Sins of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  She took her boots off the desk, eyes narrowed. “You are.”

  “Good. So what have you come up with in eighty hours?”

  “The facts are,” Blasdell said, drawing herself up and adopting a professional tone, “nine days ago fifteen messengers delivered fifteen orders to fifteen different printing companies. Each of them ordered ten thousand copies of Sins of Empire and swore the printer to secrecy by presenting an Iron Rose. The printers filled the order, and about eighty hours ago the first copy of the pamphlet hit the street. So far my investigation has cleared the actual printers of any wrongdoing. We’re using descriptions of the messengers to try to round up some suspects, but so far we’ve got nothing promising.”

  “How about the Iron Roses?”

  Blasdell tilted her head. “We were told not to approach the case from that angle.”

  Michel considered Blasdell’s reputation. “But you have, haven’t you?”

  “I would never disobey a direct order.”

  Michel threw up his hands. “I don’t really give a damn about orders. I need information, and anything you can tell me about those Iron Roses would make my life a hundred times easier.”

  “And what do I get out of it?”

  Michel rolled his eyes. That mistrust that Blasdell was known for would be twice as annoying if it wasn’t quite so warranted. People did things by the book in the Millinery or life could take a nasty turn. But what could he possibly give her in return? She was a hardworking bureaucrat who went to great lengths to avoid Landfall politics. What did she want?

  “I could probably arrange a bonus.”

  “Not interested.”

  “How about for your men? This skeleton crew you’ve got working around the clock. What if I authorize time and a half for night work?”

  “You can do that?” Blasdell seemed skeptical.

  Michel considered his unlimited expense account. It was a risk, of course. Giving her some leeway with her men might give her the edge, letting her solve this case before they presented a scapegoat to the public. It wasn’t the worst possible scenario—a solved case was a solved case, and it wouldn’t ruin his career. But it wouldn’t get him his Gold Rose, either. On the other hand, a bunch of grunts doing his work for him could be very useful. “Yes.”

  Blasdell considered this a moment. “All right, Agent Bravis. We have a deal. My men have discovered a few things. First of all, we know the Iron Roses weren’t forged. We checked with every jeweler and metalworker in the entire city. No one would touch that kind of work.”

  “They could have been forged outside of the city.”

  “That’s a possibility.”

  One that Michel couldn’t do anything about. He wasn’t going to travel all over Fatrasta on a wild goose chase, so he’d have to make the assumption that no one outside the city forged the Iron Roses, either. Michel tried to think like an investigator. He was a spy but, he supposed, a good spy should make a decent investigator. They always had their eyes open, following rumors, digging up traitors. “Stolen?” he asked.

  “We’re following up on that. No Iron Roses are missing within the Landfall city limits. We’ve sent messages to our sister precincts all over the country.”

  Nothing he could do about that but wait. “So it’s possible they were originals?”

  “Possible,” Blasdell conceded.

  “What do you think?” Michel asked.

  Blasdell drummed her fingers on the desk. “I think they’re most likely forgeries. They’d know we’d track them to their source, so they would have done the forgeries outside of our influence.”

  “The Nine?”

  “It’s what I would do, anyway. Puts a lot of distance between us and whoever did the forgeries, and we’ll likely never know who did it. That’s what I told the grand master two days ago, and in light of our investigation so far, I stand by it.”

  Something clicked in Michel’s head. Fidelis Jes already suspected that the source of the Roses would never be found. That’s why Michel needed to be disposable. If nothing came up from the investigation before they buried it, Michel might be forced on the goose chase he’d just decided to avoid. He might even have to sail to the Nine.

  He was disposable in that the Blackhats could easily go on without him if he had a case that would take him a great deal of time.

  The very thought of it made his stomach turn, and a panic seized his chest. He couldn’t spend the next several years chasing ghosts. His career would stall, his mother would be left alone in Landfall, and he would never earn his Gold Rose. He needed to solve this thing, and fast.

  “Have your men write up everything you have on the investigation so far and send it to my office. Keep them working. I’ll authorize a fat bonus.”

  “Is there something you want them looking for in particular?” Blasdell asked.

  Michel glanced at her sharply, but she didn’t look suspicious. She just seemed glad to have something real for her men to work on. “Double-check with the local forgers. Keep digging around, and find out if any Iron Roses have been reported missing or stolen.”

  “Have it all sent to your office?”

  “Yes, if you would. Thank you for your help, Captain.” Michel left the captain’s office, heading down the hall and toward the other side of the Millinery, where he had his own small, closetlike office. He rested there for a few moments, considering his meeting. He hadn’t intended on taking over Captain Blasdell’s investigation. In fact, he was fairly certain Fidelis Jes would be furious if he found out. Best to keep it quiet then, and hope that Blasdell didn’t have occasion to bring it up before Michel could find the Roses.

  Blasdell thought they were foreign forgeries. Michel had no way of testing that theory, so he thought it best to come at it from the opposite direction.

  “What if they’re originals?” he asked himself.

  “Stolen?”

  “Or misplaced?”

  A thought occurred to him—one that made his jaw clench. “What if they weren’t stolen? What if they were used by their rightful owners?”

  “Are you suggesting fifteen Iron Rose traitors?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Not likely.”

  He ran his hands through his hair, staring at the blank wall of his office. “I think,” he said, “I’m going to look at a few bank accounts.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Vlora went to meet Michel Bravis on the edge of Greenfire Depths the afternoon after her arrival in Landfall. The sun was scorching, and she fanned herself with her bicorn, a skin of warm beer hanging from her saddle horn as she rode at the head of the column snaking its way through the streets of the plateau. Olem rode at her side, with no comment but for the occasional complaint about the heat.

  Around four o’clock Vlora called a halt as they reached a building that looked suspiciously large and fortlike. It was a long wall of rotten timbers, two stories high and punctuated every so often by a guard tower. Almost every inch of the wall was painted with graffiti in a dozen different languages or stuck with playbills advertising the latest ribald comedy. She looked up and down the street, ignoring the people who stopped and stared at her column of troops.

  “This can’t possibly be it.”

  Olem consulted a map spread out across his saddle horn and then rode over to the nearest crossroads, peering up at the wooden placards. “This is it,” he said. “Loel’s Fort.”

  “That Bravis bastard promised me a barracks.”

  “Looks like a barracks to me,” Olem said.

  “It’s a fort. A frontier fort, by the looks of it, old enough that it was built when this was the frontier.”

  “Doesn’t look so bad,” Olem responded with a halfhearted grin.

  “This is supposed to be a modern city.”

  “Adopest still has a stone wall. The past sticks around.”

  Vlora cleared her throat. “Why can’t we have the big fort out on the bay? What’s it called, Fort Nied?”

  “I
think the garrison is stationed there.” Olem rode his horse about half a block, then returned. “It looks cozy,” he reported unconvincingly.

  “You light a cigarette in that place and you’ll kill us all.”

  Olem’s look soured.

  “This can’t possibly be it,” Vlora repeated.

  “It is.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Olem jerked his chin. “Because our contact is right there.”

  Vlora turned to find Michel Bravis in the shade of a nearby awning, at ease in the heat, his collar sweat-stained and his lapel undone, wearing the black, offset-button shirt and ridiculous bowler hat, the Blackhat’s trademark uniform. He gave Vlora a wave. Vlora resisted the urge to respond with a rude gesture.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” Michel said as he crossed the street to join them. He squinted up at the sun, as if it were the first time he’d noticed it today. “Bit warm out, isn’t it?”

  “Go to the pit,” Vlora answered. “You promised me a barracks.”

  “This is a barracks,” Michel said.

  “It’s a rotted ruin,” Vlora snapped. “If I’m going to be weeding out your problems, potentially facing rioters, I want someplace my men can fall back to. A child throwing stones could break down those walls.”

  Michel walked over to the wall and kicked at one of the timbers. A splinter the size of Vlora’s leg fell off. Michel stared at it for a moment, then turned to her with a salesman’s smile. “Bit of paint. Some plaster. It’ll be right as rain.”

  “I want something else,” Vlora said.

  “There is nothing else.”

  Olem cleared his throat. “It’ll do, Agent Bravis. But we’ll want supplies to get this fixed up, even if we have to replace every timber.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Vlora shot Olem a look. Why didn’t he ever let her give anyone a good chewing out anymore? “How is this place even still standing?”

  “We used it during the war,” Michel answered. He turned to walk along the wall and Vlora dismounted, handing Olem the reins and following Michel on foot. “I was just a kid at the time. I was one of the lucky ones that got out before the Kez arrived, so I didn’t see it firsthand. It’s said that Loel’s Fort was the last defense at the Battle of Landfall, where we really turned the tide and fought the Kez back to the sea. Biggest battle of the whole war, tens of thousands dying on both sides. If it wasn’t for the arrival of the Mad Lancers it would have ended here and I’d probably be speaking Kez.”

  Vlora exchanged a glance with Olem. It was the first time she’d heard of the Mad Lancers outside their meeting with Styke and Taniel’s letters. “Who are the Mad Lancers?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound too casual.

  “Were,” Michel corrected. “Bunch of mean bastards who fought for us against the Kez. Ask around any pub in this town about Mad Ben Styke and I’m sure you’ll hear a thousand stories. Especially around here. Lots of veterans in this part of town.”

  “Ben Styke?” Olem echoed.

  “Everyone in Fatrasta knew his name. Damned near a legend.” Michel shrugged. “We’re not supposed to talk about him. He was executed at the end of the war for disobeying orders. Sullied name and all that. But you know how legends are.”

  “They refuse to die,” Vlora said quietly.

  “Right you are, ma’am.” Michel reached the front gate of Loel’s Fort and pushed open one of the big doors to reveal an overgrown muster yard, filled with lean-tos and a handful of dilapidated buildings. Michel’s smile faltered for a moment, and Vlora swore under her breath. “Lots of paint,” Michel said helpfully.

  Vlora did a quick circuit of the premises. Nothing she saw changed her initial impression. The fort was a rotten dump. They must have thrown out hundreds of squatters to make room for her men. The least they could have done was clean the place up a little, too. “There’s not enough room for five thousand men in here.”

  “There are two smaller forts within a few blocks of here,” Michel said, turning around and indicating opposite directions. “Loel’s Annex North and Loel’s Annex South. Each of them has a proper barracks hall. That should give you enough space. We’ll provide materials to repair any leaky roofs or broken windows. Until then, I assume you and your men have tents.”

  Vlora drummed her fingers against her leg and locked eyes with Olem. She formed a ring with her hands, pointed at Michel’s neck.

  Olem shook his head emphatically.

  She mouthed the word please.

  Olem rolled his eyes. Michel, examining the fort with a rueful look on his face, didn’t seem to notice the exchange. He turned back toward them. “Have you seen the Depths yet?” he asked.

  “No,” Olem said, “we haven’t.”

  Michel crossed the muster yard and took the steps gingerly up to the top of the western fort wall. “You should be able to …” He called down. “Yep, you can definitely see it from here.” He beckoned for them to join him.

  “I can’t get a read on him,” Vlora said quietly.

  “Agent Bravis?” Olem asked.

  “He’s so … bland. Polite, but not too polite. Ready smile. Attentive, but almost distractedly so.”

  “I still think he’s a spy,” Olem said. “Think about it. That politeness is feigned. We’ve both been around enough politicians to spot it, but he’s no politician. I caught his eye a couple of times when he didn’t think I was looking. He’s watching us carefully.”

  “Why would they assign a spy to us?”

  “Because that’s what the Blackhats do? Do you really think Lindet trusts a mercenary company in her capital city?”

  “I suppose not.” Vlora took a few deep breaths, forgetting the Blackhat and looking around at their surroundings. This wasn’t how she wanted to start their latest assignment, but she knew she needed to cool her heels. If Olem was right, anything she said would likely be reported straight back to the people paying her commission. The last thing she needed to do was piss off an employer in a foreign city. “Promise me you can do something with this dump,” she said quietly.

  “It’ll take some time,” Olem responded, “but I’ll put the men to work right away. We’ll have a defensible barracks within a couple of weeks.”

  “Right about the time we get our own spy network in place.”

  “Should be about the length of it, yes.”

  “Remember,” Vlora reminded, “we have just one month to find Mama Palo. We’re going to have to work quickly.”

  Olem gave her a reassuring wink, and she left him to oversee the brigade’s move-in and joined Michel on the west wall. “What do you have to show …” What she saw below took her breath away.

  She’d heard the stories. She’d even gotten a glimpse at the Depths as they passed it on the keelboats in the gorge, but this … this was something else. It was as if a god had reached down and pressed his thumb against the Landfall Plateau, leaving a two-hundred-foot-deep mark a mile in diameter. The Depths wasn’t just an old quarry; it was practically a crater, and it was jammed from one end to the other with tenements; roofs stacked with shantytowns and overgrown gardens, dilapidated construction that made Loel’s Fort look structurally sound. The tallest roofs almost came within spitting distance of the Rim while the bottom—she couldn’t even see the bottom beneath the chaotic hodgepodge of buildings.

  Michel was looking at her with a strange smile on his face. Vlora closed her mouth, straightened her belt, and said, “This is something else.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Michel said, almost reverently. “I always like watching the expression on a newcomer when they first see the Depths. No one’s ever ready for just how big it is. I’ve never been to the mountains, but I imagine it’s like looking down on a valley that you didn’t expect hidden away behind the peaks.”

  “I’ve never seen a valley packed with so much slum,” Vlora said. “What did you say the population was?”

  “Nobody knows for sure,” Michel said, clearing his thr
oat. His brief sense of wonder was replaced with helpful professionalism. “We suspect it’s somewhere around two hundred thousand, though.”

  “All crammed in that hole?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s bigger than it looks, though. The tenements have whole road systems between floors, with cables that support hammocks and community spaces. There’s even rumors that they’ve mined into the floor and gotten the old quarry pumps working again for subterranean space. They make use of every inch down there, going up and down. They have to.”

  “And it’s all Palo?”

  “Mostly,” Michel said. “You get the occasional pocket of Kressian immigrants that don’t know any better. Probably a few thousand old veterans that the Palo leave alone. But yes. Lots of Palo.”

  Vlora couldn’t imagine such a thing. Even in Adopest, the worst slums tended to be no bigger than a few blocks, and they were scattered about the city. Here Landfall had managed to combine all of its slums and jam them into a literal hole in the ground. It was like a deep, festering sore on the Landfall Plateau, and the Lady Chancellor expected her mercenary company to sift through that to find a single Palo.

  Well. No sense in waiting around. “I’m going to go take a look,” Vlora said, heading back down the stairs without a backward glance. A few hundred men were already inside the fort, cleaning up the abandoned shantytown and inventorying supplies as the soldiers streamed through the gate. She passed Olem, got her sword and pistol from her horse, and fixed both to her belt. “I’m going for a walk,” she told him.

  Olem frowned. “You should have an escort.”

  “No need for that,” she said firmly. This was often a prickly subject, and she had no interest in a fight. “I’m not Tamas, and I’d rather not attract attention.”

  Michel caught up with her just outside the fort. “Lady Flint!”