Sins of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  “Exactly.”

  “What’s their cause?” Celine asked.

  “That,” Jackal said with a scowl, “is harder to say. They tell the youth stories of the glory of the Empire, of the wealth and decadence of their civilization, and promise them riches beyond belief in return for another set of eyes.”

  “For what?”

  “For everything. The Dynize spies consume information the same way the Blackhats do.”

  “Are they preparing for some kind of invasion?” Styke asked. “The Empire has hidden behind closed borders for over a hundred years. Why move on Landfall now?”

  “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Jackal responded. “They may be preparing to open their borders again. As far as we know, they’ve sent spies all around the world to find out how civilization has progressed since they were last a world power.”

  “The spirits don’t tell you any more than that?”

  “If you mock me, we won’t discuss this any further.”

  Styke checked his sarcastic tone. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s a lot to take in.”

  “The spirits have a very difficult time penetrating Dynize,” Jackal said after a moment of consideration. “Dynize Privileged protect the Dynize borders from any kind of sorcerous scrying, and it seems to work fairly well on the dead, too. I can’t spy on them any easier than I can spy on Lady Chancellor Lindet behind the protection of her own Privileged.”

  “But you think the Dynize may just be feeling us out?”

  “Perhaps,” Jackal said.

  “So where do the dragonmen come into this?”

  “They appeared”—Jackal closed his eyes—“a couple of months ago and began making contact with their spies in the city.”

  “This is sounding more and more like the preparation for an invasion,” Styke said. “It’s what I’d do, anyway.” He had a brief vision of whole hosts of dragonmen marching up the coastline on Landfall. Based on the one he fought two days ago, they’d cut through the Landfall garrison like a hot knife through butter.

  “They’re looking for something,” Jackal said.

  “What?”

  “The godstones.”

  Styke frowned. A peculiar name. “What are those?”

  “I’m not sure,” Jackal said. “The name first came to me two days ago from the lips of one of those boys you killed at Mama Sender’s.”

  Styke felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s much easier to wring information out of a spirit as they die—or are born, depending on your perspective—and I happened to catch one of your dragonman’s acolytes as he entered the next world.”

  “Oh.” This was all getting to be too much for Styke. Sorcery never bothered him; he could smell it a mile away, and the enchanted armor he wore in the war could shrug off Privileged magic as easily as grapeshot. But this business with spirits made his spine tingle. The dead were dead, and as a man who’d put plenty of them in their graves he preferred they stay there. But he did need information, and this was the best he was going to find. He tried to shrug off his discomfort. “Get anything else out of him?”

  “Nothing useful. The dragonman’s name was Kushel. He’s middle-aged, from a city called Heaven’s Pillar in Dynize. It seems he’s been looking for the godstones for most of his life, and he’s convinced he’ll find them here in Landfall.”

  Styke leaned back on the bedroll and found himself considering the red marks on the back of Celine’s neck. They, like those on his stomach and chest, had begun to bruise. The bruises would heal, but the thought of this dragonman manhandling a little girl—his little girl—made his blood boil. I’ve killed a lot of people. But I’ve never so much as hurt a kid. He remembered his thought about warriors, and how few of them remained in the world. It might be old-fashioned, but a warrior left the young and infirm in peace and protected those under their responsibility.

  “I need more information,” Styke said.

  “I can try …”

  “No. I need it straight from the dragonman. I need to draw him out again.”

  Jackal hesitated. His eyes dipped tellingly to the scar on Styke’s face, then to his mangled hand. “We’ve both changed,” Jackal said gently. “If it was the old Styke, I’d believe you could fight a dragonman, but in your state …”

  “Yeah,” Styke said, the words biting, “I know I’m a cripple. But I’m Mad Ben Styke, and I’m no fool. You can get word to him, can’t you? Your spirits can tell you where he is, and your boys can deliver a message?”

  “This isn’t a good idea.”

  “You haven’t even heard the idea,” Styke said. “I want you to tell Kushel that I’ve got his knife, and he can take it from me at the muster yard in Loel’s Fort.”

  Jackal pursed his lips. “That’s an obvious trap.”

  “Of course it’s an obvious trap. I’m not facing this bastard alone. If he’s a legendary warrior, he can fight this old cripple for it on my own terms. And if I lose, at least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing Lady Flint will put a bullet in his head.”

  “He won’t fall for it,” Jackal said.

  Styke removed the bone knife from his belt, as well as his own big knife, holding them side by side so Jackal could see. “The stories say these weapons are part of a dragonman’s identity. If someone I hated had my knife, you bet your ass I’d cut my way through a brigade of infantry to get it back.” He returned the knives, his eyes falling once more on the bruises on Celine’s neck. “Just send the message.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Vlora stared at a smudge of blood on the slimy, limestone floor of Greenfire Depths and struggled to keep her anger in check. She could feel it at the edges of her awareness shoving and pushing like a creature trapped in a bubble of her mental making; a bubble that threatened to burst at any moment. She fought to keep her face stoic, her demeanor professional, even while a part of her reached out with her sorcerous senses to feel the black powder on the soldiers around her. Like standing on the edge of a cliff with the unnatural impulse to jump, she felt the urge to detonate every ounce of powder within the radius of her sorcery, killing her, her men, and no doubt hundreds of innocent Palo.

  Perhaps some guilty ones, too.

  “Please tell me,” she said calmly, “that we know something.”

  Olem’s Knack prevented him from needing sleep, but the redness in his eyes told her that he’d been pushing himself too far, not getting enough rest as he sought to gather all the information she needed from this city. He was frayed at the edges, smoking like a chimney, and the glint in his eye said he knew exactly what sort of self-destructive beast was rampaging through her head.

  “All we know is this is the last place they were seen,” Olem said. They stood about fifty yards into Greenfire Depths from the bottom of the Rim. The only light came from strategically placed reflective mirrors, and the dirty street—more like a corridor—was empty of Palo and eerily silent. Vlora had twenty soldiers with her and not a single one so much as muttered as they stared somberly at her and Olem.

  They’d been with her long enough to know her moods.

  The subject of their discussion, a single engineer and a squad of bodyguards that had come down here this morning to survey the destruction of a block of these spiderweb-like tenements, was missing. They’d been three hours late in reporting in when Vlora decided to lead an expedition to look for them, and in another three hours all she’d managed to find was this smudge of blood and a trail that went completely cold.

  “This is where they were last seen?” Vlora echoed. “What were they last seen doing? Was there gunfire? Shouting? Screams? Damn it, Olem, I need answers.”

  Olem stared back at her, eyes narrowing slightly, and she immediately regretted raising her voice. “We’ve combed every tenement within a hundred yards. Not a single person reports anything out of the ordinary. That some of them mentioned our boys passing through at all is a miracle. We’re not wan
ted here.”

  That’s just too bad for them, isn’t it? “Palo silence, huh?” Vlora remembered her talk with Gregious Tampo, along with the warning about her status among the Palo. She was their villain, and to think she could change that with a few handshakes and a now-well-publicized desire to rebuild a block of tenements was folly.

  “Palo silence,” Olem agreed.

  “Expand our search area to two hundred yards. Bring more men down. I want our boys found.” The orders were barely above a whisper, and Vlora could immediately see that Olem didn’t like them.

  “We shouldn’t risk more men,” Olem said reasonably.

  “I won’t abandon them.”

  “Every minute we’re down here is another minute our enemies have to plan another attack.”

  “If this was an attack.”

  Olem looked pointedly at the smear of blood. “If we go kicking down doors, we’ll be working against ourselves. We have to return to the fort and regroup.”

  Vlora closed her eyes. She knew Olem was right. She had a responsibility toward more than just the nine men who’d gone missing. The engineer, Petaer, was a particularly talented young man and his loss would be palpable, but the others were infantry. Her infantry, but infantry nonetheless. She needed to attend to the brigade. Not a single squad. But if she abandoned a squad, at what point would the men begin to wonder if they, too, would be abandoned?

  “The order stands,” she said, opening her eyes and locking them with Olem. His lip curled in a brief show of defiance, then he looked away, ashing his cigarette.

  “All right,” he said quietly.

  “Two hundred yards. If they find anything, let me know immediately. No violence. Our men are to travel in groups of no fewer than twenty at any time. And tell them to begin mapping this area of the Depths in three dimensions. I want to know what this warren looks like. Search until eight, then call it off.”

  Olem perked up. “A map will be useful.”

  “That’s why they pay me so well.” Vlora slapped him on the shoulder with enthusiasm she didn’t feel and turned back toward the entrance to the Depths that she could see through the dim light behind them. “Get me Meln-Dun. If I’m going to play his petty politics, I want him to protect my men.”

  Meln-Dun entered Vlora’s office in Loel’s Fort with hat in hand, a measured, sympathetic smile on his face. Vlora shook his hand and offered him a seat, and he spoke before she could begin.

  “I’m very sorry to hear about the loss of your men,” he said.

  Vlora had to consciously keep her eyes from narrowing. How could he possibly know about the attack? “You know about that, eh?”

  “Word spreads quickly in the Depths, and your men have been searching for hours.”

  Of course. A few hundred mercenary soldiers knocking on doors in one corner of the Depths surely would have attracted attention. This whole situation had her squinting at shadows, and Meln-Dun had done nothing to earn her distrust. “I’m sure it does. Which is why I was hoping for your help in finding my men.”

  Meln-Dun seemed to have expected the request, nodding before her sentence was even finished. “I already have my contacts looking into it, Lady Flint, and I’m honored that you’d ask my help.” He hesitated a moment, then continued: “You have a reputation for respecting honesty, correct?”

  “I do.” Vlora didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Then, out of respect for that, I will not lie. I don’t expect to find your men alive. Nine soldiers disappearing in the Depths suggests they did not simply get lost.”

  “I’m not a fool,” Vlora responded, hoping it didn’t come off too forcefully. “I’m aware they may already be long dead. But if there is a slight chance they’re still alive, or of recovering their bodies, I’d like to do it as quickly as possible.”

  “Understood.”

  Meln-Dun studied Vlora’s face, and not for the first time she found herself questioning his motives. She was so used to operating in the larger sphere of influence—with governors, generals, Privileged, and even kings—that she had to adjust her thinking to really understand the machinations of a local slumlord. Perhaps he was trying to improve his standing in the Depths, or perhaps he simply wanted to help usher in an era of reconstruction. She wondered if it was of any real importance. Once she found Mama Palo, her job here would be done and she could forget about the petty local politics.

  Even as the thoughts went through her head, she mentally mocked her own arrogance. Did she really care so little for the people of Landfall? Would she be able to abandon these plans for new tenements and march off on the next mission? Her work here could inspire a new generation—perhaps a young politician or future general. It would be shortsighted of her to simply walk away from it.

  What had Tamas always said? The minutiae of the common man is the grease that slicks the gears of civilization.

  She wasn’t a good enough thespian to act the part of a concerned foreign national. She had to care, and she did. Perhaps that’s what Meln-Dun had sensed upon their first meeting. She pulled herself back to the present and smiled at Meln-Dun.

  He smiled back and said, “Your concern for your men does you credit. The Blackhats simply write off their missing with barely more than a wave—their primary concern is getting back the Roses they wear around their necks.”

  “Does this happen often?” Vlora shifted sideways in her chair. “The disappearing?”

  Meln-Dun hesitated. “Since Mama Palo came to power, it’s become increasingly common. People go missing in the Depths, sometimes civilians, but mostly Blackhats. It’s become a fact of life, and makes it very difficult for men like me to do business.”

  Vlora was surprised at the honesty of the answer. She’d assumed that the Palo were united in their hate of the current government, but Meln-Dun sounded almost regretful. There was something here. Something she could use. “Don’t you hate the Blackhats?”

  “Ah-hah, Lady Flint, you will not catch me so easily,” Meln-Dun said, half-seriously. “I would never speak ill of the Lady Chancellor or her chosen servants.”

  Spoken like a true politician. A nonanswer was often more an answer than a definitive one. Meln-Dun didn’t trust the Blackhats, but then Vlora hadn’t expected him to. “And Mama Palo’s policies? You don’t agree with them?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, either,” Meln-Dun said carefully. “I’ve just noted that the disappearances and the violence have increased since Mama Palo came into power. She supports violent revolutionaries like the Red Hand and offers succor to his agents. It’s bad for business.”

  Vlora was beginning to see a picture of a man caught between two powers—the Blackhats who ran Landfall, and Mama Palo’s goons who ran the Depths. She had wondered if his motives had extended beyond money and perhaps here they were—giving the people of the Depths a third choice for their loyalty. It took a brash, ballsy character to play both sides of the game like this. She needed to probe further.

  Vlora said, “Forgive me if this comes across as rude, but do you consider yourself a businessman above a Palo?”

  Meln-Dun raised his chin. “I am both, Lady Flint, and proud of it.”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s like asking you if you consider yourself an Adran or a general first. It’s a ridiculous notion.”

  Vlora noted the tightening of his eyes when he spoke, and the way he hunched his shoulders inwardly, like a cat wondering if it had been backed into a corner. He was playing both sides. She’d bet her sword on it. Vlora made a calming gesture. “My apologies. You’re right, it is ridiculous.”

  Slowly, his shoulders relaxed and he leaned back in his chair. “I hope,” he said, “that this partnership between us—building these new tenements in Greenfire Depths—will be the first step in something larger. I would like, in my own small way, to decrease the tensions between Palo and Fatrastans.”

  “Constructing new buildings would do that?” Vlora asked. She watched Meln-Dun’s eyes, looking f
or any additional hint as to what he was thinking. This new realization—that he was making his own bid for power—could be very useful. But she would have to be careful.

  “I believe it is a start.”

  “What’s the end?”

  “The end is obvious. Palo and Fatrastans working together to create a better world.”

  “That sounds like a laudable goal. What other steps do you foresee along the way?”

  Meln-Dun leaned forward, as if surprised that Vlora was even interested. “Extending Lindet’s modernization to the Depths, to start. More business between the Depths and the rest of Landfall. Perhaps over time, convincing Lindet to allow Palo to settle in some of the nicer areas of the city. The more Fatrastans are exposed to us, and us to them, the less we will have to fear each other.”

  “I wouldn’t have pegged you as an idealist,” Vlora said.

  “I am not,” Meln-Dun retorted. “I am pragmatic, and I pretend to be nothing more. Good relations create better business opportunities.”

  Vlora had to laugh at that. “You remind me of a friend of mine,” she said. “Ricard Tumblar.”

  “I know that name,” Meln-Dun said. “A prominent Adran, correct?”

  “Very prominent. He’s a businessman, and was the very first First Minister of Adro, elected by the people.”

  “Ah, yes,” Meln-Dun said. “After your field marshal sent your king to the guillotine.”

  Meln-Dun butchered the pronunciation of “guillotine” and Vlora might have laughed had her memories not instantly gone back to the coup, and the Adran-Kez War that followed it. Those years, more than any others, had influenced who she was today. She had some fondness for them, but far more regret. So many unnecessary deaths, so many betrayals big and small. “That’s right,” she said. “And a whole different discussion. I’m glad that you’re able to put your pragmatism to good use. So often pragmatics are tinged with cynicism.”

  “I think,” Meln-Dun answered, “that is how I would describe Mama Palo. Cynical. An idealistic cynic, and …” He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder as if Mama Palo were right behind him.