Wrath of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  He bounced a coin on his knee, thinking about Tenik, and wondering if Tenik and Yaret would ever forgive him for disappearing right on the eve of finally clearing Landfall of the Blackhats.

  “Guess we’ll have to find out.” Michel got to his feet, carrying the stool over to the corner of the great room. He set it against the wall, using it as a stepping point to lift himself onto the gaudy trim that went around the middle of the wall. He braced one leg on a hole in the plaster where someone had torn out a gas lantern, then kicked another hole in the plaster to get him up near the ceiling. He produced a knife, and began to stab through the ceiling until he hit something solid.

  His legs trembled from the effort of bracing himself, and the half-healed gunshot wound in his chest began to burn. He quickly cut through the ceiling plaster and then used the handle of the knife to bash the rest of it until the ceiling finally gave way, a large metal box about the size of two saddlebags falling to the ground in a cloud of plaster dust.

  Michel followed it down and cracked the seal on the box with his knife. He opened it cautiously, his face away from the lid until he was sure it wasn’t booby-trapped, and finally took a good look at the contents.

  He gave a low whistle. “Taniel, you were really damn ready for anything, weren’t you?”

  Michel found a large stable in the shadow of the plateau, a steady stream of carts moving in and out or parking in the street outside with loads of pumpkins or barrels or boxed uniforms for the Dynize Army. A sign over the door said HALFORD HAULING, and from what Michel had heard, the old man who owned the place had made himself a fortune just since the invasion by negotiating with some quartermaster to move supplies for a Dynize regiment.

  Michel was dressed in a laborer’s cotton suit—his favorite disguise—and walked straight in through the front gate of the stable with hat in hand. Dozens of workers repaired wheels, transferred cargo, or tended to horses, and no one seemed to notice him as he slipped into one of the cart-parking stalls and found a young man checking equipment in the corner.

  The young man had thinned since Michel saw him last, five or six months ago. His wisp of a beard was still a disgrace, and he still had that plain face of someone who could disappear into the crowd, but he moved with a purpose and confidence that he had not possessed before.

  “Hello, Dristan,” Michel said, leaning against the wall beside him.

  Dristan frowned and looked up at Michel, blinking a few times, clearly lost in his own thoughts. “Do I know you?”

  “We only met briefly,” Michel said, “but we have met. I heard you drive for Halford now. That’s quite a step up from where you were before the invasion.”

  Dristan got a sort of worried look, staring at Michel sidelong like one might a long-absent cousin who’d come looking for money. “I think you have the wrong man.”

  Michel pointed at Dristan playfully. “That, I do not. The last time we saw each other, I was getting pissed at six o’clock in the morning in a pub in Lower Landfall.”

  The color suddenly drained from Dristan’s face. He looked around quickly for anyone who might overhear, and he hissed at Michel. “Pit, I remember you now. You’re the spy who was supposed to train me.”

  “I am.”

  “Well, you listen to me. You never came looking for me, so I got a good job with Halford, and they just gave me my own route, and I don’t want nothing to do with anything spy business. The Blackhats are finished in this town, and I won’t let you take me down with them. Hear me?”

  Michel held his hands up. “I’m not trying to take you down with anything, Dristan. I just want to hire you for a single route.”

  “I just said I won’t do anything for the Blackhats.”

  “I’m not with the Blackhats anymore. Pit, I changed sides just like old Halford, and the Dynize are making me rich. Ask around. There’s plenty of gossip about a Blackhat turncoat.”

  Dristan eyed Michel with suspicion. “What do you want?”

  “Like I said, I want to hire you. I just need someone to move a package for me.”

  “If you need something hauled, you go inside and talk to Halford.”

  “No, I won’t. I want you. I already checked your route. You’re taking supplies to the front about forty miles north of here. It’s, what, a week round-trip?”

  Dristan swallowed hard.

  Michel continued. “Next time you go north, I want you to take two people with you. They can hide in your supplies, or ride out front with you, or however the pit you want to do it. Just get them past the Dynize checkpoints with that little official card I know you carry around with you.”

  “And what do I get in return? Are you going to blackmail me?”

  “Not in the slightest. I’m not with the Blackhats anymore, and have no interest in forcing you to do anything illicit.”

  “That sounds damned illicit to me.”

  Michel gave a casual shrug. “Eh. It’s more of a convenience than anything else.” He produced a heavy little bag from his pocket and thumbed four shiny yellow disks, each about the size of a coin, into one hand. They were blank, without stamp or any national marking. He tossed one to Dristan, who caught it and stared for a moment before Michel said, “Solid gold. Ask a jeweler, if you want to confirm it. Four now, six when you get your passengers past the last checkpoint. And one more if you don’t ask any damn questions.”

  Dristan continued to stare at the coin. “I could buy this whole stable with what you’re offering.”

  “Right now,” Michel said, “convenience is more important to me than gold. Do we have a deal?”

  Dristan bit the coin, muttering under his breath. “I’m allowed to take whichever of the next four shipments suits me. You give me a day, and we have a deal.”

  Michel lifted one finger. “I’ll have to get back to you on the day.”

  “You have big damn balls coming back here after storming out without an explanation the other day.” Ichtracia stood in her bedroom, watching Michel through puffy, red eyes that told him she’d either been crying or smoking mala. By the smell, it was the latter. She wore a dressing gown and slippers, and a discarded dress on the floor told Michel that she’d recently returned from somewhere.

  Michel gave her his most charming smile, fingering the small bottle of chloroform wrapped in a rag in his left pocket. “I apologize.”

  “I should turn you inside out.”

  The words had no bite to them, and Michel wondered if maybe she had been crying. There was a defeated tone to her voice. He immediately began to worry, hoping this had nothing to do with him. Perhaps she’d just returned from another fight with her grandfather?

  “I came to apologize and give you an explanation,” Michel said.

  Ichtracia took a deep breath, and he waited for her to dismiss him without a word, but she let it out in a frustrated sigh instead. “I’d like to know why you left the other day. I could have used company.”

  That tone was full of more hurt than Michel cared to plumb, and he found himself shocked by the rawness of it. He circled around her toward the window, glancing out into the street. “Are we alone?”

  “I sent the footmen out to get me dinner. We have a few minutes.”

  “Will you promise that you won’t turn me inside out until I’ve explained myself fully?”

  Ichtracia’s eyes narrowed. She wasn’t wearing her gloves, but Michel didn’t know if they weren’t in the pockets of her dressing gown. He touched the bottle of chloroform and wondered just how stupid he really was. “I promise,” she said.

  “I need to clarify something first. Your nickname is Mara, correct?”

  “It is,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Is that a common nickname?” He already knew the answer to that.

  “Why would it be?” There was genuine anger in her eyes, and Michel moved on quickly.

  “I need to know, because I’m here for a woman named Mara.” Michel’s heart began to hammer, and he wondered if perhaps he was c
ommitting suicide. If there was even the slightest chance he was wrong, he might be dead before he could reach the door. “Look, I didn’t come to the Dynize to get back at the Blackhats who betrayed me. I’ve never even worked for them—not really. I came to the Dynize because my boss told me to retrieve a woman named Mara and get her out of Landfall. He told me that she was in incredible danger.”

  Ichtracia’s jaw tightened and she reached into her pockets, producing her gloves. Michel leapt toward her, hands out front. “Wait! You were in contact with a woman, probably with sorcery, until about a year ago. You spoke to her again perhaps”—he grimaced—“two months ago. She may have warned you I was coming, she may not have, but I was sent to get you out.”

  Ichtracia’s eyes wandered the room, her brow furrowing, and the gloves slipped from her fingers back into her pockets. She took several steps over to the bed and sat down, staring at her hands for a moment before looking up at Michel. “I shouldn’t have ever answered when she spoke to me,” she said softly.

  “But you did.”

  “Because she seemed to know me. I told her things—too many things—and I have betrayed my country.”

  This was not going well, not at all. “I don’t know what you told her. All I know is that I was asked to get you out. Look, I had no idea you were the woman I was sent for until I overheard Sedial the other day. I’ve been looking in vain for Mara, only to find out I’m sharing her bed. That’s why I left. I had to gather my thoughts.”

  “I see.” Ichtracia’s eyes focused on Michel. “You were sent to save me?”

  Her voice took on an angry tone that Michel didn’t like. “That’s what I was told.”

  “From what?” she demanded.

  “I have no idea. Danger. That’s all I know.”

  Ichtracia leaned toward him. “You have nowhere to take me. These are my people. I never told the voice in my head that I wanted to leave. I just told her I didn’t want war.”

  “Well, she thinks you’re going to get killed if you stay in Landfall.”

  “And that’s supposed to surprise me?” she asked flatly. Michel had the sudden realization that there was something going on beneath the surface that he knew nothing about. More information that Taniel had withheld? Or something new? “My whole purpose is to die.”

  Did she mean as a tool of the state? Michel took a half step toward her, lowering his hands until he could feel the bottle in his pocket. He grimaced inwardly. No, he was not that stupid. Beyond the danger of chloroforming a Privileged, pulling shit like that would destroy any trust that had grown between them the last few days. He realized, quite suddenly, that he couldn’t do that.

  “Who are you?” she asked him.

  The question took him off guard. He considered a dozen lies, and discarded them. “You know most of it already. I really am named Michel Bravis, and I really was a Blackhat Gold Rose. But I truly work for a man called the Red Hand, and I infiltrated the Blackhats on his behalf. I was still maintaining my cover when he asked me to get you out of the city safely. My cover was blown by one of my fellow Blackhats, so I came to the Dynize.”

  “You’re going to betray them. Us.” She laughed bitterly. “I suppose you’re not betraying us if you never really were one of us. Yaret adopted you into his Household. Do you know what that even means? He took a foreign spy under his wing.”

  Michel swallowed. That trust was long gone. “I’m not betraying anyone. I won’t steal anything. I won’t kill people. I’m not even looking for information. I’m here for you.”

  “Betrayal doesn’t just involve murder, Michel,” Ichtracia said. “This whole thing with you dismantling the Blackhats—it was a front?”

  “It was.” He hesitated before continuing. “It actually felt pretty good. I’ve had to work with those assholes for years while they torture and subjugate my people.”

  Ichtracia, through her anger, actually cracked a smile. “I knew you were interesting.”

  Michel watched her hands, waiting for them to dip back into her pockets for her gloves. If she went for them, he might have no choice but to tackle her and try the chloroform. He really didn’t want to do that.

  “All of that, just to get to me,” she scoffed quietly. “I’m not leaving, Michel. I spoke with a voice in my head. I told her some information, sure. But I never told her I wanted to join some Palo freedom fighter off in the jungle.”

  Michel’s heart began to fall. This was it. A complete failure to finish his mission and—surprisingly hurtful—the end of his relationship with Ichtracia. He would probably be dead in a couple of minutes.

  “What will you do?” she asked.

  “If you refuse to come?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll look for the next opportunity to leave. I’m not going to force you to come with me.”

  She snorted. “As if you could.” In a moment of bravado, Michel tossed her the bottle of chloroform. She caught it, looked at the label, and stared daggers at him. “You were going to use this on me?”

  “I considered it. I’m supposed to do a job. But I like you a little more than that. So if you don’t want to come, I’ll just tell my boss that I couldn’t find you. If you let me walk out of here, that is.”

  Ichtracia passed the chloroform back and forth between her hands, then held it to the light to look at the liquid inside. “I’ve heard this is unpleasant.”

  “It’s not enjoyable.” Michel wondered if he should make a run for it. “Look, how about this: I stay here three more days. I help Yaret find that prick je Tura and put an end to the Blackhats in Landfall for good. If at the end of those three days you change your mind, I have a way for us to disappear. If not … then I’ll go alone.”

  “I won’t change my mind. These are my people, Michel. I have a duty to fulfill.”

  “Consider it.” Careful to make no sudden moves, Michel headed toward the door. He was out in the street before he allowed himself to breathe again. Three days. Three ways this could go: Either he’d get out alone, he’d get out with Ichtracia, or she’d hand him over to be tortured to death.

  What a way to live.

  CHAPTER 57

  We’ve run out of land,” Jackal reported.

  Styke sat in his saddle, frowning at a grassy hill on the horizon. They were a couple days south of New Starlight and had reached the far southwest corner of the Hammer, where rolling hills of fallow fields stretched for thousands of acres in every direction, barren but for the occasional farming hamlet carving out a living in the poor soil. The farming hamlets had been abandoned since the Dynize arrival, and they hadn’t seen another soul for two days.

  Styke glanced at Ibana, who cocked an eyebrow at him and turned her horse around and rode back down the line, checking in with officers and making sure that the whole company was still together.

  A few rows back and to one side, Ka-poel and Celine kept their horses close and spoke in Ka-poel’s sign language, eyes on each other’s hands. Styke joined them. “We’ve run out of land,” he told Ka-poel.

  The bone-eye dropped her hands and stared back at him before looking toward that same grassy hill on the horizon. Beyond it were the high cliffs of the Hammer and a steep drop down to the beach, and then the narrow ocean that separated Fatrasta from Dynize.

  “Are we close?” Styke asked. “I want to find this thing and be done with it as quickly as possible. It’s only a matter of time before a Dynize army picks up our trail. I …” He trailed off, noticing that Ka-poel’s eyes did not leave the horizon. Without a sign, she flipped her reins and headed toward the coast.

  Styke rolled his tongue along his teeth, feeling the myriad of old aches and pains that seemed to accompany every day at this age. “Where’s she going?” he asked Celine.

  “I don’t know.” Even Celine seemed confused, and Styke sensed that there was something wrong in the stiff way that Ka-poel rode.

  He leaned toward Jackal. “Keep a close eye on her, and a hand on your carbine.”

&nb
sp; “You expect me to shoot her?” Jackal seemed surprised by this.

  “I don’t know what to expect. These godstones are unpredictable.” He took a deep breath, trying to fill his nostrils with sorcery, but the only whiff he got was the scent of Ka-poel’s coppery power. He waited, uncertain, for several minutes before finally heading after her. Jackal and Celine followed.

  They reached the cliff tops, only to find that Ka-poel had abandoned her horse and taken a steep path down to the beach. Styke watched her pick her way through the rocks.

  “Do we wait for her to come back up?” Jackal asked.

  “Maybe the thing is on the beach,” Styke grunted, swinging out of the saddle.

  They descended to the beach and joined Ka-poel on the shoreline, who was standing with her shoes discarded and her feet in the surf. The water lapped at Styke’s boots, and he watched the side of her face with a growing concern. Her expression was stonelike, devoid of her usual bemusement or defiance. Her eyes seemed distant, as if she were deep in some kind of dream. He breathed in again, trying to read her sorcery, but nothing about the coppery smell had changed.

  Jackal clung to the base of the cliff, watching Ka-poel as one might watch a rabid dog. Styke wondered if Jackal knew something he didn’t.

  Celine kicked her shoes off and walked into the surf, too, gently taking Ka-poel’s hand. Ka-poel responded to the touch mechanically, her thumb gently stroking the back of Celine’s wrist, and Styke suddenly felt like an invader in a private moment. He clenched his jaw, letting his irritation overwhelm his discomfort, and stepped up beside the two of them. “What are you looking at, girl?” he asked Ka-poel.