Wrath of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  Ibana scoffed. “You may be an old cripple, but I’m in the prime of my life. If we turned farmers and dockhands into cavalry during the Fatrastan War, we can do it now.” She paused for a moment. “I’m surprised you said yes to this. That eager to be cut loose?”

  Styke considered the question for several moments, looking down at Celine, who was content to watch the activity without comment. “The longer we stick around, the more likely it’ll be that Flint and I come to blows. I don’t want that to happen.”

  “Sure.”

  “But it’s not just that. Flint has sent us west. What’s to the west?”

  Ibana shrugged.

  Styke held up three fingers. “Bad Tenny Wiles, Valayine, and Dvory.”

  A wicked little smile crossed Ibana’s face.

  Styke continued. “I figure there’s a pretty good chance we come across those bastards while we look for this thing for Lady Flint—and I really like the idea of mixing business and revenge.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Michel spent the next few days after losing his safe house trying to ascertain just how much damage had been done. He left notes for Hendres at preordained drop points, tried to chase down a handful of trusted contacts, and stewed in his own frustration at a small hovel on the edge of Greenfire Depths—the first address on Taniel’s list of resources.

  He was just about to give up hope that Hendres had escaped the Dynize when he found a note at one of the drop points. Still alive. Safe house compromised. Meet at 14 Laural Way, 2 p.m. Will wait for two days. Hendres’s neat handwriting was unmistakable.

  The meeting spot was in a posh area of Landfall called Middle Heights. Before the invasion, it was the favored locale of the Fatrastan elite. The streets were wide and cobbled, lined with immense townhouses, with every street corner lit by gaslight during the night. There were museums, theaters, and fine restaurants—even Michel’s favorite whorehouse was in Middle Heights, though he could rarely afford it.

  Since the invasion, everything had changed. Middle Heights was practically a ghost town. Homes and businesses were boarded up in a vain attempt to prevent looting. Only about one in ten residences was still occupied, and the big public buildings were either guarded by Dynize soldiers or had been taken over by squatters.

  Rumor had it that the Dynize planned on moving their own low-level bureaucracy into the mansions of Middle Heights, but so far there was only an average Dynize presence in the area.

  Michel headed to the indicated meeting spot an hour early and did a slow walk around the block. Fourteen Laural Way was a big theater—only a few years old, it was the pride of some Brudanian investors, with an immense stone facade decorated by gargoyles and columns. The newspapers spoke much about the mazelike tunnels beneath the main stage with state-of-the-art lever-and-pulley systems that would allow actors to descend from the catwalks or pop up from the floor anywhere onstage.

  There was graffiti on the outside walls admonishing the Dynize invaders in Palo, and the tents of homeless squatters covered the immense floor of the columned front portico.

  Michel walked through the tents, glancing in at the faces. They were mostly Palo—refugees from the fires in Greenfire Depths—and no one questioned him as he passed. He tried the front door to find it barricaded from inside, then headed around to the alleyways, his eyes sharp for Dynize soldiers, though it soon became clear that he needn’t worry. The Dynize had clearly decided to ignore this place, at least for now.

  Michel did a second circuit of the block, eyeing the squatters and checking the windows and roofs of the nearby townhouses before heading back around to the front steps and settling down to wait. Thirty minutes passed, then an hour, and it was almost two thirty before he finally spotted Hendres hurrying down the street toward him.

  He stood up, hands clasped behind his back, and frowned. She walked hurriedly, her eyes on the doorways of the townhouses as she passed them, constantly searching. She seemed … off. “Ignore it,” he whispered to himself. “She’s had a rough couple of days, too.”

  “She’s carrying a pistol beneath her jacket,” he retorted. “You better damn well keep your eyes peeled.” He still glanced over his shoulder, checking his escape route around the back of the theater.

  She spotted him and crossed the street, picking her way slowly through the tents, her face worried. He tried to give her a reassuring smile and raised his hand in greeting. “Glad to see you in one piece,” he said.

  Hendres flashed a quick smile, and Michel felt that same gut response he’d gotten outside of the safe house a few days ago. Something was wrong. He could see it in her gait and in her face. He did a quick glance around, looking for any sign of Dynize soldiers, but came up with nothing.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Still a little shaken up. I … went out after you did the other day. It was pure luck that I wasn’t there when the Dynize showed up.”

  Michel ran a hand through his hair. “Shit. I was hoping you’d be able to tell me why they were there.”

  “Why would I be able to tell you?” The words were a little too quick, accompanied by a look full of suspicion.

  Two and two clicked together in Michel’s head, and he held up his hands. “You don’t think I tipped them off, do you?”

  Hendres hesitated. She did. She definitely did, and that had Michel worried. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “I didn’t tip anyone off,” Michel assured her. “I came back that evening and spotted them staking out the safe house. I’m glad you did the same. Shit, shit.” He began to pace, his mind racing. Not only did he have to figure out why the Dynize were at his safe house, but he also had to convince Hendres he hadn’t betrayed her. “Look, one of us might have been followed. We might have been sold out, or we might have just gotten unlucky—the Dynize are cracking down more than ever since those grenades the other day. We need to find another safe house and regroup. We have to make sure our routes out of the city haven’t been compromised, too.”

  “I …” Hendres seemed to consider his words, the corners of her eyes tightening. Her mouth formed into a firm line, and she said, “I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean?” The last word had barely left Michel’s mouth when he heard footsteps behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see a tall woman with black hair cut short on the sides in the style of the Starlish military. Her name was Aethel, and he recognized her as an Iron Rose who had worked beneath him on occasion the last few years. She ambled up behind him, her jaw set. Michel forced down a rising panic and shoved his hands into his pockets. “What’s going on, Hendres?”

  “You betrayed us,” Hendres said, her tone flat. “You betrayed me.”

  “I didn’t tip off those Dynize,” Michel hissed.

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not! This is a damned big misunderstanding. We need to go somewhere and talk this out.”

  Hendres gave a resigned sigh, her lip curling. “I saw you with him, Michel.”

  “Who?”

  “The other day. The day the Dynize found our safe house? I saw you meeting with the Red Hand.”

  Michel felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. He swallowed hard, searching for words.

  Hendres continued. “I came back to find the safe house being watched. I’m not a spy, Michel, but I’m not an idiot, either. I did a little asking around. You were with the Red Hand when Fidelis Jes died. You met with him again the other day. You’re a damned traitor. You’re going to come with us now and tell us everything you know, or this is going to get very painful for you. Don’t make it worse.”

  Michel’s mouth was dry. He knew Blackhats better than most, and he knew the line she’d just fed him was bullshit—if he went with them, it wouldn’t matter what he said. Things would get painful either way. He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, feeling every bit of control slip away from him. This … this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

  The fingers of hi
s right hand slipped into his knuckle-dusters. “Look,” he said, pulling his hands slowly out of his pockets. He heard another footstep behind him, judged the distance, and turned around, cocking Aethel in the side of the jaw.

  It took the Iron Rose completely by surprise. Aethel crumpled, and Michel stumbled past her and broke into a run, heading for the alley around the back of the theater.

  “You piece of shit,” he heard Hendres shout. The words were followed by the blast of a pistol, and he ducked as a bullet ricocheted off the stone facade of the theater just above his head. Hendres swore again, louder, and he heard her footsteps pound after him.

  He rounded the side of the theater and headed down the alley, leaping trash and dodging the tents of squatters. Faces watched with concern as he raced by, no doubt drawn out by the sound of the pistol shot. Michel was a couple dozen yards from the next street when a figure loomed in the mouth of the alley.

  It was Geddi, a short, stocky Iron Rose with black hair and a beard. Michel skidded to a stop, glancing over his shoulder to see Hendres bearing down on him, fury in her eyes. She held the pistol by the barrel, raised above her head to strike.

  Michel’s only option was the chimney sweep’s ladder going up the side of the theater. He slipped the knuckle-dusters back into his pants pocket and leapt for the lowest rung, pulling himself up. He scrambled up the ladder, only stopping when he reached a window ledge about forty feet up. He hooked his toe between the ladder rung and the wall and took off his jacket, wrapping it around his fist in one swift motion and punching it through the window. He swept off the jagged edges and leapt inside.

  He entered through an office that had obviously been ransacked. Papers lay scattered on every surface and a large safe stood open in one corner. Michel dashed across the room and out into the hall, racing through the darkness and down a flight of stairs. He twisted his ankle as he reached the landing, swearing to himself quietly and pausing just long enough to listen for sound of pursuit.

  Nothing.

  He continued on down to the next floor and then along another hallway, this one pitch-black. He navigated by feel and the memory of a previous visit, when he’d come here to do a favor for one of the theater investors. Within moments he burst out a door, around a narrow turn, and out into the lobby.

  The lobby had seen better days. A few squatters had taken up residence below the enormous stained-glass skylight, and they looked up at him as he entered. The front door was blocked by a chair from one of the offices. Michel dismissed it as an exit, worried about running into Aethel or Hendres. He looked down to the other side of the lobby, where he knew that a hidden door allowed performers to pass beneath the theater seats and pop up to entertain guests before a show.

  He was just a few steps down the main staircase when there was a sudden crash. The front door burst open, the chair flying, and a very angry-looking Aethel strode through the opening. Michel grabbed the banister and spun himself around, heading back up. He reached the main theater and threw the curtain aside, running recklessly down the aisle with little regard for his twisted ankle or the possibility of breaking something during his descent. Aside from the little light coming in through the way he’d just entered, the theater was pitch-black.

  He reached the bottom and threw himself to the floor. Back up at the lobby entrance, he saw a tall silhouette, and Aethel called out, “We’re going to find you, traitor. And I’m going to kill you myself.”

  “So much for talking my way out of this,” Michel muttered to himself. He crawled quickly along the floor, around the orchestra pit, and up onto the stage.

  “He’s down here,” he heard Aethel call. A moment later there was a second silhouette briefly outlined by the light from the lobby. Hendres.

  “Geddi,” Hendres shouted, “see if you can find the gas line for the main theater. Turn on the lights, and he’s ours.”

  Aethel responded with something that Michel could not understand, but he used it to pinpoint her position about halfway up the theater seating. Quietly, he slipped his shoes off and soft-footed his way across the stage and into the wings. He tried to see something—anything—in the inky darkness behind the curtains. His memory of a brief tour of the backstage was fuzzy, and he followed it haphazardly into the darkness, barking his shins on crates and running into stage props.

  Michel finally found an empty hall and followed it down a flight of stairs and through two curtains before emerging into the storage area beneath the stage. A dim light coming from street-level windows at the far end of the long room allowed him to pick out the dressing areas and the enormous set pieces. Everything was set up as if for a performance—likely forgotten when news came of the invasion.

  Michel paused long enough to put his shoes back on, then began to head to the far side of the room, where he thought he remembered an exit that came out on the other side of the street behind the theater.

  The figure that emerged from the next stairwell took him entirely by surprise. He only got a quick glance—enough to see the stocky figure of Geddi coming out of the shadows—before he was grabbed by the shoulders and thrown through an enormous canvas painting of a wooded countryside.

  Michel stumbled and fell on the other side, crashing into an array of pulleys with enough force to rattle his teeth. He pulled himself up, only in time to catch Geddi’s fist in his kidneys.

  He’d seen Geddi work before. Geddi was considered, even among Iron Roses, to be the go-to man for roughing up an enemy of the Chancellor’s office. The blow doubled Michel over and sent him reeling into a wooden set piece, gasping for breath and holding up one hand in the vain hope of stalling Geddi’s approach.

  “He’s down here!” Geddi shouted. He reached out and snagged Michel by the arm.

  To Michel’s surprise, he managed to slip right out of Geddi’s grip, allowing him a precious few seconds to backpedal. He snatched his knuckle-dusters from his pocket and forced himself into a boxer’s stance, only then noticing that his left arm was coated with blood. Michel didn’t have time to consider it. Geddi came on quickly, fists swinging.

  Michel stepped to one side, taking a glancing blow to the shoulder, and slammed his fist into Geddi’s temple as hard as he could. Geddi took two wobbly steps to one side, touching his cheek, fingers coming away bloody. Michel didn’t give him the time to focus. He grabbed one of Geddi’s thick forearms and smashed his knuckle-dusters into Geddi’s elbow until Geddi began to scream. He pulled back, punched him one more time in the side of the head, and turned and ran.

  Michel backtracked, past the stairway he’d descended from and all the way to the wall of the under-stage, where he found a narrow corridor leading into the darkness. Hoping he knew what he was doing, he placed his palms on both walls of the corridor to keep his balance and hurried down it.

  He emerged a short time later through a trapdoor into the lobby. The door boomed against the floor as Michel came through it, and he didn’t bother to pause as he scrambled out the front door and into the street.

  In the light of day, he found his left arm deeply gouged by the glass of the window he’d broken. There was blood on his face from hitting the pulleys, and a deep pain in his side from Geddi’s punches. The self-examination took him just a few seconds. He spotted a curious Palo looking out from his tent on the front steps of the theater. “You,” Michel said, searching his pockets. He came up with a booklet of meal vouchers for the Dynize market out by the docks. He shoved it into the Palo’s hands. “Sell me your jacket. Quickly! And if someone comes out that door, tell them I went that way.”

  Michel practically pulled the jacket off the poor Palo and hurried across the street and down an alley. He zigzagged through afternoon traffic, hoping his bloody face and arm didn’t attract too much attention. He was half a dozen blocks from the theater before he finally allowed himself to rest in a dirty alleyway outside a baker’s shop. He stared at the blood dripping from his fingers and the knuckle-dusters still on his other hand, and felt true despair for th
e first time since the Dynize had invaded.

  Hendres knew who he really was. The Blackhats left in the city would come for him.

  Michel was now truly alone.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Fatrastans and Dynize have engaged.”

  Vlora knelt by a creek and splashed water on her face, cleaning off the grime of the road. She relished the shock of the cold water coming out of the foothills, scrubbing her cheeks, enjoying the moment of respite. She climbed to her feet and dried off with a handkerchief, turning to find the scout standing a few feet behind her. It was late in the afternoon and she knew she would have to give the order to make camp soon, but she wanted her infantry to eke out another mile or two before nightfall.

  “What happened?” she asked the scout.

  “The Dynize turned to follow us when we left,” the scout reported. “They sent a brigade in our tracks, but the Fatrastans engaged around noon and the brigade was forced to pull back.”

  “Full engagement?” Vlora asked hopefully. “Did you see the battle?”

  “No, ma’am. Just skirmishing. Last I saw before coming to report was the Dynize consolidating.”

  “Very good.” Vlora wiped her hands on her handkerchief and returned it to her pocket, dismissing the scout. She turned her face toward the sun and closed her eyes, listening to the tramp of marching soldiers making their way along the winding road of the foothills just a few hundred yards down the creek. A pair of swallows chased each other overhead.

  “That was a clever bit of maneuvering.”

  Vlora jumped, her pistol halfway out of her belt before she spotted Taniel sitting just above her on the hillside. He wore his buckskins, matching satchels hanging from his shoulders, and leaned on his Hrusch rifle with a casual air as if he’d been there for an hour. She felt a spike of annoyance, and couldn’t help but think that she wouldn’t be in this mess if not for him. “Don’t sneak up on me.”

  “Sorry.”