Sins of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  Vlora gestured to the empty office. “Feel free to speak your mind. If you know anything about me, it’s that I’m not a gossip.”

  “I really shouldn’t,” Meln-Dun said warily.

  You really should. Vlora could feel her heart beating faster. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t want, but know you’re among friends.” There were several moments of silence before Vlora changed tactics. She quietly said, “Do you suspect that Mama Palo is behind the disappearance of my men?”

  “I did not say that.”

  “You implied it.” She leaned forward. “This is something I need to know, Meln-Dun. I do not like petty politics. If Mama Palo is behind the disappearance of my men, I need to know why. Was she behind the attempt on my life the other night? Was I invited to the gala only to be a target? Are you one of her agents? Is all of this”—she gestured at Meln-Dun—“just a way of getting me to lower my guard?”

  Meln-Dun swallowed, beads of sweat appearing on his balding head.

  “In my world,” Vlora said, “wars are declared.”

  “Not in mine,” Meln-Dun responded. “I am not your enemy. I am not one of Mama Palo’s agents, and I know nothing about the disappearance of your men.”

  Vlora watched his eyes for any sign of a lie. He met her gaze, unwavering.

  Meln-Dun continued: “Mama Palo is crafty, striking from the shadows. She is an old woman, embittered toward the Kressian settlers who killed her husband, and the Blackhats who killed her son.”

  Vlora opened her mouth, surprised. “I did not know that.”

  “It’s common knowledge in the Depths. We all have our own reasons for fighting our private wars. Mama Palo has taken hers public. As I said, she is an old woman, and old women are seldom direct. They achieved their age by being crafty, circumspect. Those Palo that attacked you outside the Yellow Hall may very well have been her men. They botched the job and now are trying to make up for it by whittling away at your forces.”

  “Inviting me to the party was a way to get me out on my own?”

  “It could have been.” Even now, Meln-Dun seemed loath to accept the idea as fact. “There are a thousand factions within the Depths, intertwined in ways that reflect your own political courts. It may have been someone else entirely, but know this: Few people act in the Depths without Mama Palo’s say-so.”

  “Do you?” Vlora asked bluntly.

  “I will not lie to you. Most of my business is approved—or not—by Mama Palo.”

  Another interesting bit of information. Mama Palo was bad for business in her encouragement of violence, and she could stifle Meln-Dun’s entrepreneurship? Another reason for Meln-Dun to want her out of the way.

  “And this thing that we’re planning?” Vlora asked. “Beginning a modernization of the Greenfire Depths tenements?”

  “She knows about our partnership.”

  Vlora wasn’t surprised—they’d spent the last two days attempting to publicize her mercenaries’ good intentions. No doubt Meln-Dun had been involved in a similar propaganda campaign on the Palo side of things. The interesting part was that Mama Palo had approved of this whole endeavor. Perhaps the crafty old Palo was trying to draw Vlora out again, waiting for Vlora to make a mistake?

  It was a game in which she couldn’t see her opponent’s face, or most of the pieces. Petty politics. I’ve fought much worse, she reminded herself.

  Vlora wondered how much she truly trusted Meln-Dun. He was, after all, a Palo. Vlora tried to recognize that their reputation belonged mostly to a smear campaign by Lindet, but the Palo had also been her enemy in the swamps for over a year. She couldn’t just ignore that because Meln-Dun was friendly. But she had to trust someone, and Meln-Dun seemed to be trustworthy as far as his own interests were concerned.

  There was a knock on the door, and a messenger appeared with a note for Meln-Dun. The businessman looked it over with a scowl, then nodded to himself. “I must go, Lady Flint, but I will do what I can to stop these disappearances and find your missing men. The sooner things calm down, the easier it will be to begin to modernize the Depths.”

  He needs me more than I need him, Vlora realized suddenly. Or at least, he thinks that’s the case. It was best to let him keep thinking that. She shook his hand and watched him go, called for Olem, and sat down to meditate on the conversation. She drew her sword, checking the balance, deep in thought.

  Of all the people Vlora had met in Landfall so far, Meln-Dun was in the best position to comment on Palo politics. Until she learned otherwise, his guess was as good as a declaration: Mama Palo was waging a war on Vlora and the Riflejacks. Vlora couldn’t be sure why: a grudge, tactical maneuvering, or even inside knowledge of Vlora’s real task. But it meant that Vlora had lost the element of surprise.

  She couldn’t sit around waiting for Mama Palo to fall into her lap. She’d have to move quickly, or risk the disappearance of more of her men.

  An attack on an enemy she knew so little about could very well get her and her men killed. It was risky. But Meln-Dun was Vlora’s wild card, and she thought she already had a way to use him.

  CHAPTER 30

  It took Michel the rest of the day and part of the next morning to find just two mentions of the Palo Herald in the Blackhat files at the Millinery. One referred to a junk Palo press that might or might not be printing propaganda. The second was just an address scribbled down in pencil. Based on the limited pieces of information, both of which were months old, no one had ever bothered following up on any rumors that may have spurred the first report.

  He left the Millinery just after noon the next day, leaving the address of the Palo Herald with Agent Warsim in case he took longer than twenty-four hours to report back in. He briefly considered trying to deputize a few Iron Roses to keep an eye on him, but opted just to bring along his old knuckledusters. The Millinery was still on full alert looking for Ben Styke, and Michel didn’t want to do anything that might bring on the grand master’s attention before he was absolutely certain he had a line on Tampo.

  The address was in a mostly Palo village called Landon Plain. About six miles northwest of the plateau, it was one of the many towns along the Hadshaw built almost entirely upon pylons that allowed the rickety wood houses to weather spring flooding. It appeared to be a small, but thriving trading center with a keelboat landing, three general stores, and even a theater. Michel left his cab near the city center and began walking down the hard-packed silt streets, muttering the address over and over again as he scanned the number plates above homes and shops—only about a quarter of which were actually marked.

  Michel had opted to leave his black shirt and bowler cap at home, and instead wore a loose pair of rough wool workman’s trousers and a cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up, flatcap pushed back on his head. A lone Blackhat in a Palo community tended to become a target; a poor Kressian day laborer might still get robbed, but would probably make it home in one piece.

  A few eyes watched him as he passed, but no one followed him through the twisting streets. He was beginning to think the address was a dead end when he caught sight of a pair of number plates, the first two letters of which matched those on his card. He found a raised walkway and headed into a series of what looked like warehouses and industrial buildings, all constructed on the same batch of pylons. Palo workers moved bales of cotton and tobacco in and out of storage while foremen called out instructions. Michel was largely ignored.

  He finally matched his address at the opposite end of the raised industrial park. There was a single door into a small shed of a building; a lean-to addendum to the warehouse next to it, with the words PALO HERALD stenciled in Palo on a sign next to the door. Michel peered in the window, then looked over his shoulder. There didn’t appear to be anyone around.

  Nor, he decided, did this little building look big enough to hold even a small printing press.

  Michel opened the door and headed inside, one hand on the knuckledusters in his pocket and the other putting a cheap pipe
in his mouth as he adopted a northeastern accent in his head. “Hallo?” he called. “Hallo?”

  The Palo Herald was about as roomy as an outhouse. There were a few crates, newspapers spilling out the sides, and an old Palo man sitting with his back to the same wall the door was on. He wore an old buckskin jacket over a bare chest and a pair of cutoff wool trousers. His feet were bare, and he squinted up at Michel suspiciously.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked in broken Adran.

  “Ah, hallo!” Michel said. “Is this the Palo Herald?”

  The old man pointed above Michel’s head. Michel took a step back and made a show of reading the sign outside. He switched over to Palo, hoping he wasn’t too damn rusty to make a good impression. “Afternoon, friend. Looks like I came to the right place.” He stepped over to one of the nearby crates and unobtrusively glanced inside. “My name’s Fallon Marks and I’m an editor. A newspaper editor by trade, actually, and I’m looking for work. Just came down from Little Starland and was passing through, heard there was a newspaper in town.”

  “It’s a Palo paper,” the old man said, not unkindly. “Don’t think it’s your kind of thing.”

  “Well, it actually is my kind of thing. I’ve been editing a Palo newspaper up in Little Starland—the Daily Basin, you may have heard of it?—and to be honest, my friend, we ran out of funding and were forced to sell off all our equipment, wouldn’t you believe it now? I’d hoped with Landfall being a big city there might be a Palo newspaper, or the chance to start one. Just as my luck ran out I was told about you. Is this where you print the newspaper?”

  “Nope,” the old man said. “Don’t think we’re hiring, either. Not a big operation. Just a few of the boys, working to spread the word of our land.”

  “Understood, understood. Right you are, my friend. Times are lean and hard, don’t I know it, and to be fully honest I would work for a roof over my head and a bit of porridge in the mornings, if you catch my meaning. At least until I was able to secure some funding for a newspaper in Landfall.”

  The old man tilted his head to one side, seemingly bemused. “Ain’t never heard of your …”

  “The Daily Basin.”

  “ … Daily Basin. Didn’t know there was a Palo newspaper up in Little Starland.”

  “Not anymore, I’m afraid,” Michel said with a sigh. “But you know, Landfall, I think maybe I can find some work down there. I guess I could look at the Kressian newspapers, but the Palo, well, the Palo are my passion, I’ve got to admit, don’t you know. My granddaddy on my mother’s side was a Palo and I’m proud of that.”

  “Ah,” the old man said, his bemusement turning into a real smile. “Part brother, then?”

  “Part brother indeed. Look, do you think you could see it in your heart to consider employment, good sir? I’d work for a roof for a few weeks, try to prove myself.”

  “Not my printshop,” the old man said.

  “Well, you think I could talk to the owner?”

  “He’s not around now. Rarely comes out.”

  “Well, could I get an address?”

  “No.” The old man gave a sympathetic smile. “No one talks to the owner. I could pass him your card, if you like.”

  “My card, yes! That would be perfect.” Michel searched his pockets, letting a frown grow until he came up empty-handed. “It doesn’t look like I have any on me right now. I sent my luggage on ahead to Landfall, don’t you know, and to think I didn’t keep a card on me. I could leave my cousin’s address.” Before the old man could respond, Michel snatched up a pencil and bit of paper and scribbled down the address of a Blackhat safe house, taking the opportunity to look closer at the crates of newspapers. They appeared to be just that—newspapers—most of them old and yellow, with a few recent issues on the very top. The latest was a couple of weeks old and had the words LADY FLINT BURNS FORT SAMNAN in bold letters. “Here you are, good sir, and thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me.”

  The old man took the paper without comment, rolling it like a cigarette and tucking it behind his ear. “Don’t hold your breath,” he said. “The big boss doesn’t like Kressians very much.”

  “I understand,” Michel said, wondering not for the first time if he’d followed a cold trail. No printing equipment on the premises, just some old newspapers, with no sign of any pamphlets. An absentee owner could indicate Tampo, but the fact that he “didn’t like Kressians” suggested the owner was Palo. Michel couldn’t think of a subtle way to ask if that was the case. “Pardon me, but just out of curiosity, where do you do your writing and printing? I could always drop in there and offer to lend a hand.”

  “No one’s around today,” the old man said. “Waste of time. Thanks for coming in.”

  It was an obvious dismissal, and Michel took the hint and tipped his cap to the old man. “Thanks again, good sir, have a blessed day.”

  He headed back out into the industrial park and took a look around, watching the Palo at work farther down the boardwalk. Most of the doors in the area were open to let air circulate and bring cargo in and out for transportation down to the keelboat landing. The only building with a closed bay door was the one immediately next to the Palo Herald. Michel checked the bay door gently to find it locked, then headed around to the back of the building to find a single door, the window blacked out, also locked.

  Michel thought about jimmying the lock, but picking his way into a Palo warehouse in broad daylight seemed like a very bad idea. Instead, he went back to the street and waited until no one was looking before ducking beneath the industrial park.

  Something he’d long ago learned about these towns built on stilts on the floodplain is that almost every single house had a trapdoor under it. Sometimes they were left unlocked so that no one could get trapped underneath during a flash flood. More often they were used to circulate cool air during the summer. A warehouse, he reasoned, would have several such entrances. He bent over double and picked his way through the refuse that had piled up underneath the building until he reasoned he was directly under the Palo Herald. Then he headed another fifteen feet and found a trapdoor, right where he’d expected it.

  He pushed up gently. Locked.

  Applying a little more pressure, he was able to get the trapdoor far enough up to see that it was blocked by a simple wooden latch. Michel drew his belt knife and slid the latch, then lifted the trapdoor to get a view inside the warehouse. It was dark and quiet, the only light coming from windows far up on the back side of the building. He listened for a few moments and then swung the door up and open, lifting himself inside.

  He found himself less than three feet from a printing press. It looked like many of the others he’d seen, a loomlike contraption with two belts and a drum in the center, with a treadle on the other side to spin the belts. A machine like this could be operated relatively quietly, without attracting the type of attention that a steam press would.

  Still, he wasn’t convinced he had the right place. Keeping low, ready to make a run for the trapdoor, he crept the length of the warehouse. There was a narrow stairway up to a windowed office above him, not much larger than the storefront next door, and he found a second printing press. This one had a slightly different design, with what looked like some sort of a fold-and-thread mechanism—the exact sort of thing needed to print and bind a pamphlet. He turned his attention away from the printer and checked the nearest crates, going so far as to pry the lids off several using his knife and making far more noise than he was comfortable with.

  It was on his fourth crate, just as he was beginning to think he had the wrong place, that he pried the lid to reveal a whole stack of Sins of Empire.

  “Damn it all, Michel, you might make yourself an investigator yet.”

  “Careful,” he whispered back at himself. “We’re not out of this. You’ve got to set up a sting to catch Tampo. If he doesn’t come down here much we might not be able to catch him quickly.”

  “But we have a building to tra
ce for ownership records. More people to question who might know where he lives. You’ve got a damned good start. Now don’t foul it up.”

  He carefully returned the lids to their spots, pressing down on the nails with the handle of his knife and hoping no one noticed they weren’t hammered. He finished the last and crept quietly back toward the trapdoor, wondering how he was going to flip the latch back shut behind him.

  A sudden noise made him jump, and his heart leapt into his throat at the realization it was the lock on the bay doors. He threw caution to the wind and ran toward the trapdoor, lowering himself down and pulling the door shut over his head just as he heard the bay open up and the old Palo man’s voice say something muffled.

  Michel let out a soft sigh. Well, that was that. Time to head back to his cab, and …

  “We don’t like snoops, mister,” a voice said in Palo.

  Michel spun awkwardly to find a Palo woman easily a foot taller than him with shoulders like an ox crouching just behind him. His feet scrambled for purchase in the soft, sandy peat beneath the warehouse, and he opened his mouth to let out a shout, only for her fist to connect hard with his jaw. His head jerked back and he caught himself on a pair of stilts, trying to grasp for his knuckledusters as the Palo woman’s fist rose and fell one more time.

  The blow knocked the sense out of him, throwing him to the ground, and he could only watch, stunned, as she grabbed him by the leg and pulled him back toward the trapdoor. “I got him!” she shouted up. “Here, come take him. We don’t know if we’re being watched.”

  Michel looked up into the faces of five Palo, including the old man, and felt himself lifted under the arms and handed up.

  “Well,” he said, his eyes going in and out of focus. “Shit.”

  CHAPTER 31

  No,” Styke said.

  He sat in the corner of the Loel’s Fort mess hall, watching as more than a thousand soldiers cleaned away the remains of dinner and broke out dice, darts, cards, and beer. He found himself impressed by the orderliness of the process, and how it contrasted with normal military procedure—sending the men out on the town for their entertainment—in a way that focused their attention inward. For any other military company such a habit might drive the men mad with cabin fever, but here it just seemed to build the bonds between them.