“I knew that. But two million?” Styke scoffed. “I would have damned well just retired if he’d come to me first.”
“No you wouldn’t,” Agoston spat. “You like killing too much.”
“Maybe.” Styke acted careless, but on the inside he continued to boil. Agoston had been a comrade-in-arms, even a friend. To sell Styke out, even for so much money … He felt his facade crack and turned away for a moment so that Agoston couldn’t see the emotions playing out across his face. “Why didn’t you just put a knife between my ribs yourself?”
“Because I’m not stupid. These assholes would have hunted me down no matter where I went. There’s not enough money to knife Ben Styke.”
Styke almost gave Agoston credit for that underlying assumption that he could have finished the job. Almost. “And that money? Did you spend it well?”
“Bought a townhouse in Upper Landfall. Changed my name. Kept my head down. Spent the last decade whoring and gambling in places so expensive I was never likely to see a lancer again.” Agoston gave him a shallow smile. “So, yeah, I spent it well.”
Styke looked at his hand and flexed his fingers. Ten years in the labor camp, when only a couple miles away one of the people who put him there lived a life of luxury and excess. He’d known about Fidelis Jes, of course, and his hatred was one of the things that kept him alive. But Jes had always been an enemy. Agoston … not so much. Styke remained looking at the wall, facing away from Agoston. “Cut his bonds,” he said.
Ibana started. “What?”
“You heard me.”
Hesitantly, Ibana nodded to the brothers.
“You sure, sir?” Markus asked.
Styke nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He flexed his fingers, feeling that twinge, churning that rage. “Zac, do you have a pistol on you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is it loaded?”
“Yes.”
“Give it to Agoston.”
“Sir?”
“Now!” Styke turned around and glared at Zac, who licked his lips and glanced warily at Ibana. Styke held a hand toward her. “Don’t say a damned word. Zac, give him your pistol.”
Zac drew his pistol and handed it to Agoston as he climbed to his feet. Agoston brushed himself off and took the pistol, staring at Styke intently. “What’s this?” His tone said that he sensed a trap, but he didn’t know where it was.
Styke took a step toward him and spread his hands. “You wanted me dead. You were paid to help put me in a grave. It didn’t work, so here’s your shot to earn that two million. Put a bullet in my head.”
Without hesitation, Agoston lifted the pistol and took a half step forward, pressing the barrel against Styke’s forehead. He pulled the trigger, and Styke heard the click-and-snap of the flintlock.
Nothing happened.
“You think you’re hot shit, Agoston,” Styke said, finally letting his fury unfurl. “But you never paid attention. Zac still carries the same shitty, leaky powder horn he has for fifteen years. Powder gets wet and his pistol misfires two times out of three.”
As Styke finished the sentence, a look of panic spread across Agoston’s face. He backpedaled and tried to flip the pistol around to use it as a weapon, but Styke was on him before he could take a second step. Styke drew his boz knife, dragged the blade along Agoston’s sternum, and rammed it into the soft spot beneath his jaw until the crosspiece touched skin and the tip jutted from the top of his skull. Agoston’s eyes bugged, a rasping came from his mouth, and his body convulsed. Styke allowed his momentum to carry them against the far wall of the hovel and slammed Agoston’s body against the rotted timbers. The whole house shook.
His hands soaked with warm blood, Styke stared into Agoston’s dead eyes. “Who else betrayed me?” he asked the brothers quietly.
“Bad Tenny Wiles, Valyaine, and Dvory,” Markus answered.
“Where are they?”
“Tenny Wiles owns a plantation about a hundred miles west of here; Valyaine is a boxer in Belltower; and Dvory is a general in the Fatrastan Army.”
Styke let Agoston’s body fall. “Toss him in the rubbish heap out back. He doesn’t deserve a real burial.” He took a deep breath and clapped Markus, then Zac on the shoulder, leaving a bloody handprint on each. “Thank you. I needed that. Whatever happens these next few months, I’m going to find the rest of those assholes and kill them.” He looked at Ibana. “Let’s go find out what Flint is up to.”
CHAPTER 9
Vlora drank cold coffee at the table in the middle of her tent. She stared absently at the maps laid out in front of her and noticed that her hand was trembling. Olem sat on the corner of her cot, fiddling with the metal tin he kept his matches in. His face mirrored her expression: absent, lost—shell-shocked. He licked his lips, opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it again. She hadn’t seen him this out of sorts since the Adran-Kez War. Taniel and Ka-poel were standing just outside their tent, waiting for Vlora’s decision on the news they’d brought from Landfall.
“Taniel wants us to go find these other two godstones,” Vlora said. “Is it our responsibility?”
Olem looked up, blinking away his own thoughts.
Vlora continued before he could reply. “We’re Adrans. We have no horse in this race. The Fatrastans, Dynize, and Palo are going to spend the next few months—maybe even years—killing each other over these things. Why should we get involved?” She slapped her palm on the table, almost spilling her coffee, feeling a sudden swell of anger. “We’re in this damned situation because I couldn’t just keep my head down and do a job. I tried to arrest Lindet over these stupid things, and I managed to lose our allies on this continent in the process.”
Olem clicked his match tin against the wooden frame of her cot, his expression conflicted. “We’ve seen what gods can do to a country,” he said.
“This isn’t our country. We’re mercenaries, and after a year in the swamps and two major battles the men are almost spent. I’m not going to appeal to their patriotism, because this isn’t an Adran matter.”
“I agree with that.”
“Then answer me this: Is this our responsibility?”
“No,” Olem said. He tilted his head, as if pained, and said, “And … yes.”
“Explain.”
“Less responsibility,” Olem said, “and more necessity. Back in Landfall you said that the world doesn’t need any more gods, and I think you’re still right about that. These consequences that you and I understand—I think it makes us responsible, even if our men are not. This world is not as large as it once was. You’re still a member of the Adran Cabal, and we’re both still Adran generals. We can either deal with a new god once this continent has finished warring over the stones, or we can try to prevent one from being born in the first place.”
“So you’d argue that it is an Adran matter?”
“I’d argue that it will be. Unfortunately, we aren’t accompanied by the Adran Army. We’re accompanied by mercenaries.”
“So what do we do? Send the men home and you and I offer to join whatever it is Taniel is stirring up?”
“It’s an option,” Olem said. “But these things will probably be much easier with an army at our back, even if it’s a little mauled right now.”
Vlora finished off her coffee, spitting the dregs out on the ground and returning her gaze to the map on her table. Taniel had left two pins in the map. One of them was located on the edge of the Ironhook Mountains, not all that far from here. The other was located on the west coast of Fatrasta. Vlora tapped her finger on the tip of each pin, and then on New Adopest—the closest large port not in the hands of the Dynize, and the best chance she had of getting an army back to Adro.
“Taniel!” she shouted.
A moment passed before the tent flap was thrown back. Taniel and Ka-poel entered. Ka-poel immediately rounded the table to examine the map in silence, while Taniel looked from Vlora to Olem with an irritating air of expectation.
Vlora said, “You told me once that you still have Tamas’s foreign wealth at your command.”
“I do,” Taniel said, pulling back somewhat. This was not the question he had expected.
“Good. Because Olem and I are in. This is a matter for the Adran Army and the Adran Cabal, and we’re the only representatives on the continent. However, this isn’t the responsibility of my men.” She paused for a beat. “But I’m not going to do this without an army. You’re going to hire the Riflejacks. I expect every soldier out there who survives, and all the widows and widowers of the ones who don’t, to leave this conflict as wealthy people. Understand?”
Taniel cocked an eyebrow. Across the table, Ka-poel grinned and nodded. Done.
“I offered to hire you before,” Taniel said.
“That was before I grasped the stakes. Besides, I’m serious when I say ‘wealthy.’ Our prices went up significantly since we last spoke.”
Ka-poel shrugged and twirled her finger, as if saying the conversation was already finished and she was ready to move on. “All right,” Taniel said. “We’ll hammer out details on the road.”
“One other thing,” Vlora added. “You will give us objectives, but I will decide how they’re carried out. You’re not going to dictate what happens to the godstones once we find them. Understand?”
“I see.” Taniel’s eyes narrowed, and Vlora could tell he was rethinking the idea.
She leaned on the table, looking him in the eye. “I intend to destroy those things. That is my goal—no, that is the goal of the Adran Republic Cabal. No new gods.”
“You’re making a lot of demands for a mercenary.”
“You didn’t hear what I just said. I have a mercenary army, but I represent Adro in this matter. And you have a look on your face that seems awfully uncertain for someone hoping for my help. I’m ready to go home right now, Taniel. Take it or leave it.”
Taniel looked to Ka-poel, and the two shared a long, silent gaze. “Taken,” Taniel said with finality.
Vlora swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She wished she had a few days to sleep on the decision. She wished she had a bigger, healthier army. And she wished she didn’t feel like events were about to spiral out of her control.
“What are you going to do about these armies we’re pinned between?” Taniel asked.
“Olem,” Vlora said, “when is dawn?”
“Two hours or so.”
“And what will the weather be like?”
“We’ve had a chilly night. Same as last night, and yesterday morning we had a thick fog until ten. I don’t see things being different today.”
Vlora took the pins out of her maps and began to roll them up carefully. “Get everyone moving. I want us on track to be gone within two hours.”
“And you think the Fatrastans and Dynize are just going to let you leave?” Taniel asked flatly. “I understand both are looking for your head.”
“Fog will give us a head start,” Vlora said. “The rest … well, I have an idea. Olem, I want to see Styke, Gustar, and my senior officer corps. Vallencian, too. I think he crossed the river, so you’ll have to do that quietly. Now, get out of here so I can write some letters.”
Dawn was almost upon them, and Vlora stood by her horse and watched as the rest of her camp vanished before her eyes. Soldiers finished packing their kit, officers kept things orderly, and quartermasters examined the wagons of supplies they’d managed to bring over from the Fatrastan camp followers in the darkness.
The fog Olem had predicted was thinner than she would have liked. It would mask their movements, but for only so long—within hours both the Dynize and Fatrastans would know that she’d given them the slip. The question Vlora needed answered most of all was whether they would turn their focus on one another, or whether either general was dogmatic enough to come for her.
A familiar figure appeared through the gloom, torch held high over his head, the scrap of bearskin still clinging to his shoulders. Vallencian Habbabberden, known more widely as the Ice Baron, was nothing short of a walking miracle. He’d saved the Battle of Landfall by riding his merchant ships out on the tide to crash into and sow chaos among the Dynize fleet. Somehow, he’d managed to swim back to shore against the currents and recover from half drowning, only to be on his feet again to help with the evacuation of the city. He’d spent every moment since then as a whirlwind through the refugee camp, redistributing supplies, breaking up fights, tending to the sick, and organizing former small-time politicians into a genuine leadership for the refugees.
Vallencian had grown gaunt since they’d first met in Landfall a couple of months ago. He’d lost weight, his hair had grayed at the edges and remained uncombed, and his face seemed fixed by a frustrated scowl.
“You’re leaving,” he said brusquely.
“We are.”
“Does General Holm know? I’ve been a guest of hers for the last day and she is very intent on presenting you to Lindet.”
Vlora produced a letter she had written less than an hour ago and offered it to Vallencian. “She will when you give her this letter.”
Vallencian stared down his nose at the paper and did not reach for it. After a long moment’s consideration, he said in a low voice, “Don’t leave me with them.”
“Excuse me?” Vlora was shocked to hear genuine dismay in his tone. “Are they mistreating you?”
“Quite the opposite. Holm has assigned me an entourage. I think she’s having me watched. I had to pretend I needed a shit just to sneak out of my tent when your summons came. They’re making me sleep in a real bed. And these damned refugees are trying to elect me as mayor of this moving city we have gathered.”
Despite her frayed nerves, Vlora had to stifle a smile. “I can’t think of anyone better suited.”
“I could name a dozen in a single breath. Probably a hundred if you give me the chance to think.” Vallencian paced, gesturing as he spoke. “These refugees don’t need a mayor, and Holm has no intention of allowing it. They’ll be split up and sent to whatever towns and cities can take them, as quickly as can be managed. I have no interest in being the general’s guest and I have no interest in being bullied into a position of leadership.”
“I thought you had taken well to helping …”
Vallencian stopped his pacing long enough to shake a thick finger beneath her nose. “Helping!” he exclaimed. “Not leading. I’m a reluctant businessman at best. I will not be a politician.”
“You’re very good with people,” Vlora ventured. “They could use your help, at least until this refugee camp has been dissolved.”
“Absolutely not. I will come with you, Lady Flint.”
Vlora resisted the urge to point out he hadn’t been invited. “You won’t stay with them? At least for a few weeks?”
“No.”
“Even if I request it personally?”
Vallencian came to a stop and turned toward her cautiously. “Why would you want me to stay with them? Are you trying to get rid of me?”
Vlora could think of nothing more pleasurable or frustrating than the idea of having Vallencian along on Taniel’s mission. “I swear I am not. I know that you have done much for me—you damned well ended the Battle of Landfall—but I need a personal favor.”
“I sacrificed my ships for Fatrasta,” Vallencian declared. “I would not humble myself to claim a favor for such an act. In fact, I intend on charging Lindet for those ships, and the revenue I’ve lost from their destruction.”
“Reluctant businessman indeed,” Vlora murmured. “Vallencian, I have about seven hundred men who are too wounded to march. I have discharged them from the company so they won’t be treated as enemy combatants, but I need someone to care for them—to advocate for them—and if need be, to protect them.”
Vallencian drew himself up, chest puffing out. “And you would trust me with such a task?”
“If it’s not too …”
“Too much? It would be an honor!”
Vlora saw
the movement too late. “Vallencian, don’t … hug me.” She found herself crushed against his broad chest, then thrust back at arm’s length like a father examining his daughter on her wedding day. His face was red, his lips pressed in a tight line.
“Please don’t cry,” Vlora said.
“I won’t.” Vallencian’s voice cracked, and he dabbed at the corners of his eyes with his bearskin. Vlora tried to reconcile the avenging angel piloting burning ships into the enemy fleet with the man standing before her on the edge of tears. “I won’t,” he said with more confidence. “But I will have you know that I accept this task, and I will take it very seriously. Your wounded soldiers will not be neglected or used as bargaining chips or in any way mistreated while I still live.”
Vlora wondered if there was a more genuine man in the entire world, and had no doubt that he would do as promised. “Some will die from their wounds,” she said quietly. “Some will be cripples for life. Hopefully more will recover fully. You can send them on to New Adopest to take a ship home where they can claim their pension. If they are hale, they can come find me.”
“You’re not going back to Adro?” Vallencian’s eyes narrowed curiously.
“It’s best I not tell you where we’re headed.”
“I understand.” Vallencian reached out and plucked the letter from Vlora’s fingers. “I will deliver this to Holm immediately.”
Vlora held up a hand. “If you would wait two hours, actually.”
“Exactly?” Vallencian produced a pocket watch. “It will be done. Good-bye, Lady Flint. May we meet again under more favorable circumstances.” He gave a flourishing bow and backed away, then turned and disappeared into the fog.
Vlora watched him go, then turned to find Ben Styke waiting for her. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
“What a strange person,” Styke said.
“He’s a good one,” Vlora said, somewhat more defensively than she’d intended.
Styke spread his hands. “I heard what he did with his ships at Landfall. ‘Strange’ isn’t an insult coming from me. You wanted to see me, Flint?”
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