandon the idea of attacking Sedial through Forgula’s associates, and also set aside his search for Mara.

  At least for the time being.

  He headed across town on foot, doubling back and waiting at intervals to be sure he wasn’t followed, then headed down into Emerald’s morgue, where he found Emerald standing over the open chest cavity of a cadaver, a length of intestine in one hand. He paused his work as Michel entered and shook his head.

  “You obviously haven’t been shot again. I hope you have a damn good reason for coming down here so soon.”

  “Can you get a message to Taniel?”

  “Hmph,” Emerald responded, setting down the intestine and resting his hand on the cold, dead forehead of the man lying on his workbench. “It’s possible.”

  Michel pulled out the note he’d written and double-checked it, taking a deep breath. Perhaps it was his recent victory against Forgula—perhaps it was this new relationship with Ichtracia—but he felt like he needed to focus on his work for the Dynize. No more searching ledgers for a mysterious name. The note simply said:

  Target can’t be found. Need more information. Will remain in place. It was written in a cipher he and Taniel had come up with years ago. “Get this to Taniel. Any idea how long until I can get an answer?”

  Emerald nodded at Michel to set the note on his workbench. “Two to six weeks. Maybe longer, if I have trouble finding him. I’ll see what I can do.” He sighed, clearly irritated, and pointed at Michel with a bloody hand. “You have to stop coming down here. If I hear back from Taniel, I’ll find you and let you know. Until then …”

  “Right, right. I’ll be easy to find.” Michel backe
d out and headed up to the street. He stopped, checking his watch and realizing he’d be half an hour later than he told Ichtracia. “I’ll be either in bed with the enemy or in a shallow grave somewhere.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Styke sat in the deep, oppressive darkness of the Hock, listening to the sounds of the forest and the distant snores of lancers in their beds. Unable to sleep, he’d found a spot on the edge of a ravine some fifty yards from the camp where he could see the smallest sliver of starlight through the thick branches overhead. Somewhere nearby, a critter stirred in the underbrush, approaching him slowly and fleeing when he shifted to get more comfortable.

  His mind was a mess of conflicting thoughts as he considered the whole of his life for the first time since the labor camps and wondered if perhaps he was not the person he’d always fancied himself. He thought of Valyaine’s statement about Styke expecting loyalty and obedience but never giving his own. He thought about Celine’s defiance in defense of Ka-poel, reminding him that he would—and had—gone off on his own and just expected the lancers to be there when he returned.

  It was one thing to be called a hypocrite by a full-grown man he intended to kill. It was a whole other to have that confirmed by a little girl.

  Styke wondered if perhaps, all these years, even while losing himself in the labor camps, he had bought into his own legend: that of an unkillable monster, a force of nature. Maybe deep down he had begun to believe what people said about him.

  He heard someone coming from the camp through the underbrush toward him. He could tell from the weight of the step and the way she moved that it was Ibana. She joined him up there, settling down next to him and pushing a skin into his hands. He smelled wine and took a sip.

  “What are you doing up here?” she asked. “It’s four in the morning.”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” Styke responded.

  They shared a few companionable minutes in silence, handing the wineskin back and forth, and Styke felt a calmness come over him from Ibana’s presence. They had not been this close—physically—since the war and it felt good to feel her hand brush his as they exchanged the wine. She’d been a guidepost since the beginning of the Mad Lancers, his levelheaded second-in-command, the one who would keep everything running even when he had to meet with Lindet or assassinate an enemy general or any of the other shit he got up to.

  “I’ve been thinking …” Styke began.

  “I’ve warned you to let me do the thinking.” There was a long pause, and Ibana let out a soft sigh. “About what?”

  “About being a hypocrite.”

  Ibana snorted. “Still? Is this because Valyaine called you one?”

  “Celine did, too, just a couple hours ago. I think that I am, and I don’t really like the feeling it gives me. I’ve always looked down on officers and politicians as hypocrites and cowards, and now, so long into this life, I realize that I am what I’ve always derided.”

  Ibana remained silent, so Styke continued. “I am a hypocrite, but I think I am too far along for it to be helped. To break my hypocrisy, I would have to swear allegiance to some higher power, or I would have to dismiss the Mad Lancers and head off on my own path. I am not willing to do either.” He felt Ibana shake beside him, and it took him several moments to realize that she was laughing at him. “What the pit is so funny?”

  She put a hand on his thigh and leaned over, and he was surprised to feel her lips against his cheek. She pulled away, wiping her sleeve across her eyes and chuckling. “You really think you’re a hypocrite? I’ll give you one thing: You were a hypocrite. Your double standard during the war was something we all decided to let slide because of who and what you are.”

  “So you discussed this?” Styke asked, incredulous. “Behind my back?”

  “You think you’re the only one to bad-mouth your superiors?”

  Styke felt stung by the revelation. It was so simple. So stupid and obvious. Another hypocrisy. “What am I?” he asked.

  “You’re Ben Styke.”

  “Because you say I am,” Styke insisted. He felt angry, confused. He was not used to delving this deep into his own insecurities. He had always trampled them underfoot, ignoring them like so much garbage, and moved on with his life. Why couldn’t he now? The old way had gotten results, and he needed results right now.

  “You’re not just Ben Styke because we say you are, though I admit that the allegiance of the people who follow you gives your name weight,” Ibana said thoughtfully. “You’re Ben Styke because you always lead the charge. Because you can break a Warden’s back and crack a dragonman’s skull. Because you’re big and strong enough to do whatever you want and yet you still have a sense of right and wrong. Even if it’s a twisted one.”

  Styke stared through the darkness at his crippled hands, feeling the twinges in his wrist when he moved his fingers. He thought about how his doubt and pain went away when he wrapped his fingers around the lance and how all his other failings seemed to disappear when he charged into the face of the enemy.

  “You’re not a hypocrite, Ben,” Ibana said. “You were, but you aren’t anymore.”

  “I haven’t changed.”

  “Haven’t you?” Ibana demanded. “The old you wouldn’t have spared Tenny Wiles or Valyaine. Definitely not Dvory. Not a chance. The old you wouldn’t have sworn allegiance to Lady Flint. Seeing the way you look at her is the first time I’ve seen you truly respect a superior officer.” She ticked off two fingers, then a third. “You took Celine under your wing, and you’ve always hated kids. Besides”—Ibana laughed again—“you didn’t ask any of us to follow you. We came because we saw that you needed us—not because we needed you.”

  Styke felt his inner turmoil begin to ebb. “You’re a better liar than I remember.”

  “No lies,” Ibana said. “Maybe I dressed it up a little. But it’s still the truth. And I still stand behind what I said before: We’re here now, and we’re all depending on you to remain Ben Styke. You can be a different man and still lead the charges.”

  “Do you think the men doubt me because I let Tenny, Valayine, and Dvory live?” Styke asked.

  “Look, I know I gave you shit before, but to be honest … any grumbles that might have spread were silenced when we came upon you facing down six dragonmen,” Ibana said.

  Styke chuckled. “I didn’t do that by choice.”

  “But you still did it. Not a lot of people see six dragonmen and draw a knife. Most will run. Pit, I’d run.”

  They finished off the wine, sitting in silence for some time before Ibana drew in a quick breath, then laughed softly.

  “What?” Styke asked.

  “It’s Celine,” she said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that all these things—these doubts, these changes—that have come over you, they’re not because you faced a firing squad or spent a decade in the camps. They’re because you have a child now.”

  Styke felt his face flush. “She’s not mine.”

  “Oh, please. I’ve heard you refer to her as ‘my girl.’ You’re not fooling anyone, least of all me. Celine is your child whether she came from your loins or not, and that’s made you a different man.” She turned toward him, and even in the darkness he could feel her piercing stare. “Tell me, do you fear death?”

  “Of course,” Styke scoffed. “Everyone fears death.”

  “There’s a difference between being suicidal and not fearing death,” Ibana said, “and the Ben I knew never feared death. So do you?”

  Styke thought about it for a moment. Death was such an abstract notion: It always felt so far away, but he knew better than most that it could strike at any moment. He’d been within a knife blade of death on hundreds of occasions, and sometimes closer. When he said he feared death, it was a mechanical lie, said because that’s what normal people were supposed to say. He had never feared death. Even when Fidelis Jes had cut him down, leaving him in a puddle of his own blo
od, he had not feared death. He had only feared leaving this world without taking Fidelis Jes with him.

  And, he realized, he had feared one other thing.

  “I don’t,” he said. “But I fear leaving Celine alone.”

  “I call it the same thing,” Ibana said, sitting back. “Fearing your death because you won’t go on living versus fearing your death because someone else needs you is just semantics. You fear for Celine, and I’ve never known you to fear. You look at her in a way you’ve never looked at a friend or a lover, including me.”

  Styke realized that he heard a note of hurt in her voice. He swallowed, uncertain of what to say, and decided to let it go. She had not meant for him to hear it.

  He felt her hand on his thigh again, and her body shifted toward his; her face drew close. “Quiet the inner demons, Ben,” she told him. “They’ve never been worth your time before, and they certainly shouldn’t be now.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of hooves along the trail on the ridge above them. Ibana pulled away, and Styke listened as the hooves descended the road down into the hollow where the lancers camped. He heard a distant voice that he recognized as Ferlisia’s call his name.

  Ibana sighed, slapping him on the shoulder. “Go on. You’ve got work to do.”

  Reluctantly, Styke descended the ridge and headed into the camp. He found Ferlisia outside his empty tent, scowling at one of the guards. He put his hand on her shoulder, turning her around and gesturing for her to lower her voice. “Did you find them?” he asked.

  “I did,” she said excitedly. “They’re camped about three miles from here. They’re not trying to hide, but they picked a place that would be suicide for us to attack: a hill just inside the eastern edge of the Hock with steep sides and only one spot that horses could easily climb. They have lots of wounded men and horses.”