Blood of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  He raised both hands and sagged against the wall. The figure at his waist pulled away and stood up, and in a moment of shock, Michel caught sight of her face in the light of the hall. Devin-Mezi. He let out a disbelieving scoff. “What the pit?”

  “Wake your friend up,” Devin-Mezi ordered. “We’re going for a walk. Get the door,” she told her companion. “And the light.” She took control of the knife at Michel’s throat, then tugged his knuckledusters off his splayed fingers. The man closed the door behind him and reached over their heads to turn up the lantern. Two things struck Michel the moment there was enough light to see by:

  The first was that her companion was none other than Kelinar—the very same turncoat who’d offered to sell Mama Palo’s whereabouts to Meln-Dun’s searchers. Michel barely had time to register this when he noted that Ichtracia was not only awake but sitting up.

  And she was wearing her gloves.

  Kelinar’s left arm snapped backward, the bone splitting through the flesh and splattering blood across the wall. He tried to reach for his arm but froze in place, his mouth opened in a soundless scream. The knife flew out of Devin-Mezi’s hand and clattered against the wall. She, too, froze in place, though both of her hands still appeared to be able to move. She clawed at her throat, unable to make a sound.

  The two assailants remained suspended that way for several moments before Michel was able to get the thundering of his heart under control. He pushed Devin-Mezi away from himself and took control of both of their knives. There was a thumping on the wall.

  “You there, quiet down! Some of us have to sleep!”

  “Sorry,” Michel called back. “Right away!”

  A few choice curses came back through the wall, and then silence. “Let them breathe,” Michel said quietly to Ichtracia. She still sat in bed, her fingers twitching gently, her face screwed up into the kind of mild annoyance one might feel upon losing a small amount of money at the horse races. She gave him a curt nod, and Devin-Mezi and Kelinar both took in a sudden gasp of air. Kelinar collapsed to the ground, curling up around his ruined arm, while Devin-Mezi sank against the wall.

  “Scream,” Ichtracia said, “and I will pop your heads like boils. Understand?”

  Devin-Mezi nodded urgently. Kelinar trembled and dry-heaved, clutching at his shattered arm.

  Michel tried not to look at the blood pooling beneath Kelinar. His own hands trembled from the rush of the fight and he had to take several deep breaths to steady himself. He could break down later. Now he had to ask questions. He shifted his gaze to Devin-Mezi. “Who the pit are you, and why did you just try to knife us?”

  The would-be assassin stared at Ichtracia, wide-eyed, her fingers trembling. Michel had to remind himself what it was like for a civilian to come across a Privileged—terrifying at best.

  “Didn’t go how you expected it, did it?”

  Devin-Mezi shook her head. “We weren’t going to knife you,” she whispered. “Just ask some questions.”

  “And what were you going to do after asking questions?” Michel shot back. He knew how this worked. Go for a walk, she’d said. That was Blackhat shorthand for Make them walk to their own grave.

  Devin-Mezi shook her head again.

  “Why were you trying to knife us?” Michel asked again, this time firming up his tone. He let the silence hang for two beats before adding, “If you don’t start answering questions, I’m going to have my friend do the same thing to each of your fingers as she did to his arm.”

  “Too competent,” Devin-Mezi muttered. “Too quick.”

  “You want to explain that?”

  She spoke under her breath, eyeballing Ichtracia a few moments before her jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed. “I’ll die first.”

  Michel worked through his own emotions for a few moments before he waved Ichtracia off with a subtle gesture. She didn’t look too eager to start torturing people, and despite having sat through plenty of Blackhat “questionings,” he had no stomach for it himself. It would be, he decided, a last resort. Ichtracia swung out of bed and he watched her dress absently, his thoughts churning through cause and effect.

  There was a chance that Devin-Mezi was a Blackhat. She might have recognized him and decided to kill him. Any Blackhats left in the city would certainly have reason to do so. That phrase, “Go for a walk,” was definitely Blackhat shorthand, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. It was commonly known around Landfall and might have easily been picked up by anyone who spent any time on the wrong side of the law.

  Maybe she was simply who she said she was. Perhaps one of Meln-Dun’s people had recognized Michel as a Blackhat and they’d decided to bump him off. But again, this was the Depths. Meln-Dun, of all people, wouldn’t need to act in secret.

  So if she wasn’t a Blackhat and she wasn’t working for Meln-Dun, who was she?

  Michel glanced at Kelinar—a low-level lieutenant of Mama Palo’s who’d agreed to sell out his comrades. Or was he? A few things clicked into place, and Michel snorted a laugh. “You’re setting up Meln-Dun, aren’t you?” Michel asked. Devin-Mezi looked at him sharply. It was all he needed to see to confirm his suspicion. “You’re a mole. A plant. And this poor bastard is your accomplice.”

  “I don’t follow,” Ichtracia said. She was dressed now, and turned back toward the other two with a sneer fixed on her lip.

  “My guess,” Michel said to her, keeping his eyes on Devin-Mezi, “is that they both work for Mama Palo. She’s infiltrated Meln-Dun’s group and has been guiding them toward a trap. Her friend here is the bait. What’s the plan, Devin-Mezi? To get Dahre and his crew into one spot and kill them all? Look, you’re going to have to say something eventually.” He glanced significantly at Ichtracia.

  Devin-Mezi followed his eyes. “More or less,” she finally said.

  “Pit.” Michel rubbed his eyes and touched his neck, where he found blood still dripping from a scratch there. It was beginning to sting. But nothing like poor Kelinar’s arm. “Where is Mama Palo?”

  “Do what you want,” Devin-Mezi snapped back. “I’m not going to tell you.”

  “Haven’t you wondered why I’ve got a secret Privileged with me?” Michel demanded. “Has it occurred to you that maybe I’m not what I claim to be, either?”

  “We should kill them,” Ichtracia cut in. “They know what I am.”

  Michel couldn’t tell if she was being serious or helping him feed Devin-Mezi’s fear. Either way… “Look, I’m trying to find Mama Palo for my own purposes. I’m only working for Meln-Dun to piggyback onto his search. Understand?”

  Devin-Mezi stared hard at him. “What are you, then? A Dynize agent?”

  “Hardly.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe anything you want.” Michel shrugged. “But I don’t have a lot of time. This trap of yours, they plan on springing it tomorrow night?”

  She didn’t answer, but he could see confirmation in her eyes. She glanced toward her knife still dangling from his hand. “You’ll have to kill us both,” she insisted. “I’m not giving you any answers.”

  Michel took a deep breath and glanced at Ichtracia. They were in a world of hurt now. She’d used her sorcery, which would quite likely alert Sedial—if not to their presence, then at least to the presence of a Privileged. Devin-Mezi also knew of their presence, even if she didn’t know who they were. He knew he should cut his losses and leave her and her companion rotting in a ditch. But if he didn’t have the stomach for torture, he definitely didn’t have the stomach for cold-blooded murder.

  “Let them go,” he told Ichtracia.

  “What?” Both Ichtracia and Devin-Mezi said the word at the same time, with equal amounts of surprise.

  “I’m not going to torture you, and I’m not going to kill you,” Michel said. “You don’t believe me, but we’re on the same side. So instead of drawing this out any longer, I’m going to let you go. Take your friend there to get his arm seen to, then go inform Mama Palo
that I’m trying to find her.”

  “She doesn’t know you,” Devin-Mezi replied, suspicion dripping from the words.

  “She should,” Michel replied. He didn’t know who the new Mama Palo was. He could only hope it was someone high enough up the organization to know his name, or the names of one of his aliases. His own, he decided, was too risky to give out. Instead he gave one of the latter. “Tell her that Puffer is trying to come in. He wants to talk, and he wants to talk soon.”

  “Puffer?” Devin-Mezi asked. “Like the fish?”

  “Exactly like the fish. It’s an old code name of mine. If Mama Palo has been around long enough, she’ll know it.” Michel jerked his head toward Kelinar. “Go on, before I change my mind. I’ll be here for three hours. Come back and find me once you get an answer. Come alone.” He ignored Ichtracia’s doubtful expression and watched while Devin-Mezi collected her companion off the floor. Kelinar was still sobbing quietly when she led him out the door. Michel stepped into the hallway and watched until they were gone, then darted back into the room.

  “What the pit was that?” Ichtracia asked, removing her gloves.

  “That was me trying to make contact,” Michel answered. “I appreciate your intervention, but we need to move.” He immediately began to throw their things into his shoulder bag. Ichtracia followed suit, collecting her meager possessions into her pockets and handing him her one extra set of clothes.

  “Where are we going? I thought you told her we’d be here.”

  “This building has two exits. There’s a decent spot up three levels where we can see both of them. We’re going to go spend the rest of the night there.”

  “And if she comes back with more assassins?”

  “Then we disappear,” Michel replied. “And all our plans will be ruined.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Vlora patrolled the hastily assembled Adran camp. Per her orders, they were set up in the hills just off the Cape, so close to the Dynize that she could see the light from their campfires flickering against the low cloud cover to her west. Recklessly close. If the terrain had been flat and visibility good, the Dynize would have been able to open fire with their field guns and abuse Vlora’s camp all through the night—but their choice of rough terrain had limited their own options, which Vlora used against them.

  The reason for camping so close was clear—it meant that Vlora could force a battle at first light, keeping the sunrise at her back to blind her enemies. Her men would barely have to roll out of bed to start the battle, meaning they’d be as fresh as possible and ready for a day of bloody line fighting and bayonet charges. The lack of space left the Dynize with little room to practice subterfuge or maneuver.

  At least, Vlora hoped those were the fears going through her enemy’s minds. The reality, if they had somehow managed to grasp it, was far more ridiculous.

  Vlora managed to keep herself upright due to a combination of coffee, catnaps in the saddle, and no small amount of bloodthirsty energy. By all rights she should be on her back in her tent, looking for ten hours of sleep before she dared a major battle. But she didn’t have that kind of luxury, so she turned all of her anger, grief, and hatred into single-minded eagerness. It was time to meet the Dynize in battle—for real this time—and to show them what it meant to fight an Adran army.

  Vlora’s camp was laid out in a half-moon shape. To the west were the newcomers—the Dynize reinforcements of some thirty thousand infantry. To her northwest was General Etepali’s field army. Vlora had made a great show of digging in—fortifications on all sides of her camp—but had set the bulk of her engineers on that northwest side. It was the side that she was most worried about.

  Her inspection of the Adran camp was swift, beginning just after nightfall and ending at the general-staff tent. She strolled inside, doing everything in her power to look well rested and eager, despite all the pains wracking her body. The tent was packed with officers from colonel to brigadier general, as well as her three powder mages, Nila and Bo, and Brown Bear Burt.

  Conversation ceased when she entered. She returned the offered salutes and let her gaze wander around the space for a few moments. Expressions ranged from eager to steely, and it was in the eyes of the latter she could see that some of her senior officers had begun to get an inkling of how furious she really was.

  General Sabastenien was closest at hand. “How is everyone holding up?” she asked him.

  “Troops? Or officers?”

  “Both,” she answered in a voice loud enough to include everyone in the tent in the conversation.

  “Troops are good. The Third, Fifth, Sixth, and Eighth have all spent the last few hours resting per your orders. There’s some trepidation over a night attack. No one likes the risk of accidentally bayoneting their friend because they can’t see a damned thing.”

  “Of course. And the officers?”

  A brief moment of hesitation. “About the same.”

  Vlora met the answer with a small smile and took in the room again with her gaze. “I understand that the order of battle tonight is… unorthodox. There will be confusion. There will be friendly fire. If you have questions or reservations, now is the time to voice them.”

  A cacophony erupted from the officers. Vlora quieted them with a raised hand and began addressing the questions one at a time—working through preparations, the plan of attack, and all the way through a dozen different contingencies. The questions seemed to be gently geared toward finding out whether Vlora had gone completely insane or not. By the end of it most of the officers seemed satisfied, though not necessarily pleased with the idea of sending four brigades of infantry on a night attack.

  Once the questions were over, she dismissed the officers to see to their brigades, leaving her with the Privileged and powder mages. She addressed the mages. “Have the three of you found your vantage points?”

  They nodded. Davd avoided her gaze. He hadn’t said a word to her since she shouted him away yesterday. A part of her knew that she should apologize—he was just the bearer of bad news. But her stubborn streak remained firm, her voice clipped and impersonal.

  “You’re sure about leaving you without a mage?” Norrine asked doubtfully.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Vlora responded. “I’m staying on the edge of our camp with a bodyguard. I’ll be fine.”

  “But you can’t see in the dark without your sorcery,” Norrine pointed out. “You’ll be blind.”

  “No more blind than they are,” Vlora countered. “Besides, once things have started, I won’t be issuing commands. This is one battle I need to just point in the right direction and then cut loose.”

  “That’s awfully cavalier,” Bo said, looking at his fingernails.

  “Can you think of any alternatives?” she asked. She’d briefed them all earlier on Burt’s message and the mysterious artifact the Dynize had recovered from Yellow Creek. They’d all agreed it was imperative to find it and steal it. “If we sit on our thumbs, we risk letting the Dynize get away with that thing.”

  “Why can’t we attack in the morning?” Bo drawled.

  “Because they’re expecting just that,” Vlora responded. “Did you not hear the entire question-and-answer session I just had with my officers? Or were you dozing off?”

  “He was dozing off,” Nila interjected.

  Vlora turned her attention on Nila but held her temper in check. She had the type of relationship with Bo that would allow her to be cross with him but stay friends in the morning. Nila, on the other hand, would take it more personally. “I don’t want the two of you participating in the attack.”

  Bo arched an eyebrow.

  “It’ll be too chaotic,” Vlora explained. “It’s already going to be bad enough without slinging sorcery around. No, when the signal goes off, I want you to help Colonel Silvia with the lights.”

  “You’re going to use us as a couple of giant lanterns?” Nila asked flatly.

  “No. I’m also going to put you in the northwest corner of th
e camp. You’re going to be there when General Etepali counterattacks.”

  “When?”

  “When,” Vlora confirmed. “I’m not just expecting her to slam into us from the flank, I’m counting on it. You’re going to make sure she gets a face full of shit when she does it.”

  “And the other Privileged?” Bo asked.

  Vlora jerked her thumb at her powder mages. “They’ll be dead before they can bring their real strength to bear on us.”

  The group reluctantly agreed to Vlora’s orders, and she sent them scattering out after her officers. Vlora found herself alone for the first time in days and sank down into one of the chairs in the general-staff tent, rubbing her eyes. Every fiber of her being throbbed with pain and exhaustion. Each time she moved a limb, she could practically hear it screaming in protest. She’d pushed herself plenty harder before, but never without the benefit of her sorcery.

  She steeled her resolve. She had no choice. She could not allow anything as petty as human weakness to slow her down.

  She closed her eyes briefly, thinking of Olem. She wondered where he’d gone. What he was thinking. Had it been so easy for him to cut loose from her? Had she hurt him so badly? She wished he was here so that she could apologize to him. She wondered if he’d accept the apology—or if there was nothing she could say or do to make things better.

  She remained in black contemplations until a messenger arrived to tell her it was time.

  The night was tinged with just a sliver of moonlight peeking through the clouds. It wasn’t ideal—a full moon on a cloudless night would have made it easier for her soldiers to keep from shooting one another in the attack—but she intended to use that confusion against the enemy. She allowed a messenger to guide her to the edge of camp while her eyes adjusted to the dark, where she found thousands of her soldiers kneeling quietly. The only sounds were the whispered orders of officers and the creak of leather gear and rattle of the occasional rifle.