“That’s your eight fifteen, sir. Michel Bravis. He’s the Silver Rose you told me to fetch.”
“Right.” The following silence was punctuated by a muffled curse, then the doors sprang open. Jes’s face was washed, dark brown hair slicked black, and he had changed into an identical, but clean, outfit. He buckled on a belt with a smallsword. “Where are my eight o’clocks?”
“In the courtyard, sir,” Dellina answered.
Jes strode over to Michel, who found his throat suddenly very dry as the grand master examined him first from one side, then another. “Bravis,” Jes said, emphasizing the “B.” “Come with me.”
Without another word, he strode out of the room. Feeling slightly alarmed, Michel glanced at Dellina, who gave him an apologetic smile and hurried after her master. “We’re normally much more organized,” she said as she passed. “But the Lady Chancellor’s construction!”
Michel ran after the two, catching up as they descended to the third floor. Fidelis Jes walked with his head cocked to one side, only answering with a grunted yes or no while Dellina whispered in his ear. They reached the main floor and headed out into the courtyard, where Dellina hurried across to three men waiting in the morning sun. All three held smallswords, and Michel suddenly knew what Jes’s eight o’clock appointments were. His stomach clenched.
“I’m so sorry,” he heard Dellina saying to the three men. “There was construction this morning on the grand master’s run and it’s resulted in a delay. You have our deepest apologies.” She left the three standing there, looking angry and perplexed, and returned to Jes. “The one on the right is the son of a wool merchant. Says you slept with his wife last week.”
“Did I?”
“Yes. The one on the left says you ordered the execution of his brother. I can’t find any records under the name but he claims it’s true. I have no idea who the Palo in the middle is. Says he just wants a good fight.”
In Michel’s experience, everyone had at least one peculiarity. Powerful people tended to have more extreme peculiarities because of their wealth. Some of them were hidden, some out in the open. Fidelis Jes’s was extremely public; even advertised. He had a standing invitation for anyone to try to kill him in single combat. No sorcery, no guns, no quarter. Michel forced himself to breathe slowly as he watched, feeling like he was in some kind of farcical play. He knew about the grand master’s appointments, of course. He’d just never seen one personally.
Jogging aside, it was said that Fidelis Jes had not truly started his day until he’d had a cup of coffee and killed a man.
“Right,” Jes said sharply. “I’m already behind schedule.” Jes strode toward the three men, pointing at each in succession with his sword. “You first, you second, you third.” The last word was barely out of his mouth when he leapt at the first combatant. They crossed swords once and Jes’s blade tore out his throat. Jes was on the second combatant in two strides, and stabbed him through the heart before he’d even raised his sword.
The third combatant, the Palo, watched the other two fights, his eyes on Jes’s footwork. He intercepted the grand master before the second fighter had even hit the ground and Jes fell back several steps. They crossed swords almost a dozen times before Jes disarmed him, stabbed him once in the stomach, then discarded his own sword and wrapped his fingers around his throat, driving the Palo to his knees. The Palo died of strangulation before he even had the chance to bleed out. Michel let out a sigh, not even realizing he’d been holding his breath, and hoped the queasiness he felt didn’t show on his face.
Dellina handed Jes a handkerchief. “Well done, sir.”
Jes dabbed his forehead, then cleaned his sword as a pair of men emerged from the other side of the courtyard and began loading the bodies into a wheelbarrow. “The Palo was pretty good.”
“He held up well,” Dellina agreed.
“Find out where the pit a Palo learned to duel like a Kressian. Those savages shouldn’t have access to dueling lessons.”
“Of course, sir.”
“What time is it?”
Dellina checked a pocket watch. “Eight thirteen, sir. Here’s your coffee,” she said, taking a porcelain cup off the tray of a servant.
“Excellent. Ahead of schedule. Tell me when it’s eight fifteen.” Jes closed his eyes, head back slightly, and sipped his coffee with some relish.
Michel had no choice but to wait, still at attention, sweat trickling down the small of his back. He watched the third body—the one belonging to the Palo—as it was loaded onto the others on the wheelbarrow. The cobbles were slick with blood, and he couldn’t help but wonder just how many men Fidelis Jes had murdered in such a fashion. Hundreds. Perhaps thousands. Was there a purpose to it, other than to show that he could?
Maybe he was going for a record.
Three murders in just a handful of seconds, and Jes seemed barely winded. Everyone feared Fidelis Jes. He was the Lady Chancellor’s hand of vengeance, perhaps the most dangerous man in all of Fatrasta. And that was without even considering the secret police at his beck and call. Michel was used to the threat of violence hanging over his head; when he was undercover there was always the risk of being discovered, even tortured and killed. But there was almost always a way out, through charm or force or guile. Staring down the tip of Fidelis Jes’s sword seemed as inevitable as a guillotine blade and that, to Michel, was infinitely more terrifying.
He said a little prayer to whatever god might be listening that he would never find himself in such a situation.
“It’s eight fifteen, sir,” Dellina said.
Fidelis Jes handed off his coffee cup. “Bravis, was it?”
“Yes,” Michel said.
“Where do I know that name?”
“The Powder Mage Affair,” Dellina said. “Two years ago.”
Michel stiffened. Jes raised one eyebrow, and Michel felt like he’d just been reappraised. “That’s right,” Jes said. “Our informant. Did that end satisfactorily?”
“Very, sir,” Dellina answered.
The wheelbarrow of corpses disappeared down a side path. Michel couldn’t help but glance in that direction, and suddenly Jes was standing beside him, face close enough that Michel could feel his breath.
“Squeamish?” Jes asked.
Michel swallowed. “I’m a spy, sir. If I have to kill someone it means I haven’t been careful enough.”
“Have you ever had to?” Jes asked.
Michel hesitated. “No, sir.”
“You will. What’s your current assignment, Agent Bravis?”
“I’m training informants, sir.”
“Cancel anything you have on your schedule.” Jes snapped his fingers, and Dellina handed him a pamphlet, which he immediately passed to Michel. “Do you know what this is?”
The pamphlet was printed on the same cheap paper as a penny novel, but only a dozen or so pages thick. There was no printer’s mark, nothing on the cover but the words SINS OF EMPIRE printed in large, blocky letters. It looked entirely unremarkable, like any of the hundreds of pamphlets filled with humor, news, gossip, or religion that circulated around Landfall on a daily basis. Michel flipped through it idly. “I’m familiar with the concept of a pamphlet, sir. But not this one in particular.”
“You will be. My people tell me that within the next few days these are going to be everywhere. Over a hundred thousand of them were printed in the last week and we expect to see them flooding the streets.”
Michel found himself holding his breath again. Pamphlets should be handled by the propagandists. He was a spy. “I’m not sure I understand, sir.”
“It’s the worst kind of garbage,” Jes said, sneering at the pamphlet like it had just insulted his mother. “It claims to spell out all the crimes of our beloved Lady Chancellor, dragging her name through the mud. It puts forth that she is a dictator, a madwoman bent on forcing a new empire on this part of the world. Leftist drivel.”
“Have we tracked down who printed them, sir?�
�
“We have. They were printed by a number of companies across Landfall, each of them believing they were working independently on a secret counterespionage project for the Lady Chancellor herself.”
Michel could barely contain his shock. “It’s antigovernment propaganda. How could they possibly think they were working for us?”
“In your line of work, Agent Bravis, how many people openly question the Blackhats?”
“None, sir.”
“Yes, well. The companies were all hired at the same time, by different agents, each of them carrying an Iron Rose.”
Michel’s breath caught in his throat. The Roses were considered sacrosanct. As an organization, the Blackhats would tolerate all sorts of crime and corruption around the capital, as long as it didn’t impede government business. But when it came to the Roses—nobody pretended to have a Rose who didn’t earn it. “Does the public know about this?”
“We’re burying the use of the Roses underneath our public investigation,” Dellina said. “As well as providing plenty of our own propaganda. We’ve already lined up a scapegoat—a foreign businessman who will be shown to have printed the pamphlets as a badly timed prank. He’ll be ‘caught’ within the week, fined, and deported, and then we’ll gather all of the pamphlets as they hit the street.”
“That seems wise.”
“I’m glad you approve,” Fidelis Jes said sarcastically. “I don’t care much about the propaganda. As far as the fate of the nation goes, one piece of antigovernment propaganda, no matter how annoying, is not going to bring down the Lady Chancellor. However, I will not stand by and allow some leftist upstart to use Iron Roses to spread lies. That’s why you’re here, Agent Bravis. While our public investigation parades around a decoy, you’re going to find out where those Iron Roses came from—fifteen in all. If they were forged, stolen, bought, or if they genuinely belong to one of our own people involved in a plot, I want to know and I want to know quickly.”
Michel tried to wrap his head around all this information. The pamphlet, it seemed, was inconsequential. Fifteen Iron Roses, though … “Does the Lady Chancellor know?”
“I would rather she not,” Fidelis Jes said. “You’re no doubt wondering why I chose you, Agent Bravis. We have several skilled investigators within the Blackhats, but they all come from police backgrounds. They’re used to operating in the public eye. Their actions are watched by the papers and enemy spies. Few people outside this office know how you rose to your rank. No one has their eyes on you. You can—and in fact are trained to—track down information without anyone else finding out.”
Fidelis Jes exchanged a glance with his secretary and continued. “What’s more, Dellina keeps a list. It contains the names of several young, ambitious Blackhats with bright futures. They must be intelligent, preferably self-taught, without many friends or family members. People whose loyalty is unquestioned, yet haven’t risen high enough through the ranks that they aren’t expendable. Your name is on that list and because your grandmother was a Palo you may be able to move in circles that our other agents cannot.”
Michel flinched at the reminder about his heritage. Nobody liked a mixed-blood, and it wasn’t something he advertised. “I see.” Beyond his racial background, there were a lot of nice words in that statement. The only one that he really paid any mind was “expendable.” And he didn’t like it one bit. “I’ll find the Iron Roses, sir.”
“You had better.” Fidelis Jes nodded to Dellina, who stepped forward to hand Michel a file.
“In the meantime,” Dellina said, “we have another light assignment for you. We want as few people to know about our internal investigation as possible so this is something else that will let you snoop around without raising much suspicion. We’ve recalled a nearby mercenary company from work on the frontier in order to take care of some business in Greenfire Depths. Do you know about Lady Flint?”
“The powder mage?” Michel asked.
“Yes. It’s her company. You’ll be her Blackhat liaison.”
Michel flipped through the file. Another powder mage. Just great. Two years ago he’d been an informant in central Landfall and had uncovered an assassination plot against the Lady Chancellor involving a Deliv powder mage. The discovery had earned him his Silver Rose, but now it seemed he’d been, what did the theater people call it? Typecast. Michel snorted. At least this time he and the powder mage were on the same side. “I’ve heard incredible things about her.”
“She’s an arrogant bitch,” Fidelis Jes said, waving his hand in dismissal. “She thinks of herself as a principled mercenary, as if such a thing exists. Turn her loose on Greenfire Depths and we’ll see how principled she feels after putting down a real Palo riot. The insurrections she’s fought on the frontier will seem like a weekend stroll.”
“Of course, sir.”
“She’ll be here this afternoon,” Dellina said kindly. “Keep in touch with her, but remember your primary assignment.”
Michel glanced down at the copy of Sins of Empire in his hand. “I’ll get started right away.”
“Very good,” Fidelis Jes said. “Dellina?”
“Eight twenty-two, sir. You have breakfast with the Lady Chancellor in eighteen minutes.”
Jes suddenly seemed to notice he was still carrying the bloody handkerchief he’d used to clean his sword. He discarded it, looking Michel up and down once more as if to assess whether he was really up to the job. His expression was not promising. “I have high hopes for you, Agent Bravis. If you succeed, you will have earned my gratitude. I’m sure you know how valuable that is. If you fail …” He trailed off and strode inside, followed by Dellina, leaving Michel in the courtyard with a bloody handkerchief and a small Palo janitor scrubbing crimson off the cobbles.
Michel closed his eyes, forcing himself to ignore the bald threat. “Think positive,” he muttered, slapping the pamphlet against his open palm, reading the title over and over again. Sins of Empire. “Find the Roses and make my career.”
“Or,” he countered, “don’t find them, and wind up a spot on the cobbles over there.”
“He wouldn’t actually kill me for a failure.”
“You so sure of that?”
Michel didn’t argue that point. “I could earn my Gold Rose.”
“Maybe,” he responded, his own voice a little too ominous.
He stuffed Sins of Empire into his back pocket and headed in the opposite direction across the courtyard, sidestepping the janitor and his work. “Well,” he said to himself, “if I do fail, at least the consequences will be quick.”
CHAPTER 5
Styke lay on his back on the floor, staring at the cracked plaster ceiling of the labor camp holding cell. Everything hurt. He rolled over with a groan, hacking up a wad of phlegm and blood and spitting it on the floor. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been given that good a working over. It had been three hours since they’d finished the beating and thrown him in here, but it felt like a lifetime.
Somewhere nearby, a frantically gathered group of labor camp officials would convene to decide what to do with him. They’d circulate that note from the Lady Chancellor’s office, trying to read between the lines, wondering if they were supposed to keep him alive or if they could get away with finishing the job the military had started with a firing squad ten years ago.
Styke tried to remember if he’d killed anyone after the parole hearing. The whole fight was a bit hazy—screams, swinging truncheons, lashing fists. He’d kept his head enough not to draw his whittling knife—which they’d now confiscated—but he remembered breaking at least a few arms. He’d gone into the fight angry, and it was hard to keep his head when he was angry.
If he’d murdered a guard or two, he’d swing from the gallows by sunup regardless of whether the Lady Chancellor wanted him left alive or not.
He wanted to be angry with himself, but couldn’t even muster the energy for that anymore. Five years since he’d last spoken back to a guard. Seven
since he’d swung a fist, and eight since he’d tried to escape. All that in the vain hope that they’d let him walk after a parole hearing. He’d spend the next six months in the hole, for sure, and after that it would take years before he got any privileges back.
He sat up. To pit with sitting in the hole. What was going to happen to Celine? Her dad was dead, sucked under while digging ditches in the marshes. Styke was all she had. Without him, she’d be meat for the guards and inmates. She wouldn’t last the season.
“Eight guards beat the piss out of you, and just a few hours later you’re already sitting up.”
Styke’s head jerked toward the front of the cell, expecting one of the guards in their yellow frocks to be waiting for his turn with a truncheon. Instead, he found a man in a black suit and top hat, cane under his arm, wearing boots shined to a mirrorlike polish.
The man was tall and thin, with the lean shoulders of a duelist. He had a distinctive, hawkish face behind a black goatee and cold blue eyes. He looked to be in his thirties. Taking his cane in one hand, he tapped the cell bars. “Most people would never wake up from a beating like that. You really are damned near unkillable, aren’t you?”
Styke regarded the stranger warily. Nobody dressed that well belonged in a labor camp, and certainly not standing outside the holding cells. “You see it happen?” he asked cautiously.
“I did, actually.” A half smile danced across the stranger’s lips.
“Did I kill anyone?” Styke asked.
“Cracked a few heads,” the man said. “But they’ll all survive. It was impressive. I’m happy to see ten years of hard labor haven’t taken the fight out of you.”
Styke peered closer at the stranger, once again feeling like they should know each other. “You know who I am?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“I’ve been officially dead for ten years. My own parole judge thought I was ‘some other Ben Styke.’”
The man paced up and down the hallway outside Styke’s cell, then leaned against the wall as if the dust it would leave on his expensive suit was of little consequence. “Mad Ben Styke was a hero of the revolution. The Mad Lancers were a legend.” He grinned. “Besides, we’ve met before.”
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