Blood of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  Orz was still there. His clothes had been cut away and his chest wrapped in bandages. Styke had to lower his cheek to Orz’s mouth to feel the slightest of shallow breaths. He wondered if Ka-poel’s sorcery would allow him to survive such a mauling and if perhaps he’d been too hasty in rejecting it.

  Too late now. He needed to move—to get out of here before sunrise and get back to the inn. The city guard would be searching for unfamiliar foreigners. Styke needed to get his men out of the city as quickly as possible. Their best chance would be to ride south as hard as they could, posing Ka-poel as their local master and not stopping to answer questions. They should be within twenty or thirty miles of the rendezvous. They could make that in two days if they were quick about it.

  He wondered if the landing had ever happened, if he was riding his twenty Lancers toward an empty jungle with Dynize soldiers on their tail. It was too late to hesitate at this point. The only way out was forward. Even if it got him, and everyone who depended on him, killed. He swore several times under his breath and gathered his clothes from the back of Maetle’s office chair. They were still damp, but they’d have to do. He began to dress.

  “Ben?”

  He jerked around to find Maetle sitting up in bed. He quickly began to pull his boots on. Maetle was up in a flash, lighting a lamp beside her bed and hurrying out to him. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  Styke was too tired to answer immediately, fumbling for the words in Dynize. “I have to leave.”

  “You can’t.”

  “I have to.” He finished tying his boots and took a step toward the door. Maetle darted around him and threw herself against the door, arms spread.

  “You can’t leave,” she said firmly.

  Styke sucked in an angry breath. He didn’t have time for a girl a third his size to tell him what to do. He reached for her shoulder, intent on moving her as gently as he could manage.

  “You touch me and I’ll scream.”

  “What is wrong with you?” he growled. “I have to go. People are depending on me.”

  “People are depending on you not to leave!”

  Styke scowled at her. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means that Master Etzi has put this entire Household at risk for you. If you’re spotted outside the compound, you will be taken, and they’ll question you, and they’ll find out that he is hiding a fugitive.”

  “Then I won’t be spotted,” Styke said, reaching for her again. Her determined glare made him drop his hand.

  “You’re hard to miss.”

  “And if you scream, everyone in the compound will know I’m here.”

  “Better to keep it within the compound than for the city guard to find you.”

  “Shit,” he growled. He was feeling desperate, now. The damned Dynize could be coming for his men anytime. He needed to be there for them. He tapped one finger against his ring and stared at the door. “I have to go,” he said quietly. “You don’t want to stand in my way.”

  Maetle thrust one finger up between them. “Wait. Hold on.” Styke rolled his eyes. He’d humor her for exactly ten more seconds, and then he had to move. She rushed to the corner of her infirmary, rooting around in a cabinet before returning to the door. “Here,” she said, lifting something to his face. “Smell this.”

  Styke couldn’t help but take a deep whiff. He jerked back involuntarily from the slightly sweet, chemical smell. It filled his nostrils, his mouth, and his lungs in the course of a few moments. He took a step back, then another, his feet feeling heavy. “God damn it,” he slurred. “I can’t believe I fell for that.” His vision grew dim and he began to fall.

  When Styke awoke, he was lying on his back on the floor with daylight streaming in through the high windows of the infirmary. His vision swam for the first few minutes of consciousness, and it took him some time after that before remembering how he had ended up in this position. The thought made his aching head pound even harder, and he had to force his temper down to acquire any clarity of thought.

  “The effects shouldn’t last long. A couple hours at most.”

  Styke’s body still felt as heavy as a rock, so he tilted his head toward the source of the voice. It was Maetle, sitting on the end of her bed, gazing at him with trepidation.

  “Why does my mouth taste like shit?” Styke asked.

  “I had to dose you directly,” Maetle said. “A couple of drops between your lips to make sure you’d stay down. I gave you enough to knock out a horse, so don’t expect to be able to move for at least thirty minutes.”

  Out of curiosity—and no small amount of spite—Styke flexed his fingers. He felt one arm twitch, then the other, and soon his body seemed to be obeying his commands—albeit with the speed of molasses. He let out a groan and rolled over and up into a sitting position.

  “By the emperor,” Maetle swore.

  It was a small thing, but it made Styke grin. He didn’t need Ka-poel and her sorcery. He was still Ben Styke. The grin faltered at the brass band that began playing in the back of his head. A spike of worry shot through him as he considered Celine, Ka-poel, and his Lancers. They might still be waiting for him—they may have even been captured. “Pit, this hurts. What time is it?”

  “About two in the afternoon.”

  Styke tried to root around for some anger toward this diminutive woman. It was there, certainly, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. He remembered their argument clearly. She’d done what she felt was necessary to protect her home. It just might have gotten all of Styke’s men killed at the same time. He looked across at her, trying to put himself in her place and realizing that she knew absolutely nothing about him—why he was here, who he was—she just knew that he was a foreign giant who’d brought her a dying man.

  He wondered what Etzi knew or suspected, and how much he should be ready to share. As far as he knew, he was trapped in this room until at least sundown. “Where’s your master?” he asked.

  “He went to the games.”

  “The games?” Styke echoed.

  “It is a forum. An area where the powerful gather to gossip and craft deals.”

  “Ah. I can barely…” He had to substitute Palo words and hope they were close. “I can barely think in Adran right now. Do you speak any Kressian languages?”

  Maetle’s face lit up. “I do,” she said in Kez. “It’s a family language going back several generations. Do you understand me?”

  “Your accent is very strange,” Styke answered in kind, “but yes, I can understand you. So you’re Kez?”

  “Half Kez, half Dynize,” she responded, lifting her legs to fold them beneath her on her bed. “My family were traders who remained in Dynize when the borders closed.”

  “So you’re slaves?”

  Her eyebrows went up. “My family? No, no. Free foreigners, they call us. Established. Looked down upon, but tolerated.” She frowned. “If you’re not a slave, how did you come to be in Dynize?”

  “Do you know what’s going on in Fatrasta?” Styke asked.

  “We’re fighting for our land. For the godstone.”

  “You’re fighting for my land,” he countered. “I met Orz there. We came here.” He shrugged, unwilling to tell her more than that.

  Maetle didn’t seem all that bothered by talk of the war. He could see it in her face and manner—the war was a distant thing, not a concern of the here and now. He’d seen the same distant, casual disdain in the eyes of anyone he’d ever discussed a foreign war with. There were no stakes for them, and therefore no passion. At worst, it was barely an event. At best, a passing interest. He’d probably been in the same situation himself before.

  But this war was his and he had to fight back indignity at her dismissal.

  “In Fatrasta,” she asked, “are you a warrior?”

  Styke nodded, one hand twitching for his knife and realizing for the first time it wasn’t there. “Where is my knife?” he asked quietly.

  “I had to take it,” she res
ponded. “You seem prone to violence.”

  Styke crawled to his knees, then gained his feet. “Knife. Now.”

  Maetle set her jaw. A few moments passed before she gestured to her office. “Behind the desk.”

  Styke found his knife and returned it to his side, then lowered himself onto Maetle’s office stool. It creaked angrily beneath his weight but did not give way. He was still trying to gain full control of his thoughts and body. The attempt was slow-going, but it seemed to help to talk. “No one has discovered us?”

  “I put a note outside my door that I am ill,” Maetle said.

  “And no one demands your presence for their own hurts and sicknesses? This compound must have hundreds of people.” He could hear them, when he strained—the sound of children playing, people passing within a few yards of this small house. He decided to lower his voice, just to be sure they weren’t overheard.

  “Dynize don’t ask questions,” Maetle responded.

  “Ah. Orz mentioned that. Very obedient people.”

  “You don’t approve?”

  “Obedience has its uses.”

  “To society?”

  “To powerful people.”

  Maetle scowled at him. “You don’t believe in obedience to the land? To laws?”

  “I’m a soldier,” Styke said. “Laws only apply to me in times of peace.”

  “You don’t sound happy about that.”

  “I wish society were more consistent. Do you know Fatrastan history?”

  “A little. What they taught us in preparation for the invasion.”

  “I fought in the Fatrastan Revolution. I was a monster for my people, and when the war was over, they did this to me.” He pointed to the still-visible scar along his cheekbone that had now been restitched by sorcery twice. He then held up his hand. “And this. I refused to die, so they made me a prisoner.”

  Maetle looked horrified. “And yet you still fight for them?”

  “Life is complicated,” Styke said. It was an irony that he considered from time to time. But he was, he’d decided, fighting for Fatrasta—for the people—and not for the assholes who put him in chains. He shook his head. “When will Etzi return? I need to get out of this place. To find… others.”

  “Other foreign soldiers?”

  Styke didn’t respond. Perhaps he’d already said too much.

  “He should be back soon. He never stays at the games longer than he needs to.” She looked away when she spoke of him, and Styke thought he caught a hint of something.

  “You like your master?”

  “Of course I do! He’s a good man.”

  “You’re sleeping with him.”

  Maetle’s cheeks reddened. “How dare you.”

  Styke held up his hands at her anger. “Forget I said anything. Tell me about him.”

  Maetle’s mouth formed a hard line and she held her glare for several seconds before finally looking away with an irritated sigh. “He’s the head of a Household. He’s a good master. Thoughtful, fair. He does everything for the sake of the Household. Taking in his brother is the first time I’ve ever seen him make a selfish decision.”

  “Selfish?” Styke echoed.

  “Against the Household, I mean. Very dangerous.”

  And she was protective of her master. He rubbed his head. She was also the reason he was held up in here for the rest of daylight instead of riding hard through the suburbs at the head of his men. “I think I got that.” He looked up sharply and saw that a curtain had been drawn between the infirmary and Maetle’s bedroom and office. “Orz, is he…”

  “Yes,” Maetle answered just a little too quickly. “Dragonmen are very hardy. Hardier than I expected, certainly. One of the bolts punctured his left lung, but it doesn’t appear to be filling with blood.” She hesitated, and he could see the discomfort in her face. “I know that bone-eye sorcery is different from Privileged sorcery. Beyond that…”

  “It might just be enough,” Styke said. He felt like he should be ambivalent over Orz’s survival—bringing him here was nothing more than a debt paid. But he still remembered that night at his mother’s grave, and he found himself hoping that the dragonman would pull through. It took him a few moments to realize that his own survival could depend on it—if Orz died, the whole Household might just as well turn on him.

  Styke’s head began to clear, and with little else to do he spent the next few hours questioning Maetle about her country, the language, traditions, and everything else he could think of. She seemed more than willing to talk—even enthusiastic—and it occurred to him that she’d probably never met a Kressian who wasn’t a slave or somehow naturalized to Dynize. His curiosity seemed to surprise her, and though she never said as much, he got the impression that the Dynize considered the rest of the world to be barbarians who needed to be saved from themselves.

  Which, he was almost certain, was how the Kressian countries would view the Dynize if the situation were reversed.

  Talking helped stave off the anxiety he had over his men back at the inn—but didn’t contain it entirely. He glanced at the window often, counting down the hours until dusk. He was just beginning to lose his patience in the late afternoon when there was a quiet knock on the door. Maetle gestured for him to hide, then answered the door. It was Etzi.

  The Household head looked pensive—Styke had the distinct impression that he looked that way a lot—and he glanced down at Styke’s knife before speaking.

  “You didn’t tell me that my mother was dead.”

  Styke’s mouth went dry. He glanced at Maetle, whose face had gone white. “I didn’t think it was the time.”

  “Nor that the dragonman who visited here last night killed her.” Etzi held up one hand to forestall a response. “It is good that you did not. I’m not a violent man, but I would have refused his entry into the Household if I had known it, which would have been suspicious. It might have undone us.” He took a couple of deep breaths. “She died doing what she felt was right.”

  Styke bit his tongue. Hard.

  “My brother?” Etzi asked Maetle, the question hanging in the air.

  “He’s alive,” Maetle answered. “For now.” She hurried behind the curtain and returned a few moments later with a glass of something dark. It smelled like bourbon. Etzi took one sip and handed it back with a gesture of thanks.

  “I need to get out of here,” Styke said gently. “I have other responsibilities.”

  Etzi looked him up and down. “I’m sure you do. The men at the inn, they are yours?”

  Styke stiffened.

  “They were taken by the city guard early this morning.”

  “How bad was it?” Styke braced himself.

  “Bad? They didn’t put up a fight. Half of them were too drunk to stand. The other half took their arrest in stride.”

  “And the little girl that was with them?”

  Etzi shook his head. “There was no girl.”

  “Or a Dynize woman?”

  Another head shake.

  Styke chewed on the inside of his cheek, unsure whether this was good news or bad news. The fact that they hadn’t put up a fight must have been Jackal’s doing. He’d have realized that it was better to keep them all alive and together than get them all killed. And where had Ka-poel and Celine slipped off to? Unlike the rest of them, Ka-poel could walk the city at will, and Celine had enough Palo in her mongrel blood that she probably wouldn’t get a second glance from most people.

  “What are they doing with them?” he asked.

  “Questioning them.” Etzi’s eyes narrowed. “And getting nothing in return. There’s a Palo with them, and he’s claiming the whole group are slaves that have taken a vow of silence. It’s obvious that they’re not slaves. What they really are has everyone’s curiosity piqued.”

  Styke returned Etzi’s gaze coolly and wondered if the Dynize would summon a bone-eye. All he could do was hope that Ka-poel had taken some precautions.

  “You’re going to make me ask
?” Etzi said.

  Styke remained silent.

  “Who are they? Who are you? What are twenty foreign soldiers doing in Dynize with a disgraced dragonman?”

  Styke crossed his arms. “Would you believe me if I said we were invading?”

  “No,” Etzi answered immediately. “No, I would not.”

  “Good.” Styke rubbed his eyes. His men imprisoned. Ka-poel and Celine in the wind. And himself unable to leave this place for fear of getting caught. Somewhere to their south, the Mad Lancers were biding their time in the deep jungle, waiting for Styke to catch up with them. What the pit could he do now?

  There was another knock on the door, and Styke hid himself around the corner while Etzi answered it. He heard a confused voice speaking in Dynize. It sounded like the watchman from last night. “Master, there is someone here demanding to speak with a giant.”

  Styke reached for his knife.

  “Who?” Etzi asked. He sounded as confused at the watchman.

  “A mute woman and her foreign slave girl. They are dressed for travel and have three warhorses with them.”

  “Hold on.” Etzi closed the door and turned to Styke, one eyebrow arched.

  Styke let his hand fall away from his knife, a wave of relief sweeping through him. That damned blood sorcerer had brought Celine and, from the sound of it, had even thought to escape with all their horses. “I suggest making her comfortable,” Styke told Etzi.

  “Who is she?”

  “The bone-eye who broke Ka-Sedial’s hold on your brother.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Just before dawn, Michel slipped into the catacombs through an old basement entrance in an abandoned townhouse in Upper Landfall. He descended steep hallways and staircases, guiding himself with an oil lantern and maps cast to memory. He wasn’t completely certain he was heading the right way until the descent flattened out and he came across an alcove carved into the side of the tunnel.

  In that alcove were stacked twelve crates of Adran rifles. Michel swept back the canvas covering the crates and pried one open. Everything there. Just as ordered. He couldn’t help but smile to himself. Good old Halifin. Neat, punctual, and reliable.