Sins of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  But Jes didn’t step out of the way, draw his sword, and run Michel through.

  Michel’s knuckledusters connected with the base of Jes’s neck and the grand master dropped like a sack of potatoes. In half a breath, Michel found himself staring down at the unmoving form, mouth agape, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Then he did the only thing that came to mind:

  He fled.

  He was less than a block from the house when he rounded a corner and ran headlong into his mother. She screamed, books scattering in the street as the two of them went down in a heap. Michel regained his feet while his mother crawled around, swearing and grumbling, trying to stuff penny novels back into her satchels. He grabbed her under the arm, trying to help her up.

  “You pillok!” she said, jerking her arm away. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

  “Damn it, Mother, we don’t have time for this.” He scooped her up bodily, depositing her on her feet. She squinted at him. “Michel? What are you doing here?”

  “Saving your life,” he said, dragging her along behind him.

  “Wait, my books!”

  “I’ll buy you more!” He pulled her along until they were both running down the street, huffing and puffing. They made it less than a block before his mother stopped him, gasping for breath.

  “What is going on?” she demanded. “And what is that?”

  Michel looked down to see the Gold Rose had fallen out of his shirt. He stuffed it back, shaking his head. “Ignore that, I …” He paused. “Damn it! I should have damn well made sure he was dead.” He took two steps back toward her house, stopped himself, then waved toward a nearby hackney cab. “Never mind. It’s too late. Shit, shit, shit.”

  His mother slapped him on the shoulder. “Why are you cursing? And what’s the meaning of this? I was going to spend the afternoon reading.”

  “You spend every afternoon reading!”

  Her eyes suddenly widened as she caught up to what he’d said a moment ago. “And what do you mean, you should have made sure he was dead? Who?”

  Michel leapt into the hackney cab as it pulled up beside the curb and shouted for the driver to head to Greenfire Depths. Once they were seated he let himself take a deep breath, wishing he had something to drink. He looked out the window, waiting for someone to come running after the cab, or a squad of Blackhats to burst from an alley. That arrogant bastard had come after Michel alone. There was no one to chase him down.

  But there would be.

  “Fidelis Jes,” he said finally. “I left him lying on your floor. I might have killed him.”

  The Riflejack cavalry were having breakfast in their camp outside of Jedwar when Styke, Ibana, and Jackal rode through their tents and corrals, accompanied by one of their outriders.

  Styke fell into old habits, glancing around at the equipment and state of the horses and men. Saddles were oiled, swords sharpened, and the carbines looked well cared for. The men lounged beside their morning cook fires, stirring pots and playing cards, their uniforms well worn but clean. He used the examination to focus on something other than how much his ass hurt.

  “The corrals are sturdy,” Ibana said approvingly.

  “You bet they are,” a man said, standing up beside Styke’s horse. He was tall and lean, with the strong shoulders and bowed legs of someone who spent a lot of time in the saddle—and swinging a sword from one. He had light brown hair and mutton chops, and a clean-shaven face. He fetched his jacket from a nearby post and slid it on over his shoulders. “We’re Adran cavalry. We don’t screw around.” He eyed the lancers’ jackets, and the banner waving over Jackal’s head. “You’re Fatrastan military?” he asked.

  “Who’s in command?” Styke asked.

  The soldier considered the question for a moment. “Colonel Olem. If you want to talk to him, you’ll have to head to Landfall.”

  “Just came from there,” Ibana responded. She leaned over in her saddle, handing the man a sealed letter. “Who’s second in command?”

  “I’m Major Gustar, so I guess that would be me,” the man responded, taking the letter and frowning at the seal, which was stamped with the crossed rifles and shako of the Riflejacks. “What’s this here?”

  “New orders,” Styke said. “My name’s Colonel Ben Styke, and I’ve been ordered to take command of your cavalry.” He bit his cheek, waiting for a fight. No one liked their command taken from them.

  Major Gustar cast him a long, cool glance. Several of his men bristled openly, but Gustar simply said, “Sorry, Colonel, but we’re Riflejacks. We don’t take commands from foreign officers. Not unless Lady Flint tells us to directly.”

  “You might want to give those orders a read,” Ibana suggested.

  Gustar broke the seal and read through the letter, his eyes widening as he went. When he next looked up, his mouth was slightly agape. “You’re that Ben Styke?”

  “In the flesh,” Styke replied. For the first time in a while, that little bit of awe in someone’s voice didn’t feel like a slap in the face for what he used to be. It felt good.

  “And you’re a Riflejack now?”

  “We all are; we just don’t have uniforms yet, so this old Fatrastan getup will have to do. This is Major Ibana ja Fles. She has direct command of the Mad Lancers. I’ll leave you in charge of the Riflejack dragoons and cuirassiers. You both report to me.”

  Gustar snapped a salute. “Sir. Yes, sir. It’ll be a pleasure serving under you.”

  “Say that again after I’ve ordered you to charge a pike line,” Styke said. “We’re needed in Landfall. Ibana will catch you up on the way. I want everyone ready to ride within a half hour.”

  “They’ll be ready in fifteen minutes,” Gustar said. “Up and at ’em, boys, we’ve got work to do!”

  Styke took a deep breath, taking in the smoke of the cook fires, the smell of the horses, the sickly sweet scent of manure heaps, and the sour stench of unwashed soldiers at camp. His lungs yearned for all of it and more—for the corpses on the field and the fresh scent of crushed grass and powder smoke after a skirmish.

  He pointed down at Gustar. “You. I think I’m going to like you.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Vlora was shown into the foreign dignitary room of the capitol building the morning after accepting command of the defenses of Fatrasta. She wore her parade uniform: Adran blues with silver trim and crimson cuffs, the crossed rifles of the Riflejack Mercenary Company emblazoned above her left breast opposite two dozen medals for acts of valor she’d long forgotten.

  The foreign dignitary room was a large, vaulted chamber decorated with yellow and white marble, lit by three enormous chandeliers and high banks of windows that looked out over the edge of the Landfall Plateau and out to sea. Opposite the windows were rows of tiered seating for the elite of Fatrasta, while an immense, oval ironwood table occupied the very center of the room, surrounded by dozens of high-backed chairs.

  The room had seating for hundreds of people and could probably fit more than a thousand, but the only occupants were Vlora and Lady Chancellor Lindet.

  Lindet sat at the table, a glass of iced coffee and a spread of papers in front of her. She looked up as Vlora’s boots echoed across the marble floors and gave a brief, condescending smile. Vlora didn’t take it personally. From what she understood, Lindet was condescending to everyone.

  “Lady Flint,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  The words were quiet, pleasant, pitched so as not to echo. Vlora rounded the table to be opposite of Lindet—likely where the Dynize delegation would sit in a short time—and leaned on one of the high-backed chairs. She inclined her head. “Lady Chancellor. Aren’t we expecting the Dynize ambassador any moment?”

  Lindet consulted a pocket watch. “Thirteen minutes,” she said.

  “Shouldn’t this room be … full?” Vlora had passed Fatrastan dignitaries twittering away in the halls of the capitol building by the score, the whole lot practically seething ner
vous anticipation. The emergence of the Dynize Empire from isolation was the most exciting thing to happen here since Fatrasta declared their independence from Kez. To the businessmen and politicians waiting outside, the fact that the Dynize had arrived with a fleet of warships was barely worth a mention.

  Unfortunately, that made those warships entirely Vlora’s problem.

  “I’ll allow them in when I’m ready,” Lindet said. She perused a page of stationery in front of her before signing the bottom and sliding it off to one side. “I’m so glad you took Jes’s offer.”

  “It was enough money to let all of my men retire comfortably when this is over,” Vlora responded.

  “Purely mercenary,” Lindet said with a small smile. “I can respect that.”

  The money hadn’t been all of it, of course. Jes had pointed out, correctly, that if the city became blockaded the Riflejacks would not be able to leave. He also pointed out that an unattached mercenary company could easily be seen as an enemy of the state were the Dynize to prove antagonistic, and that his Blackhats would be forced to turn on her. More personally, Vlora relished the idea of defending the people of Fatrasta for once, rather than putting down their insurrections.

  Vlora kept all of that in her head, instead answering Lindet with a nod. “If the Dynize have designs on Landfall, my men will hold it. I’ll admit I’m surprised that you’ve put me in command of the entire city defense.” Surprised didn’t even cover it. She’d been handed command of a fourteen-thousand-man garrison, five forts, and another six thousand auxiliaries. Unless she was reading the politics wrong—which was a possibility—that made her one of the most powerful people in Landfall, answerable only to Lindet.

  “You’re the protégée of Field Marshal Tamas and the veteran of two wars and countless other engagements. Is there anyone else more qualified in the city?”

  “No,” Vlora admitted.

  Lindet signed another paper. “The worst-case scenario,” she said, “is that the Dynize are here to invade. In which case I’ve secured an extra brigade of riflemen and a decorated commander and removed the possibility of you being hired by my enemies. The best-case scenario is that the Dynize just happen to be out for a pleasure cruise with an entire fleet, and I’ve locked you into a four-year contract as defender of the shores of my nation. It seemed fairly win-win.”

  “You could have bought ten brigades for what you’re paying us.”

  “I don’t have ten brigades handy to buy,” Lindet said. “Are you in the habit of telling employers that they’ve overpaid, Lady Flint?”

  “No, ma’am. Forgive me for asking, but do you have any particular reason for thinking the Dynize are here for any other reason than peace?”

  “Other than thirty-eight warships and a whole flotilla of support frigates?”

  “Yes, other than those.”

  Lindet made a “hmm” sound that was neither an affirmative nor denial.

  “Ma’am?”

  Lindet looked at her over the tops of her spectacles, the brief smile returning. “I also understand that you’ve deputized the Mad Lancers into the Riflejacks. Is that correct?”

  Vlora swallowed, noting that Lindet had dodged the question about the Dynize. She would have to come back to that. The subject of the Mad Lancers wasn’t one she’d been looking forward to, but she hadn’t hired them purely out of need. She’d also hired them because she knew it would cause an argument—an argument that would set the tone for her relationship with Lindet going forward. She braced herself for the coming fight. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.”

  “Excuse me?” Vlora struggled to hide her surprise.

  Another page was signed and set aside. “It makes Styke your problem, and if it keeps him and Fidelis Jes out of each other’s hair for the time being, I consider that a bonus. I’ve instructed Fidelis Jes to steer clear of the Mad Lancers for now. I expect you to do the same for Styke. If you can. This Dynize fleet is more pressing a matter than internal squabbles.”

  Vlora exhaled the breath she’d taken in anticipation of a shouting match. “I’ll keep Styke on a short leash.”

  “Good luck with that.” Lindet checked her pocket watch again. “Eight minutes.” She raised her voice. “You may allow everyone inside!”

  Vlora didn’t see any attendants, but the doors to the room were thrown open and a stream of people poured in. She recognized businessmen, politicians, Kressian ambassadors, and even the chief constable of the Landfall police. Within minutes the tiered seating was filled, as well as half of the chairs around the oval table. Vlora left the spot across from Lindet and rounded to stand beside her.

  She spotted Vallencian off in one corner of the room, but when she raised her hand to greet him he looked away. The snub was not unexpected. The Ice Baron, she had assumed, would not be pleased that she had used his introduction to Palo society as a way to arrest Mama Palo. She didn’t consider herself terribly vain, but the knowledge that he was no longer an enthusiastic fan made her a bit sad.

  But she had more important things to think about. “Where is Jes, by the way?” she asked, casting about for the grand master.

  “Personally overseeing security,” Lindet answered. “The Palo have engaged in some light rioting since we executed Mama Palo. The last thing I need is some fool revolutionary taking a shot at the Dynize ambassador and causing an international incident.” Lindet glanced up, a look of annoyance crossing her face. “Would you please stop hovering and have a seat?” She indicated the chair to her right.

  Vlora took the spot hesitantly. No one had told her she’d be sitting beside Lindet during the meeting. She wondered whether her place was expedience, or flattery. Probably a little of both.

  A light hand touched her shoulder, and she looked up to find Olem standing just beside her. She didn’t realize that she’d been holding her breath before she let it out in a soft sigh. She gestured him closer. “I was not,” she whispered, “ready to get back into politics.”

  “Really?” he asked. “Because you just dove in headfirst.”

  “I thought I was agreeing to fight. Why the pit am I at this table?”

  “Defender of Fatrasta comes with a little more than just a combat role, I imagine,” Olem commented.

  “Pit. Will you be here through the whole thing?”

  “I’ll be seated just over there,” Olem said, indicating a spot on the bottom row of seating behind her.

  “Thank Adom. I feel like I’m sitting in a den of wolves.”

  “You are, love. You are.”

  The “love” was unexpected. Olem rarely got more informal than her first name in public, and she felt her cheeks redden. “Thank you,” she whispered back.

  “For?”

  “Being here.”

  “Never want to be anywhere else.”

  “You have no idea how much that helps. By the way, just how mad is Vallencian about the Mama Palo thing?”

  “I found out this morning that no café in Landfall will serve ice to a Riflejack, if that’s any indication.”

  Vlora took a deep breath. That was going to be a hit to morale. Ice was about the only way the boys were getting through this stinking hot summer. “Send him a present. Something handsome, but practical. Dig through my sea chest to see if I have any old souvenir that might soften him up.”

  “I’ll give it a try.”

  A messenger suddenly arrived, whispering something in Lindet’s ear. Lindet stood up, turning to the door. The rest of the room, Vlora included, stood up with her, while Olem hurried back to his seat.

  The messenger announced in a loud, clear voice, “The esteemed Ka-sedial, adviser to the throne of Emperor Janen I, Admiral of the Black Fleet and carrier of the imperial seal.”

  The man who entered the room was not, by any stretch of the imagination, impressive. He looked in his mid-sixties, with tufts of gray hair on the sides of a mostly bald head. His face was clean-shaven, a weak chin accentuated by a large nose and soft features. He wore a
colorful gown of teal, purple, black, and yellow, raven’s feathers dangling from each ear. He walked slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, taking in the room and assembly with a pleasant but slightly disdainful air.

  Vlora’s senses began to tingle, and she didn’t have to open her third eye to tell that this man had sorcery. She immediately dismissed the idea that he was a Privileged, and then a Knacked. He definitely wasn’t a powder mage. That left just one possibility, and it made her slightly ill.

  He was a bone-eye, a blood sorcerer. The last time she’d met one of those had been Ka-poel. And she’d helped kill a god.

  The bone-eye rounded the table, bowed briefly to Lindet, and then took a seat with the soft sigh of someone getting too old to spend much time on their feet. No one else came through the door, leaving Ka-sedial alone on the other side of the table, flanked by a dozen empty chairs. He didn’t seem to mind.

  Vlora glanced sidelong at Lindet, whose expression remained as placid as the bone-eye’s across from her. She sat, and so did the rest of the room.

  The room grew deathly still and silent. Someone in the hall outside sneezed. It felt as if the whole room was holding their breath, until Lindet lifted a single finger and one of her aides sprang to her side. “Where is his translator?” she asked. “We offered him one, didn’t we?”

  “I don’t need a translator,” the bone-eye said in clear, barely accented Adran.

  Lindet dismissed her aide by lowering her finger and turned her entire attention to the bone-eye. Vlora leaned into the corner of her seat, fingers on her chin, marveling at the power dynamic here. Lindet was the most feared person in this part of the world, and yet this single bone-eye seemed to be trying to upstage her in every way.

  “Well,” Lindet replied, “that saves us the trouble. Ka-sedial, welcome to Fatrasta.”