Sins of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  “Did you know I had a biography written about me in Rosvel?” Vlora finally asked.

  “Had no idea,” Olem responded, crushing out his cigarette on the wall of the cab. “But these cigarettes are amazing.”

  “You’re not helpful.”

  “He’s a strange man,” Olem said, answering her unspoken question, “but I think we can trust him. He’s got an honest face.”

  “Yeah, so do a lot of horse traders.”

  “If you don’t trust him, we won’t use his help. I asked around before we came, though, and he’s known as a fair, open businessman. Everyone seems fairly baffled by his success because he seldom takes opportunities to cheat anyone.”

  Vlora bit the inside of her cheek, mulling it over. “We’ll see if he comes through on the invitation. I’ve been down into the Depths. There’s no beauty there, and I’m not fighting through it to find this Mama Palo. We’re going to have to do it”—she imitated Vallencian’s accent—“with, how do you say, guile.” Vlora switched benches, moving over next to Olem, and put her head on his shoulder.

  “All right,” Olem agreed, putting his arm around her, “but I’m not sending you down there without a whole damned regiment as an escort.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Michel knew that the messengers who’d delivered Sins of Empire to the printers were his best bet at tracking down the Iron Roses. They would be discovered sooner or later. Fifteen people were fourteen too many to keep a secret, and the fact that so many were involved in a conspiracy and had still not been discovered almost two weeks later was damned impressive. He didn’t have time to wait for someone to get dragged in off the street, though. He needed answers immediately, and that meant turning a direction in his investigation that few other Blackhats would be willing to go.

  He spent two precious days following a hunch. He visited banks, ransacked a house and an apartment, and generally kept himself busy until he had all the information he needed and returned to the very place one shouldn’t be looking for suspects in a plot against her Lady Chancellor’s government.

  The Millinery.

  “Light” corruption ran deep among the Blackhats. Most, including Michel himself, considered it a perk of the job. Blackhats wound up with free meals or cups of coffee, or rushed to the front of the line in a government office. Neighbors might pitch in to pay your rent, because a Blackhat in the neighborhood generally discouraged the local gangs. Michel preferred to use his own leverage in places he couldn’t afford normally—nice hotels, banks, tailors, high-end brothels.

  But while that light corruption was tolerated, it was an unspoken rule that you never let your greed get the better of you. There was a line somewhere—though not strictly defined—and if you crossed it you’d be out on your ass, maybe even sent to a labor camp.

  Which is why Michel felt a pang of sadness as he rounded a corner in the basement of the Millinery to find a hallway that dead-ended in a single counter. A cage was built in around the counter, like one might find in the back of a casino in a shady part of town, and the door to the right of it was reinforced with steel and locked from the inside. An older gentleman, balding and lean, sat behind the cage with his feet up on the counter. He had a book in one hand—the same kind of penny novels Michel’s mother loved—and an apple in the other.

  “Agent Bravis,” he called before Michel had reached the counter. “What brings you down to the Treasury today?”

  “Afternoon, Bobbin.” Michel reached the cage and leaned against it, craning his head to get a look at the title of the book. He searched his pockets, wishing that he carried a flask. “New dreadful?”

  Bobbin gave Michel an embarrassed smile and stashed the book under the counter. “Yeah. You know how it gets. Time crawls by down here.”

  “I bet,” Michel said. He considered winding his way through the daily gossip—Bobbin managed to hear everything down here—but knew that would only be delaying the inevitable. “Bobbin, did you get your Gold Rose recently?”

  “Me?” the treasurer scoffed. “I’m a Silver for life, Michel. Not much room for improvement down here. How about you? Ever get your Gold? I know you’ve been working for it for a while.”

  “No,” Michel said, picking at his fingernails. “Not yet.”

  “I heard they gave you babysitting duty with those Adran mercenaries. Is Lady Flint as pretty as they say in the gossip columns?”

  “She’s like an old shoe,” Michel lied. “Lost an eye a couple of years ago. Teeth falling out. Not a pretty picture.”

  Bobbin squinted at him. “You pulling my leg?”

  “Might be.” Michel scratched his chin. Pit, this was going to hurt. “Bobbin, have you heard about this thing with the Sins of Empire?”

  “The pamphlet that’s going around? I heard that Captain Blasdell is working around the clock on it, trying to find out who would order such damaging propaganda.”

  Bobbin didn’t mention anything about the Roses, which meant Fidelis Jes had kept it out of the newspapers and out of the general gossip among the Blackhats themselves. Blackhats couldn’t gossip to anyone but their fellows, but boy did they love to do just that.

  “Did you hear about the Roses?” Michel asked.

  “What about them?”

  “Not many people know it, but that pamphlet got printed because the people who ordered them were all carrying Iron Roses.”

  Bobbin shifted in his chair. “That’s insane. No one would impersonate a Blackhat like that.”

  “They definitely did,” Michel said. “But you’re right. It’s insane. The propaganda is one thing—Captain Blasdell is all over that—but those Iron Roses are something else entirely. We’ve been trying to figure out where they came from.”

  The smile disappeared from Bobbin’s face. He looked a little sickly.

  “Now,” Michel continued, “Captain Blasdell thinks they were forged by someone out of the country. It certainly makes sense. But me? I think they were originals. All the originals in Landfall have been accounted for—I believe you made that report yourself just a couple of days ago, right?”

  “That’s right,” Bobbin said, licking his lips. “Every one of them is accounted for. You can even come back here and count them if you like.”

  “Of course, of course,” Michel said. “I believe you. But I’ve got to follow my train of thought here. If the Iron Roses were originals, and haven’t been stolen from the Millinery, that means they came from our own people. But it doesn’t add up. Iron Roses are rarely reported as lost, and, thanks to the reputation of our grand master, are pretty much never stolen. And me? I think the idea that fifteen of our own Iron Roses were involved in an antigovernment plot seems a bit far-fetched.”

  “Michel,” Bobbin said, his voice shaky, “I really should get some work done.”

  Michel ignored him. “So I thought to myself: Self, where does anyone get fifteen Iron Roses? And I answered: the Treasury, of course. And who’s in charge of the Treasury? My old friend Bobbin.”

  Bobbin went red. His mouth flapped a few times, then his jaw tightened and he sat up straight. “I don’t know what you’re implying,” he said, “but you’d better watch your mouth, Agent Bravis. You know there’s consequences for false accusations around here.”

  “I know,” Michel said. “That’s why I checked first. I went through your house this morning, and your apartment that’s not on the books last night. I found the receipts from the Starlish Bank. Half a million krana is a lot of money. And you’ve been spending like a fool, too. Clothes, booze, women. I checked all your haunts and you’re not being nearly as careful as you think you are. And before you start trying to come up with a story about me fabricating evidence, you should know I’m hunting around on private orders of the grand master. He’s going to examine my report personally and you know he’ll find things that even I couldn’t.”

  Bobbin’s face went from red to white in the course of a few moments. His breath was shallow, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Mich
el hated seeing him like this. He was a trusted Blackhat, a Silver Rose with the only keys to the Treasury outside Fidelis Jes. He was supposed to be as inviolate as the Roses themselves, and what’s more is that Michel liked Bobbin. Everybody did.

  “I didn’t know,” Bobbin whispered.

  “Know what?” This was the part, Michel knew, where everyone began to beg. They threw excuses, tried bribery, swore oaths.

  But Bobbin knew that, and he didn’t bother. “Fidelis Jes is going to skin me alive.”

  That seems pretty likely. “Know what?” Michel asked again firmly.

  “I didn’t know what they were planning.”

  Michel leaned against the counter and said in a gentle voice, “Tell me what happened.”

  “I was approached by a lawyer. He used the same brothel as me, over on the Wake. He told me he could pay me a huge sum if I lent him fifteen Iron Roses. I thought it was a joke at first. Nobody outside the organization knows that I’m the treasurer. But he kept insisting and by the time I decided to report him he had bought up all my debts. All of them. From the casinos, the brothels. Even the bookstores. Said he’d cancel all my debts and give me half a million if I lent him the Roses for one day. Insisted no one would even know they were gone.”

  Michel tilted his head to the side. It was a classic entrapment move, one the Blackhats themselves used when they needed to blackmail someone. Bobbin should have known better. “And did he give them back?”

  “Yes. He took them from this door right here at nine o’clock at night and returned them again by six o’clock the next morning. Once I heard about this thing with the pamphlets, I suspected what had happened. But there was no official word about the Iron Roses having been used so I thought maybe it was just a coincidence.”

  A lawyer. The man behind this whole thing. Never mind those fifteen messengers with their Iron Roses. Michel now had the mastermind in his sights. Bastard walked right into the Millinery. What a pair of balls. “And there was no one you could ask to find out without implicating yourself?”

  Bobbin nodded.

  Pit. That was just basic self-preservation. Anyone stupid enough to admit to aiding in the misuse of Iron Roses—no matter how unknowingly—deserved what the Blackhat torturers did to them. Michel looked Bobbin over. He was trembling something fierce now, and looked like he might collapse at any moment. But he wasn’t begging, and that was a pleasant surprise.

  Michel hated the begging.

  “I’ve been a wreck ever since,” Bobbin said. “I knew deep down someone would find out, but I couldn’t have my debts exposed. I would have lost everything.”

  “Out of the pot and into the fire,” Michel said absently. He felt fantastic, pleased to have made a breakthrough like this in such a short amount of time. He’d solved this thing with the Iron Roses and though he didn’t feel revealing Bobbin was going to earn him his Gold Rose, catching the perpetrator behind Bobbin’s blackmail definitely would. This was big. He eyed Bobbin and made a decision—one he knew he was going to regret. “Tell me everything about who you worked for.”

  “I did,” Bobbin said. “It was always the one guy. Tall, lean, but muscular. Had a soldier’s build. Wore real fancy clothes and carried a cane. Said he was a lawyer.”

  “Did he give a name?”

  “Nothing. Believe me, if I knew I would tell you. Pit, I’d help you track him down right now if I thought it would buy me a reprieve. But he was like a ghost.”

  Michel leaned forward, looking Bobbin in the eye, then nodded. “I do believe you. Right. Here’s what’s going to happen.” He checked his pocket watch. “Don’t get any funny ideas, because I’ve instructed Warsim to come down and check on me in two or three minutes, and I’ve left evidence of your little lending scheme with someone I trust.”

  Bobbin’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “I want you to open that door, punch me really hard in the face, and then I never want to see you again.” Michel walked over to the door and stood patiently, hand at his sides. “And Bobbin, if they catch up to you, do me a favor and put one in your own head.”

  CHAPTER 14

  At midmorning, Vlora was summoned from her dingy, leaky headquarters in the old staff building at Loel’s Fort. She came out to the muster yard expecting a messenger from the Lady Chancellor’s office or one of her own scouts but instead found a small Palo man, hat in hand, standing beside a rickshaw. The man had a gaunt face and the characteristic ashen freckles and fiery red hair of a Palo. There were crow’s feet around his eyes from too much squinting, and deep smile lines at the corners of his mouth. He ducked his head as Vlora approached.

  “Lady Flint?” he asked in flawless Adran.

  “That’s me.”

  “Good afternoon. I am Devin-Tallis. I was sent by the Ice Baron.”

  Vlora’s mind was elsewhere, churning over supply reports from her quartermasters, but she put them all out of her head at the mention of the peculiar baron. “Vallencian? What would he … Ah! Did he get me an invitation to the gala? When is that, tonight?”

  “He did, my lady.” Devin-Tallis smiled pleasantly, blinking at Vlora for several moments.

  “Can I have it?” she asked.

  “Ah, it does not work like that, Lady Flint. I am your invitation.”

  Vlora thought she understood immediately. The Depths was closed to outsiders. Of course she would need a guide to reach whatever “palace” this gala was being held in. She called toward the staff building for Olem, then turned back to the Palo. “When is it, exactly? Vallencian didn’t give me any details.”

  “The baron seldom gives out details that don’t have to do with one of his stories,” Devin-Tallis said, speaking not as if he was a Palo peasant but rather a close friend of one of the richest men on the continent. “The celebration will take place at nine o’clock tonight, at the Yellow Hall. I’ll take you there and bring you back.”

  Vlora looked over her shoulder, wondering where Olem had got himself to. “All right, what time do you want to leave?”

  “Eight thirty should be fine. We’re not all that far from the hall.”

  “Why’d you come so early?” Vlora asked.

  “I work on the other side of town. I had a job over here, so I thought it seemed prudent. If it is pleasing to your ladyship, I’ll wait here until you’re ready to depart. I’ll stay out of the way.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Vlora said. “Flint is fine, or General. All right, I’ll have a guard ready by that time. Can horses maneuver through the Depths, or should I bring infantry?”

  “Ah,” Devin-Tallis said, clearing his throat, “I’m afraid horses would be a very bad idea. Besides, the invitation is for one.”

  Vlora paused. One? She couldn’t even bring Olem with her? “They don’t have to come inside. They’re for protection. I’ve heard … things regarding the safety of the Depths.” She half-expected the Palo to laugh at her, but instead his face grew solemn.

  “One,” he said, holding up a finger. “That is all I’m allowed to guide to the Yellow Hall. Lady Flint, or her appointee. No one else. As long as you are with me, that is a guarantee of your safety as long as you do not start a fight.”

  “Even if I’m provoked?”

  “Dueling is prohibited. You may bring your weapons, because you are a soldier, but if you draw them in anger your safety is revoked.”

  “Who, exactly, guarantees this safety?” Vlora asked. She didn’t like anything about the arrangement. It sounded like a trap. Would Vallencian set her up?

  “Everyone at the celebration will be a guest of Mama Palo.” Devin-Tallis’s face darkened slightly. “No one crosses Mama Palo. Should I wait, Lady Flint? Or have you reconsidered the offer?” He paused, considering, then added in a hushed tone, “Invitations like this are not extended often. The Ice Baron has vouched for you, and that allows you to enter Palo society this once. If you turn it down, you will not receive another opportunity.”

  Vlora had heard
terms like this before, and it always led to one thing: a trap. Vallencian seemed genuine, and so did the Palo rickshaw driver. But she couldn’t be certain. The implication here was that Mama Palo herself had approved her invitation, which could mean anything at all. She suddenly realized how little she knew of Mama Palo. Was she a malevolent force? Lindet and the Blackhats certainly seemed to think so. Did she scheme outside of Greenfire Depths and the Palo that she had united, or did she stay within a small area of influence? Was she the type to dare the ire of a dangerous mercenary company by harming their general?

  As much as the situation made her leery, she felt like she had to take advantage of this. Blackhats didn’t dare the Depths, yet she had been invited right to Mama Palo’s doorstep. Perhaps Mama would even be there tonight in the flesh. Kidnapping her on her own would be impossible, but if Vlora could arrange another, less public meeting …

  “All right,” she said. “Eight thirty. I’ll be here.”

  “Very good, Lady Flint. I’ll wait.”

  “And I’ll send someone out with some water,” Vlora said over her shoulder, heading back toward the staff building. She found Olem on the other side of headquarters, helping a handful of soldiers pry an immense, rotted beam off the inside of the fort walls. The group leaned on a long pry bar, heaving and hoeing until the beam came loose in a shower of spongy wooden fragments. Olem saw Vlora and came to join her, dusting off his hands. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Olem said reluctantly. “But they needed an extra body, so I pitched in. I like to get my hands dirty.”

  “That’s why I like you,” Vlora responded. She smiled at his rolled-up sleeves and the sweat on his brow, considering the things she’d like to do to him. But business came first. It always came first. “I just got my invitation to the gala.”

  Olem’s face lit up and he gave her a wink. “Excellent! I’ll get my dress reds and put together an honor guard.”

  “Yeah,” Vlora said, drawing out the word. “That’s a problem.”