Sins of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  “Yes!” Michel hissed.

  “Good! I don’t want you advancing through that damned viper’s nest anyway.”

  Michel gave an exasperated sigh and paced to the mouth of the alley and then back again. They’d had this same fight a dozen times, and it always came back to this. He’d try to keep her quiet, she’d threaten to purposefully tank his career, and then he’d avoid her for a couple of months and she’d go back to her reading.

  “Did the handyman come around?” he asked gently.

  “Hmph,” she replied. “He did. I don’t want you using Blackhat money to fix up my house.”

  Michel stopped, staring at her. “Your roof was leaking.”

  “I can handle a leak.”

  “It was destroying your books,” he tried.

  “I’ll get more.”

  “You’re being obstinate, Mother.”

  “I don’t care. Blackhat money is soaked with the blood of my people. Our people.”

  “You’re only half-Palo, Mother.”

  “And I’m proud of that half!”

  Michel paced back and forth, starting half a dozen sentences in his head and stopping each one before he said something hurtful. He finally took Sins of Empire out of his pocket and showed it to her. “Please, Mother, just do me a favor and avoid this particular pamphlet. It’s not going to do anyone any good if the Iron Roses pick you up in a sweep.” She harrumphed again, which was about as good an answer as he was going to get. Michel opened his mouth when he caught sight of the clerk from the bookstore peering around the corner. “What is it?”

  “Sir,” the clerk said, “your books are ready.” He handed Michel a neatly wrapped package. Michel looked at the package in his hands, then at his mother.

  “These are for you,” he said softly.

  His mother took the package. She could feel the weight of them, and he could tell by her face that she knew instantly what they were. He wondered when the last time she’d been able to afford leather-bound books was. She handed them back.

  “I won’t take books bought with Blackhat money,” she said.

  Michel wanted to shake her. “Just take them, Mother.”

  “No!”

  The clerk gave a little cough, clearly embarrassed, and Michel turned on the poor man instead. “You,” he said. “I want you to make sure she never pays for another book here. Understand? I’m going to check, and if I find out you’ve been charging her for even a single penny novel, I’ll burn this damned place down.”

  The clerk’s eyes grew wide, and Michel heard his mother’s gasp as he strode from the alley. He tossed the package of leather-bound books onto a table and strode down the street, looking for the closest hackney cab. He was two blocks away before he found one and was soon inside, riding in welcome silence toward the Millinery.

  “She doesn’t understand,” he said to himself angrily.

  “You knew she wouldn’t.”

  “I’ve always hoped she would. Someday.”

  “Does that make you a fool or an optimist?”

  “Both.”

  It took him half the ride before he calmed down and realized he’d left her food sitting on a table in the bookstore. With the money she spent on penny novels, it was likely all she would have to eat for the next few days. He swore at himself and almost yelled for the driver to turn around.

  One thought stayed him.

  She’d gotten a copy of Sins of Empire. Not a week ago, but yesterday. The Iron Roses were meant to have rounded most of them up. Even if this was one young revolutionary who’d managed to hide a few stacks of the pamphlet, the fact that they were still being handed out could mean something. It could mean that they were still being printed.

  But by whom? And where?

  Michel climbed out of the cab at the Millinery and paid the driver extra to go pick up a basket of bread and deliver it to his mother’s address. Inside, he found Agent Warsim at his desk in the corner, and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “You busy?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. I need you to make me a list of every printer in the city. Be thorough.”

  “Yes, sir. May I ask why?”

  “Because I have just one idea, and I’m going to search every printing press from here to Redstone until I have a better one.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Styke broke his fast with an iced coffee and a thumb-sized piece of horngum just a few short hours after his late-night discussion with Olem and Vlora. He sat at a Palo-owned café on the northwestern side of the plateau—a prime spot on the ledge overlooking the Hadshaw River. Scarcely two paces and a handrail separated him and Celine from a hundred-and-fifty-foot sheer drop to the gently sloped foot of the plateau, then another fifty down to the floodplains on the bank of the Hadshaw where squat, wooden tenements sat upon stilts driven deep into the earth.

  The land around the plateau that had once been nutrient-rich fields plowed by Kressian farmers was now suburbs of these stilted, flood-resistant tenements stretching for miles into the distance. It was a strange sight to Styke, a whole new part of Landfall that hadn’t existed when he entered the labor camp scarcely a few miles from here. It made him feel like a stranger in his own city.

  Celine stood at the railing, watching the people far below mill about the streets like ants, and swinging herself back and forth. She was a loose rail or a stiff wind away from tumbling over the side, but Styke remained quiet—and within easy reach.

  His body ached from his brawl with the dragonman, and he could already feel the tenderness where the bruises would soon appear. His sleep had been restless last night, listening to Celine snore while the feather mattress, an unheard-of luxury for so long, felt lumpy and uneven beneath his back. As hard as he tried to keep his head down and just do his job, he couldn’t help but wonder who had tried to kill Lady Flint, and what Tampo’s ultimate interest in her was. Styke had never managed to be a blind follower—even back during the war he’d ignored half his orders—and playing by the rules now irked him like an ill-fitting saddle.

  “What kind is that?” Celine asked, pointing.

  Styke glanced over the edge, following Celine’s finger to see a spotted horse far below them being led along the streets by its owner. “Palo Hotblood,” he said.

  “It looks the same as any other,” Celine said, shooting him a suspicious look.

  “The markings are Palo. Kressian horses rarely have that coloration. Look at the strong conformation, the hindquarters, the arched neck. That’s a horse bred for agility and speed. Very sure-footed in the swamps and dense forests. Probably being brought into town for an auction. The roads down on the floodplain are soft, and the keeper is walking ahead so as not to risk a broken leg.”

  Celine pointed to another horse farther down the road, pulling one of the lighter, open-aired hackney cabs that were popular down there. “And that one?”

  “Starlish Trunsin,” Styke said. “Standard Kressian carriage horse. They cut the tail short to keep it from getting caught in the carriage, and in Starland they used to make wigs for the nobility out of it. Probably itched like a hat full of fleas, but there’s no accounting for taste among rich people.”

  Celine pointed out almost two dozen more horses as Styke worked through a second cup of iced coffee, obliging her by naming the breed—or likely mix of breeds—and a few characteristics of each. He found the exercise relaxing, and the realization that he hadn’t lost his touch even after ten years of rarely seeing anything but the old, worn-out mares they worked to death in the fens left him feeling pleased with himself.

  He had just begun to smile, the horngum doing its work on his sore muscles, when a voice behind him said, “You know a lot about horses, Mr. Styke.”

  Styke turned in his seat to find Gregious Tampo standing a few feet back, top hat on his head, leaning on his cane. He looked like he’d been there for more than just a few moments, and Styke was annoyed he’d let anyone sneak up on him like that. “Had a few in my time,�
� he said.

  “You were a lancer. I’d imagine that was part of the job.”

  “You could say that. It’s hard to find horses strong enough for a prolonged charge in plate armor. I had to keep my eye out all the time.”

  Tampo looked out over the floodplains, eyes squinted as if he could see all the way to the Tristan Basin. “I remember that horse you rode during the war. Biggest damn stallion I’ve ever seen.”

  Styke felt a pang of regret, picturing the big, black warhorse in his mind’s eye. “Deshner,” he said. “He was a Deliv draft horse. Mean bastard, but we got along well.” And some damn officer put a bullet in his head right before they put me up against the wall, just to spite me. Styke fought down a surge of anger. He gripped his coffee cup and forced a smile. “Afternoon, Mr. Tampo. What can I help you with?”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Tampo,” Celine echoed without turning away from the ledge.

  “May I sit?” Tampo asked.

  Styke gestured to Celine’s unoccupied chair. Tampo took a seat and remained silent for several moments, studying Styke’s face with an uncomfortable intensity. Styke studied right back, searching Tampo for any kind of a tell. What was his game here? What did he want with Lady Flint? Styke felt a surge of protectiveness for Flint and reminded himself he’d known her only for a few days and would more than likely end up having to kill her. She seemed a good officer—but Tampo had earned his loyalty by bringing him out of the labor camp.

  “What happened last night?” Tampo asked. There was a hint of accusation in his voice, and Styke suspected he already knew about the attack on Lady Flint.

  How he knew was another question. “Someone tried to kill Flint.”

  “I know. I trust you were there to protect her?”

  “I wasn’t,” Styke said. No point in lying. Lying, in either the camps or the army, rarely made Styke’s job easier. It just gave him one more thing he had to remember. “Not until the end.”

  “And why not?” Definitely accusatory. “I told you I needed her alive.”

  Styke shrugged. “You said you wanted me to get close to her. She’s given me a task to do to get in her good graces. I’m not in the position to demand that she make me her bodyguard. Might be a bit suspicious if I did. Besides, from everything I’ve seen she can take care of herself pretty damn well.” Tampo remained silent, twirling his cane absently where it lay across his knee. Styke continued: “I half-expected you to be behind the assassination attempt, to be honest.”

  To his surprise, Tampo smiled at that. “I appreciate the concern, but you are my plan regarding Lady Flint. She has powerful enemies in Landfall without even knowing it, and she may wind up being very useful to me in the future. I want her alive.”

  Now that was interesting. Styke wondered what kind of people had it out for a mercenary general. “And if she proves not to be useful?”

  “Then I’ll have you take care of the problem.” Tampo hesitated. “Tell me, Mr. Styke, do you think you could kill a powder mage?”

  Celine left her spot at the railing and came over and pulled herself onto Styke’s knee, fixing Tampo with a flat stare. “Ben can kill anyone. Yesterday, he killed three Palo without breaking a sweat.”

  “Is that so?” Tampo tilted his head at Styke, looking from him to Celine with some significance.

  “Some Palo kid got in the way of a job I was doing,” Styke explained. “And Celine will keep her mouth shut around Lady Flint. Won’t you, Celine?”

  Celine folded her arms. “I like Lady Flint. But if Ben has to kill her, then …” She held her hands up as if to say “oh well!”

  “Regular old pair of mercenaries here,” Tampo commented. “Well, Mr. Styke, I’ll ask again. Could you kill a powder mage?”

  Styke considered the question for a few moments. “In my current state? Not in a fair fight. But I don’t have a problem with fighting dirty. I’d probably be more worried about making my escape after killing Flint. I’d have to kill Colonel Olem, too, or risk him hunting me down, and those infantry seem pretty close to her, so it might get rough.”

  “I’m glad you’re making plans for the eventuality, though I hope it does not come to that.”

  There seemed to be a genuine note of regret in Tampo’s voice, and Styke wondered whether he was as cold a killer as Styke had originally pegged him to be. “Do I have a place in your plans?” Styke asked. “Beyond this thing with Lady Flint?”

  “You’re a killer, Mr. Styke,” Tampo said matter-of-factly. “I always have use for a killer. Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering,” Styke said, giving Tampo a tight smile. “Planning for eventualities.”

  Tampo sucked on his teeth, eyes narrowed, and returned to studying Styke in silence. Styke had to admit to himself that there was something unsettling in that gaze. Finally, Tampo said, “You’re too clever, Mr. Styke. I think that’s why they put you in the labor camp. You look like a thug, kill like a thug, but you think and talk like an officer. It confuses people—the looks and reputation give them expectations, and then you defy them all by being educated.”

  “Are you saying you regret plucking me from the labor camps?” Styke tensed. He did not particularly like Tampo, but Tampo had bought his loyalty along with his freedom. He would do nothing from his own end to jeopardize their relationship, but if Tampo turned on them Styke would gut him like a pig.

  The smile Tampo shot back was actually warm. “On the contrary. I’ve gotten exactly what I was looking for.”

  “I thought you told me you wanted a blunt instrument.”

  “Ever seen an old-fashioned war hammer? They put a spike on the back for a reason.” Tampo turned his attention suddenly to Celine, frowning, lifting the back of her hair gently to expose the red marks the dragonman had left on her neck. He gave Styke a sharp look.

  “We ran into some trouble,” Styke said.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “It was a dragonman,” Celine interjected, wiggling out of Styke’s lap and returning to the railing. “He grabbed me by the neck, but Ben punched him in the face and took his knife.”

  Tampo’s head jerked around. There was a tense moment of silence, all of the congeniality having gone out of Tampo. “Did you say a dragonman?” he asked quietly.

  “She did,” Styke answered.

  “You saw one—you fought one?”

  “More of a scuffle than a fight,” Styke said, glancing at Celine. This was not something he wanted to discuss with Tampo right now. “I tried to draw him out, he sent some of his acolytes to get a feel for me, then he slipped away. Celine and I followed him across the city and there was a confrontation.”

  Tampo leaned across the table. Styke scooted his chair back slightly, not entirely sure what was eliciting Tampo’s intense response. Tampo said, “Back up and tell me everything.”

  Styke ran through Lady Flint’s initial encounter with the dragonman in the Tristan Basin, her assignment, and then Styke’s plan to get one to show his face. He told Tampo about following the dragonman through the city and, at Tampo’s urging, listed all the places that the dragonman had visited on his errands. He finished with the scuffle, saying, “He ran when he saw the crowd. I suspect he’s not eager to attract the wrong kind of attention.”

  “And you’re sure he was a dragonman?”

  “Same kind of black tattoos I’ve read about in the stories. Hard bastard, too. The only difference is … well, from the old stories you think of backwoods warriors straight out of the swamp.”

  “He wasn’t?” Tampo asked.

  “Too urbane. Wore a tailored suit, navigated the streets with ease. Another reason I think he was a Dynize, beyond the accent—he had the city written all over him and the only cities one might see a dragonman as commonplace these days are in Dynize.”

  “Agreed,” Tampo said. “Palo dragonmen no longer exist. I knew the Dynize were scouting Landfall, but a dragonman …”

  Celine swung just a little too far out on the railing, her f
eet slipping, and Styke snatched her by the back of the shirt and pulled her back without taking his eyes off Tampo. “Wait. You knew the Dynize were in Landfall? Does Lady Flint know that? Do the Blackhats know?”

  “I can’t think of a reason she’d keep it a secret if she knew.” Tampo clicked his tongue, his expression annoyed, as if he’d let something slip that he hadn’t meant to. “I’m not sure if the Blackhats know. They may have their suspicions, but … this isn’t information you need to know.” He held up a hand to forestall Styke’s protest. “It’s not that I don’t think you can keep a secret, but rather that the more people who are aware of the Dynize, the greater chance they will disappear without a trace. They have proved, like your dragonman, to be skittish when made the center of attention.”

  This bit about Tampo already knowing about the Dynize made Styke return to his earlier question: What did Tampo want? It seemed that Lady Flint was only a small piece in a larger scheme, rather than the focus of his attentions. He had a stake in Landfall, though whether he was a revolutionary, a wannabe usurper, or simply a power broker of some kind, Styke could not guess. He was well connected and wealthy enough to know what was going on in Greenfire Depths and to get Styke released from Lindet’s labor camps. That meant something.

  Tampo gestured vaguely, as if to himself, and said, “Never mind all that. I want you to focus on Lady Flint for now. Track down this dragonman and get Flint her answers—I’ll want to hear them as well—but try to stay as close to her as possible. She needs to stay alive for at least the next few months.”

  “Until?”

  “Until I know if she’ll be a help or a hindrance.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know where a dragonman might be hiding, would you?” Styke asked. “It would sure make my job easier.”

  “Unfortunately, I do not. You’re on your own for now, but I’ll pass on anything I can discover.” Tampo got to his feet, gently brushing Celine’s hair off the back of her neck to examine the red markings again. “Stay close to Mr. Styke,” he told Celine. “The man who did that to you won’t hesitate to go further if he catches you alone.”