Sins of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  “That’s, ah, impressive.” Michel had no idea how long it took to build a tenement, but that sounded awfully fast.

  “It’s a wonder what you can do with five thousand sets of hands and a few dozen competent engineers,” Flint said. “My men build a palisade every night when we’re on the march in enemy territory. Gives them a lot of experience with this kind of thing, and keeps them in shape.”

  Michel vaguely remembered reading something about the ancient Deliv legions doing the same. “Very good, ma’am. Has everything been going well on your”—Michel paused, glancing around to be sure they wouldn’t be overheard—“other task?”

  “Not as quickly as I’d like,” Flint said. “But I believe I’ve made progress.”

  Flint had yet to actually look his direction, and Michel had the feeling she’d rather not give him the report he definitely needed to make to Fidelis Jes. Pit. He didn’t have the time or energy for this. Perhaps it was best to just be direct. “I heard there was an attack.”

  “There was.”

  “What happened?”

  Flint finally glanced in his direction. The look she gave him was somewhere between bemused and annoyed. “I thought you Blackhats knew everything that happened in the city.”

  “We have our … limitations. To be honest, all anyone at the Millinery knows is that a group of Palo attacked you. We don’t know who, or why, or where the information even came from. It seems everyone’s talking about it but no one has any better details. I was hoping I could get your side of the story and offer any assistance you might need in tracking down your attackers.”

  “The attackers are dead,” Flint said bluntly.

  “Ah.” And not a damn scratch on her. Did she defend herself, or had she bodyguards?

  “They ambushed me outside a gala I was attending at the Yellow Hall. I have not yet figured out who ordered the attack, or why, but I’m working on it. Does that satisfy, Agent Bravis?”

  Michel grimaced. Flint was definitely annoyed—rightfully so. She was a general, after all, and it had taken her government contact two days just to check in on her after an attempt on her life. He decided to move past that as quickly as possible. “I haven’t heard anyone mention the Yellow Hall for a long time. I understand that’s the center of Mama Palo’s power. And you were just invited in?”

  “Vallencian got me an invitation.”

  Michel couldn’t help but smile. In a city full of despicable, scheming, thieving people, the Ice Baron was one of the few he found truly pleasant. “I’ll make a note of that, thank you. Were you able to meet with Mama Palo?”

  “No. Seems no outsiders do. But the pretense of building these new tenements has given me an in among the upper crust of Palo society. I’ve talked with someone named Meln-Dun about beginning work like this”—she gestured to the construction site—“in the Depths itself. A community outreach program directly toward the Palo, if you will. I sent you information on the project just after the assassination attempt. Didn’t you get my report?”

  Michel considered the stack of unread folders on his desk at the Millinery. “My apologies, Lady Flint, but I’m handling a hundred cases right now. Refresh my memory.” He had to pay better attention. Maybe he could assign Agent Warsim to Flint indefinitely—though a Bronze Rose didn’t befit a general.

  Flint made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat and Michel decided to ignore it. “You’re using this construction project as a way to get closer to Mama Palo?” he asked. He found the prospect fascinating. The Blackhats had a heavy-handed approach to just about every facet of their involvement with Fatrastan society. He doubted it had ever even occurred to any of the Gold Roses that reaching out to the Palo—instead of beating them down—might actually gain them the cooperation they so bitterly sought.

  “That’s the idea,” Flint answered. “I think it’ll work, but I need your approval. And any information you have about Meln-Dun. Vallencian seems to trust him, but Vallencian seems to trust everyone.”

  Michel tried to remember what he could. “Meln-Dun is part owner of one of the few remaining quarries down there. I believe he’s been cooperative with us in the past. One of the ‘good ones,’ I think my colleagues in the Millinery would call him.”

  “So I can trust him?”

  “It’s Blackhat policy not to trust any Palo.”

  “Your tone,” Flint observed, “tells me you don’t agree with that policy.”

  Michel cursed himself for being careless. He really did need some damned sleep. It was a small slipup, but if he accidentally criticized the Blackhats to anyone who actually cared, he might find himself on the wrong end of a long discussion with one of the less friendly occupants of the Millinery. “I should rather say, Meln-Dun can be trusted as far as any Palo. In my opinion, Palo are people the same as any other, so …” He let the implication hang in the air.

  “Double-speak for ‘it’s up to you,’ eh?” Flint asked.

  Michel gave her what he hoped was a charming smile. Maybe he should just go home. A few hours in his own bed would do wonders more than the same time spent snoring into a file on his desk. “Meln-Dun is a respectable businessman,” he said. “You should feel safe working with him. But he’s also highly placed in Palo society, and we have no idea how close he is to Mama Palo.”

  “Too close,” Flint said, nodding, “and I risk him getting wind of our plot on Mama Palo. Too far, and he’s no good at all to me.”

  “Exactly.” Michel couldn’t help but wish there were more people like Flint in Landfall. Pit, in the Blackhats themselves. People who understood nuance, and were willing to take an unorthodox tactic to root out their enemies, were sorely lacking on the plateau. And the ones who did have that ability, like Captain Blasdell, were relegated to desk work. If he earned his Gold Rose, maybe he could change that.

  If.

  “I’ll get you access to Greenfire Depths,” Michel said, “and the supplies and money you’ll need to begin a construction project down there. But you may have to convince Fidelis Jes you’re making progress toward your real goal.”

  Flint waved the thought off, as if it were no real concern. “If Jes has any doubts he shouldn’t have hired me. If he wants to question my tactics he can come down here and do so to my face.”

  Michel had to suppress a laugh. That’s why people like Flint never rose to the top here in Landfall. If you want to be a Gold Rose or one of Lady Chancellor’s inner circle, you had to be competent and subservient. Lots of smiling, nodding, and ass-kissing. He wondered if Lady Flint was capable of any of those.

  His eyes fell to her sword, and he briefly wondered if she’d be able to out-duel Fidelis Jes. He was said to be the deadliest man in Landfall, but he made it a point never to fight anyone with sorcery. The fact that Lady Flint had walked away from a Palo ambush in the Depths told Michel a lot about her combat prowess. But she was a powder mage. Without her powder, was she any good?

  “One other question,” Flint said, bringing Michel out of his thoughts. “Are you familiar with someone named Gregious Tampo?”

  All trace of exhaustion left Michel as quickly as if he’d been dunked in the bay. “Where’d you hear that name?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

  Flint must have heard some excitement in his voice, because she turned to him with a frown, looking him up and down. “You seem distracted today,” she said.

  “Never mind that. Tampo. Where did you hear the name?” Gregious. Michel had a first name now, and that could mean a lot.

  “I met him,” Flint said.

  “Where?”

  “The Yellow Hall. He was at the gala the other night.”

  “You’re sure? Describe him to me!”

  Flint hesitated. “He was tall and thin. He had black hair. A bit of a hawkish face. Seemed a bit off to me, like someone you wouldn’t want to meet in a back alley, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. He was incredibly rude to me at the gala, and I was wondering if he was someone I nee
d to look out for.”

  Michel licked his lips, half-tempted to tell Flint about his alternate mission. But no, he needed to keep that information close. “What did he say? Did he tell you who he was, or where he lives?”

  “He didn’t offer a lot of information.” Flint dug through her pocket and then handed Michel a card. All it said was “The Palo Herald” and “Gregious Tampo” in smaller letters underneath. Michel checked the back for an address, but there was nothing.

  “Did he say where it was?”

  “Not that I recall. He said it was a small newspaper that catered to the Palo. But when I asked Vallencian, he’d never heard of it.”

  “Can I keep this?” Michel didn’t wait for an answer, but shoved the card in his pocket. He raised his hand toward the nearest cab. This was big. Huge, possibly. A small newspaper required a printing press, and printing presses could be traced. For the first time since he’d lost Tampo at his offices, Michel had another lead. “Thank you, Lady Flint. I’ll get the permissions you require.”

  “Wait,” Flint said. “What’s going on with Tampo?”

  A cab pulled away from the curb and headed toward Michel. “Tampo is an enemy of the state,” he told Lady Flint. “If you see him again, you must arrest him and send for me—and only me—immediately. I must go. The Millinery,” he ordered the cabdriver, leaping onto the running board.

  Michel was going to find this Palo Herald, and this time he wasn’t going to let Tampo get away.

  CHAPTER 28

  Styke entered a small Kresim church under the west rim of Greenfire Depths that matched the directions given to him by Old Man Fles. It was a dilapidated wood building; practically a disaster waiting to happen, long rotted through by the constant damp at the bottom of the quarry. The church was tucked up against the wall, a three-room construction with a steeple atop which Kresimir’s Rope had long ago fallen off. The inside was well lit by gas lamps, the floor covered in rubbish, old pews long stolen or destroyed.

  There was an orderly queue of people along one side of the chapel, and at the front, atop what had once been an altar to Kresimir, sat an immense soup pot and stacks of stale bread. Palo boys as young as Celine and all the way into their twenties either waited in line or already enjoyed their morning meal squatting by the wall or sitting cross-legged in the empty chapel. Styke was more than a little surprised to recognize the man standing behind the soup pot, dishing out bowls to the waiting youth.

  Styke watched him work for a moment, remaining unnoticed, then pulled Celine to one side of the chapel and squatted down among the Palo, who gave him space without comment. He pointed at Jackal.

  “Henrick Jackal,” he told Celine, “was an orphan like you. Now look at him. Taking care of kids on the streets where he fought, killed, and stole. Funny how life works out.”

  Celine seemed more than a little impressed. “He looks like a killer.”

  Styke found a piece of horngum in his pocket and chewed thoughtfully for a few moments. A little girl solemnly proclaiming a man she’d never met as a killer made him chuckle, but she wasn’t wrong. Jackal was missing an ear and the pinkie on his left hand, but even beyond the obvious war wounds he was an intimidating man. He was well muscled but lean, and held himself with the kind of confidence that tended to intimidate ordinary folks. He wore an old brown duster, parted in the middle to reveal a stomach hard enough to take a kick from a mule, and a pair of old buckskin pants. His red hair was long and braided off to one side, his shallow cheeks covered in the ashen freckles of a Palo.

  A spiritualist, Fles had called him.

  “Henrick isn’t a Palo name,” Celine observed.

  “Neither is Jackal,” Styke said. “But an orphan can call himself anything he wants.”

  They waited for almost thirty minutes for the line to die down, but more Palo teenagers entered the chapel to replace each that finished their breakfast and left. Eventually a pair of teens came through the front door lugging a new soup pot, letting everyone in line know they were out of bread but that they had enough gruel to go around.

  Styke was just beginning to think this would go all day when a small Palo boy—probably no more than a year older than Celine—suddenly approached them. He held two bowls of soup, and the last two loaves of bread from the platter, and offered them to Styke and Celine.

  Styke took the soup, drinking it quickly and mopping the bottom of the bowl with the bread. It tasted awful, but Celine didn’t seem to mind. The boy watched them through their meal, then said in broken Adran, “Jackal wants to see you.”

  Styke palmed a few pennies and slipped them to the boy, getting up and stretching his legs. He searched his pockets for more horngum and came up empty, making a mental note to stop by an apothecary.

  Jackal had been replaced at his post by a pair of Palo teens, and Styke slipped past them to head into the vestry. It proved to be a dark, closetlike space, barely big enough for a sleeping roll and a small shrine comprised of a human skull, in front of which he found Jackal kneeling. Jackal’s eyes were closed, and he faced the shrine with lips moving silently.

  “You never struck me as the praying type,” Styke said.

  “I’m not praying. I’m talking.”

  “With?”

  “A spirit.”

  Styke tried to remember what he could of Palo religion. With so many tribes scattered across Fatrasta there tended to be a wide array of beliefs. “I’ve never met a Palo who believed they could talk to spirits.”

  “That’s because most Palo don’t.” Between sentences, Jackal’s lips continued to move as if he were carrying on two conversations at once. Finally, he gave a slight nod and opened his eyes, smiling warmly at Styke. “Colonel Styke. When the spirits told me you were still alive, I thought they were playing a joke on me. The afterlife can get awfully boring, and spirits aren’t to be trusted.”

  Styke snorted. He wondered if Jackal had finally lost the few marbles he’d started with. “Good to see you, too, Jackal. I thought once the military police were done with me they’d come after you.”

  “They did,” Jackal said, his face not changing expressions. “Ibana held them off long enough for me to get away, and then her father pulled some strings to get her released from their custody.”

  “Smart,” Styke said. “I appreciate you coming after me when they put me up against the wall.”

  “Little good it did.” Jackal got to his feet, unfolding gracefully and stepping toward Styke. Before the war, he’d liked his space. He rarely closed within reach of another human being unless he was about to kill. Yet he reached out, running one finger boldly across the deep scar on Styke’s face. “I’m sorry.”

  Styke wasn’t sure he liked this new Jackal. He already seemed too gentle to be the same man he’d fought with in the war. “Wasn’t your fault. Never mind that, anyway. Didn’t mean to take you away from your … service. Just came by hoping you could help me out.”

  “The Dynize dragonman?” Jackal asked.

  Styke scowled. “How … How did you know that?” he asked, hand falling to the hilt of his knife.

  “Because I talk to spirits,” Jackal said matter-of-factly. “Same way I know the little girl hiding behind you is named Celine, and her father was a thief who died in the camps. Same way I know you murdered six Blackhats today, and that you plan on learning Fidelis Jes’s routine so you can murder him when he least expects it.”

  “Pit,” Styke swore. There was no way Jackal could know all that just from whatever contacts he had among the Palo. Styke leaned forward a little and sniffed, but could sense no sorcery on Jackal. Spirits? Really?

  Jackal’s smile was a little condescending. “Think me a nutter. Everyone else does. But you’ll take my information just like the boys outside will take my soup, won’t you?”

  Styke sucked on his teeth. Definitely not the same Jackal he’d once known. Did that mean he could no longer trust him? Had Jackal turned into a Blackhat agent, or did he have his own agenda? “Yeah. I
will.”

  “You’re wondering if you can trust me,” Jackal said. “And I wonder the same about you. You’re serving two masters right now. Lady Flint, and …” Jackal’s lips moved silently, and he tilted his head as if to listen to an unseen voice. “ … someone the spirits won’t even touch. Odd, that.” He shook his head, as if suddenly confused. “I see Ben Styke before me. Broken, changed. Neither of us is the same man we once were, but I believe we once called each other friend. I would like us to do so again. To prove that, I’ll tell you what I know about the Dynize. Come. Sit.”

  A few moments later Styke and Jackal sat at either end of Jackal’s bedroll, cross-legged, Celine sitting in Styke’s lap and listening to Jackal speak, enraptured.

  “I’ve had to come about this information in the traditional way,” Jackal said, removing a flask from beneath the skull shrine and handing it to Styke. “The spirits won’t touch Privileged or bone-eyes. They don’t particularly like powder mages or Knacked, either, but I can usually get them to take a closer look.”

  “Are you saying the dragonmen are bone-eyes?” Styke asked. He didn’t think so—he would have smelled the sorcery on them.

  “No, but some of the legends about dragonmen are true. They’re anointed by bone-eyes, and it gives them some protection against sorcery.”

  “Anointed?”

  “I’m not sure exactly what that means, but considering the bone-eyes use blood magic, it can’t be anything good.”

  “Says the man who speaks to the dead.”

  “Speaking to the dead, and using the life-force of others in one’s sorcery, are two very different things. Anyway, there are at least four dragonmen in Landfall.”

  “Four! Son of a bitch.”

  “At least. The Dynize have been here for over a year now, infiltrating the various factions within Greenfire Depths. They have dozens of spies, and recruit the disaffected to their cause.”

  “Like those four Palo kids at Mama Sender’s.”