First Olem, now Old Man Fles. “Word’s getting around, huh?”
“Sure is.” Fles poked Styke in the stomach with one bony finger.
“Ow.”
“Ow, nothing. You need to harden up, boy. The Blackhats are looking for you.”
“I know.”
Fles raised his eyebrows. “You know? Well look at you, getting your information before Old Man Fles. I just found out half an hour ago.”
“They come by the market?” Styke asked, unable to keep the worry from his voice.
Fles waved him off. “Nah.”
“Here?”
“Not yet. I fired up some of my old contacts this week. Turns out the Blackhats are quietly asking around about you. Nothing overt—nothing that gives away your name. Just telling people to be on the lookout for a scarred giant.”
Styke nodded, feeling more than a little relieved. Maybe the Blackhats had forgotten about Styke’s relationship with the Fles family. Not likely, but he could always hope. They hadn’t started roughing up his old friends yet, at least.
“Don’t touch that!” Fles said, swatting Celine’s hand away from a knife on the counter. “You’ll cut your damn fingers off.”
“I can handle a knife,” Celine said, sticking her bottom lip out at Fles.
“I keep mine sharp enough to shave with.” Fles turned his attention back to Styke. “Boy, what happened with those Palo kids up at Mama Sender’s? That’s the place you had me setting up the meeting, isn’t it? You really had to kill ’em?”
“Didn’t want to,” Styke replied. His initial feeling of joy at being back in the Fles home had soured, and he found himself scowling back at Fles. Everyone, even his friends, always assumed he enjoyed killing. Which he did, sometimes. But the assumption still hurt a little. “Damned kids came looking for a fight.”
“Well, did you at least get the information you wanted? You find yourself a dragonman?”
“I did, actually.”
“No kidding. What did he look like?”
“Like a Palo, but with black tattoos on his neck and arms.” Styke reached to the sheath on the back of his belt and took out the dragonman’s knife. “What do you think of this?”
Fles gave a low whistle and set down his tea to take up the blade. He handled it gingerly, turning it over and over again in his hands before taking it by the grip and giving a few experimental stabs. “Haven’t seen one of these since I was a kid. Damn, would you look at that workmanship?” He held the blade up in front of his eyes, squinting at it for several moments. “Sharp as steel. There’s sorcery in this knife. Lots of blood on it, too.”
Styke didn’t think there was any sorcery in the knife—his Knack would have sensed it—but one didn’t argue with Fles when it came to blades.
Reluctantly, Fles handed the knife back to Styke. “Lots of stories around those weapons. Lots of history.”
“Like?”
“Well, a dragonman’s weapons are all made out of the bones of the swamp dragons they killed. That knife is from a back leg, I’d wager, but the axes they carry are the real prizes—carved from the jawbones, one from the top, one from the bottom. They say that each weapon is sanctified by a bone-eye, enchanted by a Privileged, and bathed in the blood of an innocent. It’s probably all hogwash—Palo are a lot more civilized than we’ve ever given them credit for, and they haven’t had their own Privileged for hundreds of years. Even their bone-eyes are pretty rare.”
Styke sheathed the blade. “This one is a Dynize, not a Palo.”
“That’s preposterous. No one from the Empire has been seen here for over a hundred years.”
“He was,” Styke insisted. “And someone I trust told me the Dynize have been spotted in Landfall.” He wondered if he actually did trust Tampo. He didn’t have a lot of choice, he decided.
Fles rubbed his chin, scowling. “I would have heard about Dynize in town.”
“So you don’t know anything about it?”
“Not me.”
“My source said that they were infiltrating Greenfire Depths, mixing in with the Palo.”
“No, no. Can’t be right.” The Old Man sipped his tea, then topped it off and added a lump of sugar. “If it’s true, and I’m not saying it is, the Palo might know more. But you’ll need to ask one of them directly.”
“That’s what I’ve got you for.”
Fles held up his hands. “My contacts got you a meeting with the dragonman. You missed your chance, and I have to live here. Palo favors are like gold, and you won’t be using another of mine. Besides, asking after the Dynize could stir up a world of trouble.”
Styke wondered if the Old Man was slipping. He’d already agreed to dig up information on the Blackhat grand master, but he wouldn’t chase a rumor down here with the Palo? Strange. “All right. Then I’ll ask. Who do I go to?”
“I think … no, not him. Not her.” Fles went through an invisible checklist, talking to himself. “Definitely not her. Ah, got it. I’ll send you over to Henrick Jackal. Old friend of yours.”
Styke’s mind was elsewhere, considering how he was going to approach the Palo directly. He’d always been evenhanded in his dealing with the Palo, and they’d always seemed to respect him for it, but it had been a long time. Those Palo kids and their dragonman overlord had proved that. He brought his thoughts back to the present. “Wait. Did you say Henrick Jackal?”
“That’s what I said. I know you’re a cripple, but I didn’t think you were deaf, too.”
Styke held a hand up to his eyes. “About yay high. Missing an ear and a pinkie?”
“Yeah, that’s him. He’s some kind of Palo spiritualist now.”
“No,” Styke said, snorting. “Not Mean Jackal.”
“One and the same.”
Celine tugged on Styke’s sleeve. “Who is Mean Jackal?”
“Used to be one of my captains,” Styke answered thoughtfully. “He was a founding member of the Mad Lancers, but was always a little crazy. Disemboweled the mayor of Little Starland for spitting on his shoe.” Celine’s eyes widened, and Styke frowned at the Old Man. “You’re sure Henrick Jackal is a spiritualist now? Is it some kind of a con?”
Fles shrugged. “Beats me. Heard he was the real deal. Teaches runaways to talk to river spirits or some such shit. Even the other Palo think he’s a kook, but he’s the only person who pays attention to the teenage castoffs so he’s got his ear to the ground better than most.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Styke said, searching his pocket for a bit of horngum and tucking it into his cheek. “Never would have pegged Jackal for getting religion.” Styke’s last memory of Jackal was watching him and Ibana attempt to fight their way, bare-handed, through a line of military police as their fellows led Styke up to the firing squad. He always figured Ibana got away with it—she had a family name, after all. But Jackal was a violent Palo, and Styke was surprised to hear he’d come out of that fight alive.
Old Man Fles wrote down the address—or a list of directions, which was as close to an address as one could get in the Depths—and handed it over. Styke tucked it in his pocket, gesturing to Celine toward the door. “When does Ibana get back?”
“A week,” Fles answered. “Maybe two? Maybe less? Pit if you think I keep track of that girl. She’s always off making new deals, bringing on new apprentices. Business head on her she got from her mother, but damn if I can keep up with it. Why? You hoping for some warning before she comes back and pincushions you?”
“Maybe,” Styke replied. He wasn’t quite sure himself. As much as he wanted to see Ibana, he knew it was going to hurt bad—both emotionally and physically.
“Right, right. Don’t let the door hit you on the ass, et cetera,” Old Man Fles said, waving them toward the foyer. “And go out the front. That damned workshop door keeps sticking and I don’t want to deal with it tonight.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Fles,” Celine said.
“Bah!”
Styke and Celine headed toward the f
ront door. Styke paused for a moment to look back at the great room, filled with a lifetime of knickknacks and furniture, a smile tugging at his ruined face. He opened the door behind him and turned toward the street.
Only to come face-to-face with a man in a black uniform, shirt buttoned up the left breast, truncheon and pistol at his belt. There were five more dressed identically just behind him, and the man in front had his hand raised as if he was just about to knock on the door. “Shit,” the Blackhat managed, right before Styke buried his knife in his chest.
Styke shoved Celine back into the Fles house with one hand and twisted his knife with the other. He lifted, charging forward, using the Blackhat’s body as a shield as his companions drew their pistols. The crack of gunfire erupted around him and Styke felt the bullets thump into his unfortunate Blackhat battering ram. He pulled his knife out and threw the body, cutting sideways with a wide arc to open the throat of the woman on his left.
A truncheon slammed across Styke’s left shoulder. He took a second blow, ignoring the pain that erupted from his arm, and punched the Blackhat holding the truncheon hard enough to lift him off his feet. Styke grabbed the falling truncheon of another and brought his knife down hard, severing the man’s hand at the wrist. He flipped the truncheon around, bloody hand and all, and slammed it across the face of its former owner, then let go to draw the bone knife from his belt and bury it in the eye of the last Blackhat.
The whole fight lasted less than twenty seconds. Styke’s chest rose and fell from the effort, and he bent to finish off two survivors before they had a chance to start screaming. He glanced up, noting the Palo policemen still overseeing the quarry down the street. The Palo stared at him, unmoving, and the street was silent.
“By Kresimir, you made a damned bloody mess,” Fles said, sipping his tea in the doorway, holding a kitchen knife in one hand. Celine hid behind him.
Styke looked down at the bodies and the growing pool of blood on the stone floor of the quarry. Some of the Palo down the street continued to stare, while others turned away. They saw the black uniforms and decided this wasn’t their problem.
“Quit your bellyaching,” Styke said, “and help me with these bodies. Celine, go get a bucket of water to clean up this blood. There should be some lye above the stove.”
Fles sighed, downing his tea. “Friend with a pig farm owes me a favor,” he muttered, “but we better move quick.”
Two hours later, Styke had changed his bloody clothes and disposed of the six corpses. He walked into the only public post office remaining in Greenfire Depths and waited in line until he got to the front. A half-Palo, half-Rosvelean woman with brown, freckled skin greeted him. “Package or letter?” she asked.
“Package,” Styke said. He opened his fist above the woman’s desk, letting six Iron Roses clatter onto the wood. “I need the mailing address for the office of the grand master of the secret police.”
CHAPTER 27
Michel stood outside a printshop in Middle Heights, a large, upper-class borough right in the center of the Landfall Plateau. He ran his eyes over the file in his hand—a comprehensive list of every single printer, both independent and government owned, in the entire city. “Huffin and Sons, Huffin and Sons,” he murmured, running his finger along the edge to try to keep the letters from going in and out of focus. “Ah. Huffin and Sons.” He put a mark through the center of the name and let his hand drop, looking up at the sun in the eastern sky.
He checked his pocket watch to find that it was well past nine in the morning and tried to remember if he’d slept. “No,” he said quietly, “I definitely haven’t slept for at least forty-eight hours now.”
“You caught a few winks in that cab this morning,” he reminded himself.
“Oh, right.”
“And another cab last night.”
“Okay. So I’ve gotten a good two and a half hours of sleep in the last forty-eight. Fantastic. That’ll keep me on my feet all week.”
He ran a hand through his hair and noticed a nearby shopkeep staring at him. “Probably shouldn’t talk to yourself in public, either, Michel.”
“Oh, shut up.”
He flipped the shopkeep a wave and headed into the boulevard to catch a hackney cab and was soon heading back to his office at the Millinery. He checked his list again once he was inside. Two hundred and eighteen printers in the greater Landfall area. He’d covered roughly half in just twenty-four hours, which he found pretty damn impressive. But he hoped that Fidelis Jes didn’t call him in anytime soon to discuss his use of time, because he was most definitely grasping at straws.
This Tampo fellow was no fool, Michel reasoned, looking out the hackney cab window at the passing faces going about their daily lives. He printed all those pamphlets and then went into hiding. He won’t resurface now that he knows we’re looking for him. No way he’s stupid enough to keep printing Sins of Empire.
“But,” Michel muttered to himself, “maybe he made a mistake. Or maybe he figures we’re so wrapped up keeping the lid on the boiling kettle that is this city, we won’t have the resources to check every single printshop.”
Which they didn’t, Michel reflected. Fidelis Jes had everyone looking for Ben Styke, a name out of Michel’s childhood—Mad Ben Styke, hero of the revolution! Fancy that. That tough old bastard still alive after so many years.
Michel was drifting again. “Focus!” he said, looking down at the list. A little over a hundred printers to check. He could do that in another twenty-four hours or so—maybe forty-eight, if he took it a little easier. Some of these were way on the outskirts of town. Once he had that done he could get back to some real work, whatever the pit that meant, and maybe get some sleep.
“I thought this damn job was going to make my career. Now it’s looking like it’ll tank it.”
The cab arrived at the Millinery, and Michel wondered if he shouldn’t have just gone straight home. He was wobbly on his feet, and needed to get some sleep. Maybe he’d plant his face on his desk for a couple of hours, then get a cup of coffee and head back out.
Michel paid his driver and stepped outside, watching as three prison carriages pulled out of the street, followed by at least two dozen Iron Roses, all armed to the teeth. He blinked, wondering if he was seeing double, and wandered over to the old gatekeeper sitting on his chair just inside the double doors of the Millinery. “Hey, Keln, what’s going on over there?”
Keln chewed slowly for a moment, then turned and spat a wad of tobacco into the street. “Six Iron Rose medallions just showed up on the grand master’s desk.”
Michel raised both eyebrows. That was news. “Shit. Where’d they come from?”
“Greenfire Depths,” Keln said. “We’re trying to keep it quiet, but …” Keln leaned over conspiratorially. “Word has it they came from the Ben Styke fellow that Fidelis Jes has everyone looking for. You didn’t hear it from me, though.”
“Cross my heart.”
“Yeah, the boys are heading down to Greenfire Depths to try to recover the bodies.”
“Any chance of that happening?”
“They sent word ahead to our Palo contacts. If the bodies are still in the Depths, the Palo will hand ’em over. They don’t want no trouble.”
And, Michel thought, we’ll make a public show of force and quietly pay them a few thousand krana per corpse. “Best of luck to them.”
“Yeah. The Depths are really causing us a headache lately, aren’t they?”
Michel hoped his expression wasn’t too clueless. He tried to run through all the problems originating from Greenfire Depths—aside from the usual Palo protests and riots—and came up short. “Eh?”
“Lady Flint,” Keln prompted.
Pit. Michel had completely forgotten about Flint. He hadn’t heard a word from her in days. Knowing his luck she was lying facedown in a gutter somewhere. “Right,” he said. “Lady Flint.” He paused, trying to come up with a not-so-obvious way to get the information out of Keln and gave up. “What ha
ppened with Lady Flint?”
Keln’s eyebrows rose. “Aren’t you her Blackhat contact?”
“What happened with Lady Flint?” Michel asked again, forcefully.
“A bunch of Palo punks tried to kill her.”
Michel stared at Keln for a few moments while his tired brain tried to catch up with that information. “Well, shit,” he said, and set off running for another cab.
Michel had the presence of mind to head back and get all the information he could about the attack—which wasn’t much—before heading out to Loel’s Fort. He arrived just an hour later and was surprised to find Lady Flint standing a few blocks down the street from the fort, overlooking a construction site while hundreds of her men cleared away rubble from a demolished tenement.
Michel leapt from his cab, heading over to stand beside Lady Flint, hoping he didn’t look too panicked. An assassination attack on one of his wards and he didn’t even find out for two days? He would have castigated anyone beneath him for such an oversight.
At first glance, he wondered whether Keln had been pulling his leg. Flint looked unharmed. There wasn’t a scratch on her or her uniform, and she seemed to be in a pleasant mood while she discussed something quietly with another uniformed mercenary—an engineer, if Michel had to guess—who then went and began giving orders to the men down in the rubble of the tenement.
Michel watched for a few minutes, noting the way Flint’s eyes roamed the surrounding streets in a constant, watchful vigil, and the way her hand rested on the hilt of her sword. He wouldn’t say she was on edge, necessarily—her body language was fairly relaxed—but she was keeping an eye out.
Michel cleared his throat.
“Yes, Agent Bravis?” Flint asked without looking. “I was wondering how long you were going to stand there.”
“Just taking in the scene, ma’am,” Michel said jovially. “Looks like you’re making great progress on these tenements.”
“We are, thank you. We should begin construction of the replacement building within a day or so, and my engineers expect to have one finished by the end of the month.”
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