Wrath of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  Vlora opened one eye and glanced sidelong at Taniel. “And you’re still just a bit of a smug asshole, you know that?” There was more bite in her words than she’d meant, but she let them stand.

  Instead of getting angry, Taniel laughed. “I won’t argue that. You and Dad were really the only ones that ever seemed to notice.”

  “Everyone noticed. But they were scared of either you or Tamas. That famous family temper. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen it come out since you resurfaced.”

  Taniel’s smile disappeared, his forehead creased. “I don’t want to be my father.”

  Vlora bit back a remark. Taniel had fled from his father’s legacy, faking his own death. Vlora had embraced that legacy and become the renowned general—but at the end of the day she didn’t have Tamas’s political skills to deal with the Adran government. Coming here with a mercenary army had been her own sort of running away, so calling Taniel out on his seemed more than a little hypocritical.

  Vlora let the silence stretch, taking in the city. It was much dryer up here in the mountains than it had been in either Landfall or the Tristan Basin, and she was glad for it. The heat was more bearable, too, but she imagined the bugs would be just as bad come nightfall.

  “I’m going to go for a … walk,” she said, eyeing a nearby bar. “Get the bearings of the city.”

  “Good thinking. I’ll do the same.”

  They split up, heading in different directions down the street. Vlora waited until she was out of sight and ducked into one of the dozens of bars that seemed so prolific along the main thoroughfare. It was barely a building—not much bigger than a good hotel room with three tables and a single barkeep pouring drinks for the miners heading toward or coming back from the hills.

  She ordered a beer and took a seat facing the open door, watching the faces pass her in the street, and put her feet up on the chair opposite to discourage company. The beer was terrible, but it was cold, and she downed it quickly and went for another. It took a lot for a powder mage to get drunk, but she wasn’t looking for that—just the slightest buzz to take the edge off the soreness from a week in the saddle, and a week with Taniel.

  She wondered why it bothered her so much. They’d parted on good terms, and she hadn’t seen him for ten long years. In the years since, she’d thought long and hard about whether she had any residual feelings for him, and decided it wasn’t that, either.

  Perhaps it was because they’d been practically siblings before becoming lovers. Taniel and Tamas had saved her from the streets and given her purpose, and Taniel had been her closest friend and confidant. She wondered if there was a part of her that wanted that back. Taniel’s murky ambitions, and her own growth over the last decade, made that an impossibility.

  Vlora’s contemplations—and her fourth beer—were cut off by a figure passing through the street outside the bar. She frowned, tilting her head to the side and glancing at the glass in front of her. She almost ignored the figure, but curiosity got her to her feet and out onto the stoop. She caught another glimpse, and hurried along the walkway to try and get another one, pausing for a moment at the next intersection as the figure finally turned to give her a view.

  It was a tall, distinct-looking woman with the shoulders of a boxer and long brown hair in a ponytail. She carried a blunderbuss casually on one shoulder and the right side of her face was reddened by an old blast wound that left her eye milky white. Vlora was certain she knew the woman, yet hesitated for long enough that her quarry slipped down a side alley.

  Vlora hurried across the street and turned down the alley, only to come face-to-face with the flared muzzle of a blunderbuss. “Follow me one more step and I will blow your … Vlora?”

  “I’ll be damned,” Vlora said, raising her hands, open palms outward. “It is you. How are you, Little Flerring?”

  “You’ll be damned? By Adom, Vlora, what the pit are you doing in Yellow Creek?” Flerring lowered the blunderbuss and thrust a hand toward Vlora, which she shook happily.

  “It’s a long story, but I could ask you the same thing.” The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Taniel, who stepped into the alleyway behind Flerring, his sword drawn. Vlora turned to him sharply. “Were you following me?”

  “I was just trying to catch up.”

  “I thought we’d split up for the night?”

  Taniel stared at Flerring, clearly unwilling to say more in front of her. He eyed her blunderbuss for a moment before putting up his sword. He did not answer her question.

  Flerring looked back and forth between Vlora and Taniel, finding herself boxed in, and scowled at Taniel. “Who the pit is this? Aren’t you still with Olem?”

  “It’s not like that,” Vlora explained, gesturing Taniel to join her. He slipped past Flerring and came to stand beside Vlora. He leaned in, speaking in a whisper that only she could hear.

  “So you know each other?”

  “We do,” Vlora said. “She’s a longtime contractor for the Adran Army.” She smiled reassuringly at Flerring and said in a low voice, “Should we tell her who you are?”

  “You trust her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go ahead.” Taniel shrugged, dropping the whisper. “Your men already know. Word will get out eventually that I’m still alive.”

  “All right.” Vlora spoke up. “Little Flerring, this is Taniel Two-shot.”

  Flerring scoffed. “No shitting?”

  “No shitting,” Taniel said, offering his hand.

  Vlora continued. “Taniel, this is Little Flerring. She makes powder. She sold the Adran Army enough gunpowder to get us through the Kez Civil War, and then some.”

  Flerring took Taniel’s hand. “Two damn powder mages out here on the frontier. Adran powder mages, and one of you is supposed to be dead. What are you doing here?”

  Taniel whispered softly, “You’re sure you trust her?”

  “I do,” Vlora responded. “She’s an Adran hero after the Kez Civil War, and we worked together closely.”

  “You better trust her,” Taniel said, still in a whisper, “because it’s here.”

  “The stone?”

  “Yes. I sensed it moments after we split up. I’ve been trying to find you to tell you. It’s definitely here, but I don’t know where. We might need help finding it.”

  Vlora had no idea why Taniel could sense the thing and she could not. It probably had something to do with Ka-poel’s sorcery. But confirming it was actually here was the first step in their mission. “Flerring,” she said, “do you have somewhere we could talk?”

  CHAPTER 19

  Michel spent nearly a week following Marhoush before finally losing patience.

  He and Tenik sat on the rooftop of an abandoned store about a block from the cobbler’s, where their target had been holed up this entire time. It was a blisteringly hot afternoon, the roofing tar sticking to the bottom of their shoes, but Michel wanted the vantage point to be able to see down into the street both in front of and behind Marhoush’s hiding spot. He sat near the edge of the flat roof, hidden behind a cluster of chimney stacks, and watched the street while he and Tenik sweltered.

  A week, he knew, was a long time. There’d been two other bombings. A perpetrator had been caught after the second, but she’d managed to commit suicide before being questioned. Michel had recognized the body as that of a Bronze Rose who worked for je Tura.

  Beyond that one lead, none of Yaret’s Household had managed to get any closer to tracking down the source of the bombings.

  “Marhoush hasn’t come outside for over a day,” Tenik observed. The Dynize had his feet up, his shirt off and wrapped around his head to shade it from the sun.

  “He might have a secret entrance,” Michel responded. He’d spent the first two days scouring the area and consulting old maps to find out if that were the case. The basement of the cobbler’s shop might connect with the catacombs within the plateau, but he didn’t think they did. More likely, Marhoush had slipped ou
t sometime the night before last when Michel was catching a little sleep and just hadn’t come back. He’d left one of Yaret’s Household layabouts to keep watch but didn’t know if they were at all reliable.

  Michel would soon find out. He consulted his pocket watch, then glanced down the street, where he saw a squad of Dynize soldiers milling about in the intersection. They took their helmets off, exchanged skins of tea, and spoke freely among themselves. A similar scene was playing out in two other nearby intersections, and Michel couldn’t help but smile.

  In the short time he’d been among the Dynize, he’d found out a great many things. One was that Yaret’s Household had access to hundreds, perhaps thousands of loyal soldiers that could be called upon in a pinch. Another thing he’d learned was that Dynize soldiers took orders very well. Give them a battle plan and they’d follow it. Explain how to properly stage a raid, and they’d follow your instructions to the letter.

  “What happens if we don’t catch the Silver Rose?” Tenik asked. He took out his coin for the first time in two days and flipped it, caught it, then flipped it again.

  “Depends on the size of the safe house and the number of Blackhats we pull out of it. If we catch even two of them, we’ll be able to start asking questions. They might put us back on Marhoush’s track or even help us find the Gold Rose.” He didn’t bother adding if we’re lucky. He was incredibly frustrated that Marhoush had slipped past him, and if this raid came up with nothing useful, he’d be out a week’s worth of work.

  Which wouldn’t inspire confidence in his new boss.

  Tenik lifted his hands, ticking off fingers as he spoke. “Iron Roses are the lowest rung—then Bronze, Brass, Silver, and Gold?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you were a Gold Rose?”

  “Only briefly. I earned my Gold Rose just before the invasion by tracking down a Palo freedom fighter. I was a Silver Rose for a couple years.”

  “This Marhoush … how well do you know him?”

  “Only by sight. We’ve met twice, I think.”

  “You have a good memory?”

  “When you’re a spy, you have to develop a talent for names and faces. It’ll save your life.”

  “And how well do you know the Gold Rose he works for?”

  “Je Tura?” Michel thought for a moment, picturing je Tura in his mind. “I saw him at the Millinery once. He’s a mean, stocky little bastard. Shorter than you and twice as wide. Carries a broadsword around with him.”

  Tenik snorted. “Does he use it?”

  “Often, from what I’ve heard. Chops off the hands of people who anger him, the feet of people who betray him, and the heads of his enemies.”

  “And your people call us savages?” Tenik tilted his head to get a view of the street before getting comfortable once more. “There are always rumors about powerful people. Are any of them true?”

  “I’m not sure. I didn’t believe half the rumors about Fidelis Jes until I began to work directly under him.”

  “I’ve heard of this Fidelis Jes,” Tenik said. “He was one of the people our informants told us to be wary of as we tried to take the city. Was he a good master?”

  Michel considered the threats and the morning duels. “I believe he was good at his job.”

  “That is not the same as being a good master.”

  “He was an asshole and I’m not sad that Ben Styke cut his head off.”

  Tenik grinned broadly. “That is the answer I was looking for. You will find Yaret a much better master than that. When he dies, I’ll grieve as much as any of his family.”

  Tenik had referenced Yaret as a good person or a considerate master on several occasions throughout the last week. Michel hadn’t spent any time with him since that first day, so he didn’t have a point of reference, but he doubted that Yaret could live up to the hype. Michel had worked under decent people and even competent Roses, but in his experience, the higher up the chain of command, the less room there was for basic humanity.

  Michel kept facing the street but watched Tenik out of the corner of his eye. He’d come to rather like the man over the course of the week. Tenik was a wealth of knowledge about his people but seemed just as interested in learning about Fatrasta and the Nine as Michel was about the Dynize. He rarely turned Michel away from a question and had a quiet sense of humor that belied his sharp eyes and ability to grasp a concept or situation easily. He was also, Michel had found, oddly naive in certain ways.

  The situation between the Palo and the Kressians was one of those.

  As if he could hear Michel’s thoughts, Tenik suddenly said, “Are the Palo always treated like that?”

  Michel glanced over to see Tenik watching the street. He followed Tenik’s gaze down to a Kressian man openly beating a Palo laborer about the shoulders with his cane, only retreating when one of the Dynize soldiers seemed to take interest in the altercation.

  “Yes,” Michel said, returning to his examination of the cobbler’s shop. The Dynize soldiers relaxing at the various intersections began to put their helmets back on, saying good-byes as if they had finished a quiet afternoon break.

  “You’re Palo, aren’t you?”

  “Part,” Michel responded. He leaned forward, watching as the soldiers fixed their bayonets and shouldered their weapons, then began to walk swiftly toward the cobbler’s shop. Their counterparts on three different intersections began to do the same, forming a pincer movement that would cut off all four possible avenues of escape from the safe house.

  Tenik didn’t seem to notice that the raid was going forward. “If you’re half Palo, and the Kressians treat the Palo so poorly, why do you fight for them?”

  Michel had no interest in explaining the ulterior motives he had for joining the Blackhats and climbing their ranks. For one, it would raise too many questions. For another—well, the whole situation was a sore point, to say the least. He wondered briefly where Taniel’s people had hidden his mother and hoped she was well out of harm’s way. “Because,” Michel answered glibly, “I can still take advantage of being half Kressian to live a better life.” He directed Tenik’s attention to the raid. “Here we go.”

  Dynize soldiers flooded the cobbler’s shop, the alley next to it, and the buildings on either side. They cut off every possible exit and kicked in the doors, rushing inside with bayonets ready. The raid was a complete surprise—Michel could tell from the lack of gunfire and the surprised look of the Roses as they were dragged into the street and held at musket-point. Michel examined each as they were brought out, praying that Marhoush would be one of the faces.

  He wasn’t. Thirteen in total were pulled from the cobbler’s shop. Michel guessed that only seven of those were actual Roses—the rest sympathizers. A small crowd of onlookers began to assemble. The soldiers ignored them, dragging off their captives, and the traffic soon returned to normal. Michel waited for about five minutes before he signaled to Tenik.

  “Let’s go see what kind of a catch we got.”

  The captives had been taken to an abandoned warehouse about half a mile away. Michel and Tenik joined the captain of the soldiers just outside.

  “We found Roses on four of them,” the captain said, dropping the medallions into Tenik’s outstretched hand. There were three Irons and a Bronze. “Two others seem to be Blackhats as well. The rest claim ignorance.”

  “The cobbler?” Michel asked.

  “He says he had no idea Blackhats were hiding in his attic.” The captain did not sound convinced.

  “Did they tell you where Marhoush is?” Michel asked.

  She shook her head. “The lot claim to have never heard the name.”

  “Let me see them.”

  Michel entered the warehouse through a side door and climbed up to an iron catwalk that crossed above the middle of the large, dusty space. He proceeded to a spot just above the group of prisoners. They sat on the dirt floor, hands tied, heads down, with a group of soldiers keeping watch. Michel leaned on the catwalk
railing and examined them for several minutes.

  “That one,” he finally said in a quiet voice, pointing to a woman whose lip bled from being smacked around by a soldier. “She’s a Bronze Rose. She used to be a Silver Rose. A year ago she was caught taking protection money from a family who had personal ties to Lindet. She was demoted.”

  Tenik frowned at the information. “What does that mean?”

  “It means she’s a greedy little piggy,” Michel responded. “Bring her.”

  Tenik nodded to the captain. He and Michel headed into one of the second-floor offices on the opposite side of the warehouse, where Michel paced while he waited. Tenik leaned comfortably in the corner, flipping his coin, obviously pleased to be out of the heat. “You’re going to try to turn her?”

  “I am.”

  “For over a month, we’ve been offering rewards for anyone who will turn. Why would she do so now?”

  “People don’t give up when they think they have options. Our dear Bronze Rose is down to just two, and I’m going to make sure she knows it.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the door opening and a soldier coming in with the Bronze Rose, whom he pushed to her knees in the middle of the floor. Her eyes went first to Tenik, then to Michel. She seemed confused to find a Palo and a mutt, rather than a Dynize torture squad.

  Michel smiled at her gently, trying to recall her name. “Soreana, was it?” he asked.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Because I used to be a Blackhat.”

  The information took a moment to process before her eyes widened. “You’re him, aren’t you? Michel. How the pit did you find us already?”

  “Because Lindet left a bunch of thugs behind, rather than spies.”

  “You’re a damned traitor.”

  She wasn’t wrong. Michel kept his smile and tutted. “Let’s not be so judgmental this early on, shall we?”

  Soreana looked around the room, her eyes lingering on the Dynize soldiers standing by the door. Michel could see the same thoughts ticking through her head that had gone through his own in a few tight situations—How well tied are my bonds? How closely are they watching? Can I fight or talk my way out of this? He didn’t give her a chance to consider those options.