Wrath of Empire

by Brian McClellan

Tenik was gone without a word, leaving Michel alone with Yaret. Without waiting to be asked, Michel sank into Tenik’s chair with a sigh, a sudden headache appearing where his post-realization adrenaline rush had occupied his mind over the last few hours. He rubbed his eyes, wishing a pox upon all hangovers, and put his head down between his knees.

  “You look in rough shape,” Yaret said kindly.

  Michel looked up. It was not a comment he expected from a superior. “Stressful day yesterday,” he said, hoping it ended the conversation. He didn’t want to explain the sudden conflict he had with Ichtracia, or the fact that he’d been eavesdropping on Sedial—though, to be honest, Yaret would probably enjoy the latter.

  Yaret picked something off his shirt. “I, uh, heard you’ve been spending quite a lot of time with Saen-Ichtracia lately.”

  Michel hesitated a moment before answering. “She saved my life.”

  “And you show your gratitude by plowing her senseless for three days?” Yaret shook his head, then waved a hand at Michel to forestall a reply. “No, no. Don’t explain yourself. That actually makes far too much sense when it comes to a Privileged. Forgive my crassness as well. Frankly, I’m more than a little delighted by hearing that someone Sedial hates has found his way into Ichtracia’s bed, but I do like you, Michel, and so I think you should be warned.”

  “About the dangers of sleeping with a Privileged?” Michel asked, adopting a pained expression. “I’m not entirely ignorant.”

  Yaret’s half smile disappeared, replaced by a serious look of concern. “No, by sleeping with Ichtracia. Not because of Sedial,” he added quickly. “At least, not directly.” Yaret shifted in his chair and sighed. “I won’t insult you by explaining why we’re here. The godstone, all of that. As a high-level Blackhat, I assume you know.”

  “I know a bit,” Michel said slowly, wondering where this was going. “I know the godstone’s purpose and that you want it. Not why you want it.”

  “Sedial ended our civil war by killing the rival emperor and then promising to reconcile both sides by creating a new god. That’s why we’re here. To bring peace to our country, we must resurrect the god that died to start our civil war. It was the only proposal that we could all agree on, so we spent well over a decade preparing to invade Fatrasta and seize the stones.”

  “What does this have to do with Ichtracia?”

  “I’m getting to that. This was all Sedial’s plan—his grand proposal. Many think of him as a great man for ending the civil war.”

  “And?”

  “Ichtracia does not think he is a great man. When she was just a child, she accused her grandfather of murdering her family—her brother, her father, her sister. Officially, they all died to separatist assassins. Her accusations were swept under the rug, but she never recanted. Those rumors that she doesn’t like her grandfather are wrong. She loathes her grandfather.”

  “Yet she still serves him.”

  “Because she is a patriot. She does not serve him, she serves all of Dynize. She knows as well as he does that bringing back our god is the best chance of reunification.”

  Michel held up one finger, trying to catch up with all of this. “I thought the godstones were used to create new gods, but you’re speaking of resurrection.”

  “Of course. We brought his remains with us. Sedial is confident that the combined power of the stones, and of his bone-eyes, will bring our god back.”

  Something about that troubled Michel, but he wasn’t entirely sure what. “So what does any of this have to do with me sleeping with Ichtracia?”

  “Because Ichtracia has made a practice for over a decade of taking to bed anyone she thinks will annoy Sedial—generals, ministers, bodyguards. Half of his enemies in the capitol have gone through her rooms.”

  Michel frowned. “Should the promiscuity bother me? Because I’m a spy. Believe it or not, I’ve seen worse.”

  “Not really,” Yaret said with a shrug. “That is expected of Privileged. They are a force of nature in that way. But Ichtracia uses Sedial’s enemies to annoy him and then she discards them. Many of those ex-lovers died under mysterious circumstances. Some even by Ichtracia’s hand.”

  That was worrisome.

  “Between Ichtracia and her grandfather,” Yaret continued, “sharing the former’s bed is doubly as dangerous as sleeping with any normal Privileged. It’s something I wanted to warn you about personally.”

  Michel shook his head, trying to decide what he would do about Ichtracia. He’d spent much of last night in a drunken stupor trying to figure out why Taniel had left out so much information about “Mara,” and his suspicions had begun to deepen. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

  “Good. I have use for you, Michel, and I expect you to have a long and fruitful career in my Household. Don’t disappoint me.”

  Michel wondered how long that would actually be if he confirmed that Ichtracia was Mara and convinced her to leave with him. His heart hurt briefly at the idea of leaving Yaret and Tenik behind. He liked them, and he had grown into a place within Yaret’s Household that, aside from the danger of Sedial, was actually quite fulfilling. He cleared his thoughts and plastered a smile on his face, getting up to look through the rest of the maps he’d taken from the Millinery. “I have the same hopes,” he said.

  CHAPTER 53

  Vlora awoke in the darkness. She was immediately aware of the pain, crying out involuntarily. She gasped, choking on her own saliva, trying to make sense of where she was.

  A light flickered into being and drew closer, and she was soon able to make out Little Flerring’s face cast in shadows. Flerring laid a hand on her shoulder, pushing her down. “Moving is a really bad idea right now,” she said.

  “Powder,” Vlora gasped.

  Flerring withdrew, appearing a few minutes later. Vlora felt something pressed to her lips, and tasted the bitter sulfur of powder, then felt the grit between her teeth. The powder trance took effect immediately, running through her blood like fire, snuffing away a thousand pains until they were a dull throb in the back of her head. She forced herself to lie still and calm her breathing, letting the trance do its work.

  “Better?” Flerring asked.

  “Much,” Vlora said. She tried to sit up, but the effort caused a sweat to break out on her brow without accomplishing anything. “How long have I been out?”

  “It’s a bit past one in the morning now. So maybe sixteen hours or so?”

  “What’s the damage?”

  Flerring held a lead ball in front of Vlora’s face. “That’s the bullet I took out of your back. Embedded in the muscles back there. It didn’t hit anything important, but I can’t imagine you’re going to have full use of your upper body for some time. I’m not a great surgeon, but I think I got all the pieces of your shirt and jacket out. Hopefully that’ll help avoid an infection.”

  “You think?”

  “I’m paid to blow stuff up, not perform impromptu surgery on powder mages. What the pit happened down there? I heard something yesterday about a duel, and then I woke up to see the whole damned city on fire.”

  Vlora tried to think. The powder trance was great at deadening the pain, but she’d experienced enough blood loss to leave her brain in a confused fog regardless of the powder. “I dueled Jezzy’s champion—that powder mage I’ve been fighting with—and killed him. Jezzy accused me of cheating and then one of her boys shot me in the back. Once that gun fired, all pit broke loose. Jezzy and Burt’s people all started shooting.”

  “I heard Jezzy’s dead,” Flerring said. “They’re saying you killed her. Blew up the powder of the men standing beside her.”

  Vlora tried to feel bad about it—but it was Jezzy’s man who shot her in the back. Likely on her orders. “She had it coming.”

  “I won’t argue that. Her lieutenants are still fighting, though. There’s armed gangs battlin’ all across the city, while the poor bastard miners and businessmen are trying to put the fires out. Last I heard we lost most of
Main Street and half the Gurlish quarter, and the fires are still going.”

  Vlora took a deep breath and held it, listening. They were a couple miles outside the city, but if she focused, she could still hear the occasional musket shot echoing across the valley. “Sounds like the whole city is tearing itself apart.”

  “I’ve got a pretty good view from above the cabin, and it looks like the whole city is tearing itself apart.” Flerring got up, and Vlora heard the pouring of a cup of tea. “Here, drink this. It’ll knock you back out.”

  “I can’t,” Vlora protested. “I’ve got to get moving. I need to contact my men. I need to find Taniel.”

  Flerring put her elbow on Vlora’s shoulder, keeping her down, then forced her mouth open with one hand. “Drink,” she ordered.

  The tea tasted like horseshit and seemed to get everywhere but in Vlora’s mouth. Flerring mopped up the spills and sat back while Vlora coughed, laughing. “I’ve got that promissory note, but I’d much rather take you back to Adro in one piece, sister. Is Taniel still rotting at the jail?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll send one of my boys down. The deputies are gonna be working frantically to put out this wildfire you started. Shouldn’t be too hard to slip him out.”

  Vlora almost protested that they needed him out legitimately, then discarded the thought with a sigh. What was the point? All their efforts at finding the godstone in secret had gone out the window. It was time for brute force. “Also, need you to send word to Olem. His scouts will have reported the fighting. He needs to know about Prime Lektor. If he brings the entire brigade in before we find Prime, it’ll get everyone killed.”

  “I’ll send a few of my boys looking,” Flerring promised. “Until then, you need to rest.”

  “I don’t have time to rest.”

  Flerring grinned down at her. “You’re not gonna have a choice. Not with that tea and all the blood you lost. You’ll be out within minutes.” Without another word, Flerring blew her lantern out and shuffled off into the darkness.

  Vlora lay still in frustration, staring at the ceiling, wishing she could move. She might be wounded, but she could still think. She had to formulate a plan to find Prime and figure out what she was going to do if they couldn’t destroy the stone with Flerring’s blasting oil.

  She was halfway through the second thought when she again lost consciousness.

  When Vlora came to, it was once again light outside. The cabin was quiet and cold, and she guessed that it was still early in the morning. Outside, she could hear Little Flerring shouting instructions at her workers and wondered if Flerring was beginning to shut down her operation. It would make sense, of course. Even if order were restored tomorrow, the gold mines were probably going to be all but empty until the city could rebuild enough to support all these miners.

  The pain was back. It wasn’t bad, if Vlora didn’t move. Or breathe. She could feel something soft beneath her fingers, and realized that Flerring had left her a powder charge. Saying a silent word of thanks, she managed to bring it to her mouth, breaking it open and sprinkling the powder on her tongue. Granules bounced off her lips and rolled down her cheeks, and she gave a sigh of appreciation as the trance kicked in.

  Gradually, the hairs on Vlora’s neck began to stand on end as she came to the slow realization that there was someone else in the room. “Who’s there?” she asked, listening to the soft sound of breathing.

  There was a creak as someone got up from a chair, then heavy footsteps. Vlora grimaced through the pain and forced herself to roll onto her side, expecting to find one of Flerring’s workers keeping watch.

  She froze at the sight of the man standing beside the bed. He was of medium height and heavy-set, with an aged, distinguished face marked by a purple birthmark that spidered across his bald head. He wore Privileged gloves on both hands, the runes gold and crimson, and frowned down at Vlora like a father might at a disruptive child.

  It took all of Vlora’s strength not to call out. Prime could kill everyone here before they had the chance to aid her. No sense in all of them dying. “Prime,” she croaked, her throat dry.

  “Little Vlora,” Prime said. He dragged the chair across the room and sat down beside the bed, folding his hands in his lap. “I understand that you’re Lady Flint now, is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seems like just yesterday you were a street tramp, taken in by Tamas.” Prime snorted. “I’ve been following your exploits in the papers. First the Kez Civil War, then the Fatrastan frontier, then Landfall. Now I find you at the ass end of nowhere with a bounty on your head as if you’re a common outlaw and not a war hero with your own mercenary army.”

  Vlora stared at the side of Prime’s face, trying to read him. His expression was neutral, his face grandfatherly, and she grabbed on to the sudden hope that perhaps he wasn’t here to kill her.

  “When’s the last time we saw each other?” Prime asked. “The Adran-Kez War?”

  “Right before you ran,” Vlora said coldly. She silently rebuked herself. She wasn’t going to fight her way out of this—her only chance was to talk. Unfortunately, she was not good at talking.

  “Ah, yes,” Prime said, seemingly unbothered by the accusation of cowardice. “You have to understand, I’m not a violent man. I’ve never been good at war. And Kresimir was there! Pit, Kresimir scared me. You have no idea just how …” He trailed off, chuckling to himself as if he were relating a happy memory. “And then the god of the Nine was killed by mortals. If I’d known how that was going to end up, I might have stayed. But what’s done is done. I moved on to other work.”

  Vlora was struck by a sudden memory of Prime Lektor visiting Tamas’s house. She still had been an early teen at the time. Borbador hadn’t yet been snatched up by the royal cabal. She and Taniel were not yet lovers. They were all just happy stepsiblings. Prime had visited for a private conversation with Tamas, giving each of the children sweets out of his pocket. She only now realized that he and Tamas were probably discussing the coup that they would perform against their king five or six years later.

  Despite his grandfatherly look, despite his past loyalties and his current claim of pacifism, it was important to remember who—and what—Prime was. He had spoken with the gods and witnessed the creation of the Nine. He could snuff her out in an instant.

  “So what are you doing here?” she asked.

  Prime tsked quietly. “I was just about to ask you the same thing. This is an out-of-the-way place. You’ve been gallivanting around the city for weeks pretending to be a common hired sword. But your army is camped outside the city while you”—he pointed one finger at her, his hand trembling—“you have been looking for something.”

  Vlora tried to think of an excuse—any plausible reason for her presence here—but came up with nothing.

  Prime continued before she could respond. “You’re looking for the godstone. It’s unfortunate, little Vlora. You lost one godstone to the Dynize on the plains south of Landfall. I will not allow you a chance at the second godstone. I will not allow anyone that chance.”

  “I …” Vlora blinked at Prime, trying to figure out what was going on inside his head. “I don’t want anyone to have that chance, either.”

  “An interesting sentiment. I don’t know who you’re working for right now. It could be Lindet. It could be the Adran Cabal. Maybe you’re working for yourself. But I will allow none of you to have the godstone. It is too dangerous to fall into the hands of mortals.”

  “And you think the Predeii are any more trustworthy?” Vlora spat before she could stop herself.

  Prime seemed surprised by this. “What? Oh, absolutely not. If I knew where the others were—if any of them are alive—I would keep it away from them as well.”

  “I think,” Vlora said, trying to focus her thoughts, “that we need to come to an understanding.” If Prime was telling the truth, and he was indeed here to keep anyone else from finding the godstone, then they were fighting fo
r the same thing. Prime could be a valuable ally if he could be convinced. She considered the ramifications and decided to tell him the truth. “Prime, I don’t want the godstone used any more than you do. I fought for Landfall to keep the godstone out of the hands of the Dynize. I have a bounty on my head because I tried to arrest Lindet when I found out she wanted to use the godstone.”

  She continued in earnest. “I lived through that war. I saw it to the very end and I lost so many people I hold dear. I was a prisoner of Brude, and I saw Kresimir. Do you think I want more gods in this world? I’m here to destroy the damned thing!”

  Prime sat back in the chair, looking troubled. He examined Vlora, tilting his head first to one side and then the other. “I’ve always been too trusting. I’ve always put my faith in people. That’s why I spent so many centuries administrating a university in Adopest.” His expression hardened. “But people have betrayed that trust too many times. I see the Dynize. I see Lindet. I see the ambitions of the cabals and the governments. All knowledge of the godstone must be erased.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Vlora said, reaching out to him. “The Dynize know. That’s why they’re here. Everyone knows. Everyone who matters. You can’t hide it forever. Let me help you destroy it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Prime said sadly. “I can’t trust you. I wish I could, but … I’ll make it quick.” He raised his gloved hands.

  “Wait!” Vlora pleaded.

  There was a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye, and Vlora shied away, waiting for sorcery to burn the flesh from her bones. When she opened her eyes, she saw Prime sitting upright in his chair, a surprised expression on his face. Taniel stood behind him, a sword to Prime’s neck. He held the sword like a garrote, with one hand on the pommel and one on the bare blade.

  The blood pounded in Vlora’s ears as she waited, helplessly wounded, for one of the two men to act.

  Prime lifted his gloved hands. “Do you know what I am?”

  “I know exactly what you are,” Taniel whispered. “Do you know what I am?”