Sins of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  “There will be more,” Styke said.

  “Says who?”

  “The spirits told me.”

  Flint didn’t seem to be able to tell whether that was supposed to be a joke. Styke wasn’t sure himself. “Tell me,” Flint said, “what did you do to the second Warden? The one Two-shot didn’t kill?”

  “I punched his teeth in,” Styke said, remembering the hot breath of the sorcery-twisted creature and the thick muscles that moved like snakes in his grip. “Then I broke his spine.”

  Styke limped toward the mess hall. He needed to get cleaned up, then find Celine. Part of him hoped she hadn’t just seen that. The adrenaline began to subside and he felt sick from the absence of it and the overwhelming stench of death. But deep down, his heart sang.

  He was still Mad Ben Styke, and he would not be trifled with.

  Styke was halfway to the mess hall when a voice suddenly called out from the gate. “I’m looking for Ben Styke! Where is Ben Styke?”

  “What the pit is it now?” Styke asked, turning around slowly. He came up short at the sight of a boy wearing a smith’s smock with the words “Fles and Fles Blades” emblazoned in the corner.

  “Are you Ben Styke?” the boy asked.

  “Who wants to know?”

  The boy licked his lips, his face white. “Jackal said I could find you here. It’s Old Man Fles, sir. The Blackhats, they …”

  Styke was already running past the boy, ignoring the hundred pains in his body, before the boy could finish the sentence. “Olem,” he shouted over his shoulder, “keep Celine safe!”

  CHAPTER 32

  Vlora nudged the corpse of the dragonman with her foot and watched Styke’s back as he ran—surprisingly spry for a cripple—out the front gate of Loel’s Fort. “Where the pit is he going?”

  “Want me to bring him back?” Olem asked.

  “Yes. No. Shit.” Vlora stewed in her own indecision. She needed answers about this thing with the Dynize, and the corpse at her feet wasn’t going to give them to her. But after seeing what Styke did to a legendary warrior, she wasn’t about to send any of her men after him to tell him to turn around. She’d learned long ago that there were certain people you didn’t bother when they were in a hurry.

  “Send someone to follow him. And get this asshole cleaned up.”

  “Right.” Olem turned to the watching soldiers. “Fall out! Nothing more to see here, lads. You three, take care of the body. Bring Lady Flint the armor and weapons. Put the body on ice.”

  Vlora turned from her continued study of the dragonman to cock an eyebrow.

  “Never know when a corpse will come in handy,” Olem said with a shrug.

  Vlora paced nervously as the muster yard emptied and the blood was cleaned up. Something about Styke’s tale had her on edge, but she couldn’t quite place it. Maybe she was bothered by the reminder of how much of an impact Taniel had on, not only her world, but everyone else’s. Maybe it wasn’t even the story itself, but his fight with the dragonman. Styke was no sorcery-enhanced powder mage. Normal men didn’t have that kind of power. They didn’t crush a skull with a bare fist or break a Warden’s spine. She suddenly feared Styke, and she hadn’t truly feared another person for years.

  Maybe she didn’t like remembering that there were still monsters in the world that even she couldn’t comprehend.

  The blood was just being scraped off the dirt of the muster yard when there was a sudden commotion at the front gate. Vlora stopped her pacing and turned around with a scowl, only to see a handful of Blackhats appear at the open doors of the fort. There were two riders with Bronze Roses hanging from their necks, and another six Iron Roses on foot gathered around them. Their ranks suddenly swelled as more joined them from the street. Ten, then twenty, then thirty Blackhats crowded into the space.

  Vlora’s heart was suddenly pounding. She checked her pistol and sword. “Someone get Olem,” she ordered, striding toward the gate.

  Her soldiers stood firm just inside the fort gate, while Blackhats shifted nervously, staring at the Riflejack guards like a pack of wild dogs waiting for a signal. For their part her guards were stone-faced, and their sergeant—a stubborn, flat-faced man missing an ear from enemy straight shot—was arguing with one of the Bronze Roses.

  “Lady Flint’s orders,” Sergeant Jamenis insisted. “No one allowed inside Loel’s Fort without being announced first. You wait until word comes back from the Lady and then—”

  “It’s all right, Jamenis,” Vlora said, hurrying up behind him. “I’m right here. Stand down.” Jamenis immediately stepped aside, saluting.

  The Bronze Rose scoffed, urging his horse forward. Vlora grabbed the horse’s bridle, holding up the whole mob. “I didn’t say you could enter. Can I help you with something, Blackhat?”

  “Your men are lucky you’re here,” the Bronze Rose responded. He tugged on his reins, but Vlora held firm. “Next time we won’t be so accommodating. This is a surprise inspection, and I have full authority to search the premises on order of the grand master.”

  Vlora pursed her lips. Pushy Blackhats. This was the last thing she needed today. Was this Agent Bravis’s idea of a joke? Or was this a screen for her cover—hoping the Palo would see she was being pushed around by the Blackhats and be more likely to trust her?

  “No one inspects my men without my say-so,” Vlora said.

  “Grand master’s orders,” the Bronze Rose said again, as if the words were a magic password. “Surprise inspection. You do know what a surprise is, don’t you?”

  Vlora looked around at her gate guard, noting the tightening of fingers on rifles and the frowns on the faces of her men. She wondered what it would take to get the respect of the locals—Palo or Blackhats—and decided she’d have to live without it.

  This could turn very ugly, very quickly. She tried to read the face of the Bronze Rose. He was sweating heavily, even for the heat, and he kept shifting the reins from one hand to the other.

  “What’s going on, Blackhat? I don’t report to anyone except the Lady Chancellor herself, and I won’t listen to the lip of a lapdog. Explain yourself before I shut the gates in your face.” The Bronze Rose opened his mouth, but Vlora continued in a reasonable tone: “And before you throw threats and curses, remember that I have a brigade of the finest riflemen in the world within a whistle. Keep it civil.”

  The Bronze Rose chewed on his tongue for several moments, his face turning several shades of red before returning to a healthy, pink sheen. “We’re looking for an escaped convict named Ben Styke. Witnesses say they’ve seen him entering this compound on at least two occasions. He is a dangerous war criminal and is to be remanded to our custody immediately.”

  “You’re shitting me.” The words slipped out before Vlora could stop herself, and she immediately bit down on her tongue, her mind racing. Styke was an escaped war criminal? A thousand little things clicked into place, every interaction with Styke suddenly making all the more sense. His disappearance from public life, his injuries, his desire to keep a low profile, his disconnect from the modern city.

  The initial shock passed within moments, replaced quickly by an utter lack of surprise, and then a cold anger in the pit of her stomach. It must have all been plain to see on her face, because the Bronze Rose looked down from his saddle with a smug smile.

  “If you’d just hand him over, we’ll be gone in a few moments.”

  The Blackhats behind him all tightened their grip on their weapons. A little part of her realized they were not expecting an easy time of things, but the rest of her didn’t give a damn. “Give me a moment,” she snapped, spinning on her heel.

  She found Olem coming toward her across the muster yard but snatched him by the shoulder and pulled him into the fort office, slamming the door behind her.

  “He lied to us.”

  Olem pursed his lips. “Who?”

  “Styke. There’s a whole platoon’s worth of Blackhats standing at our gate demanding we hand over Styke. He�
�s a damned war criminal. An escaped convict.”

  Olem paced to the other side of the room, took out a pouch of tobacco, and smoothed a rolling paper on the table.

  “Olem …”

  He held up his finger. “Hold on. I’m thinking.”

  Vlora flexed her fingers, gripping and ungripping the hilt of her sword. Everything was making her furious lately—it was like an angry cloud had descended on her the moment she entered Landfall, preventing her from sorting her thoughts clearly. She had to fight through it. She had to be cold, calculating. Before two weeks ago she didn’t know Styke from a swamp dragon. She had no reason to trust anything he said—even if he had followed her orders and tracked down the dragonman. All she had was his reputation, Olem’s admiration, and Taniel’s letters.

  Did she have any more reason to trust the Blackhats? They were notoriously two-faced and underhanded. They existed to lie and manipulate. But did they lie about this? Styke was dangerous, and it made perfect sense that he’d escaped from a labor camp. But why wasn’t there a general alarm around the city? How was this the first Vlora had heard of it? Surely the newspaper would have reported something.

  “He didn’t lie to us,” Olem suddenly said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He just said he needed work. Never told us where he’d been, or why. And we never asked. So, technically, he never lied to us.”

  “What have I told you about using the word ‘technically’ to me?”

  Olem finished rolling a cigarette and squinted at the ceiling. “That you’d kick my teeth in?”

  “Right.” Vlora ground her teeth. “I was just starting to like him. Pit, I was just starting to trust him.”

  “More than you trust the Blackhats?”

  “Something I was wondering myself.” The knot of anger still sat in her stomach, but it had diminished to a reasonable size and Vlora felt like she could approach the matter with a clear head. She took a deep breath. “There’s nothing we can do for him,” she said. “We’re employed by the state. I could defy the Blackhats, but that mob out there means Fidelis Jes takes Styke very seriously. By the end of the night we could have an army outside our gates.”

  “The question, then,” Olem said, “is whether we throw Styke to the dogs.” He lit his cigarette and within moments had filled the room with a cloud of smoke. So much smoke was the best sign Olem was distressed, and Vlora didn’t blame him. He liked Styke. After Styke’s story about Taniel, then the fight in the muster yard, the men were beginning to take to him as well.

  “I’m not sacrificing our footing here for one man,” Vlora said quietly.

  A pained expression crossed Olem’s face. “I agree.”

  Vlora and Olem returned to the front gate, where the Blackhats were obviously getting antsy; horses pranced, men muttered, and the Bronze Rose grit his teeth as Vlora approached.

  “He’s not here,” Vlora said.

  Was that a bit of relief she saw in the Bronze Rose’s eyes? “Where is he?” he demanded.

  “Don’t know. Ran off awhile ago. Didn’t say where he was going. You have ten minutes to inspect the yard. I want Fidelis Jes to know that we were unaware of Styke’s status. He’s been cut loose and I’ll give a public order that my men are to arrest him on sight. I don’t like being lied to.”

  The speech seemed to satisfy the Bronze Rose, and he gave orders for his men to do a quick sweep of the fort. Vlora watched them enter, loathing herself for letting secret police have the run of her headquarters. Once they were all out of earshot, she turned to Olem.

  “Where’s the girl?”

  “Celine? Styke left her behind when he took off. I think she’s playing in the mess.”

  “Hide her. I won’t let the Blackhats get their grubby hands on an orphan.”

  Olem dashed off a quick order to two of the nearby guards and then returned to Vlora’s side. She watched as her men glared down the Blackhats rushing around the compound, and then said quietly, “Did you send anyone to follow Styke?”

  “I sent one of my boys in plainclothes.”

  “Send another. I won’t risk the brigade for one man—but for a few days at least, Styke was one of mine. The least we can do is give him some warning.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Styke followed the Fles apprentice down into the Depths and through the warrenlike streets of the slum, straight toward the Fles family home. People stopped and stared, then headed in the other direction or slammed front doors shut as Styke passed, vacating the streets ahead of him like waves rushing before the prow of a ship. The dragonman’s blood—and probably more than a little of his own—dripped from Styke’s fingertips, leaving a steady trail, and he absently wiped his hand on his shirt from time to time.

  The apprentice refused to say a word all the way to the Fles family home, and when they reached the front door he could only point in mute horror. The big oak door had been battered off its hinges and hung from a single hinge just inside the foyer. The house inside was dark, and Styke half-expected the apprentice to turn and flee, leaving Styke alone in some kind of a trap.

  The apprentice remained close, as if loath to be alone, even if his only companion was a crippled, blood-covered giant.

  Styke drew his knife and crept inside.

  The destruction did not stop at the front door. Every scrap of furniture—every knickknack collected over a long life serving kings and commoners—had been reduced to scraps. A priceless grandfather clock lay on its side, broken apart by an ax; the collection of Brudanian porcelain on the mantelpiece had been smashed; Gurlish rugs were shredded and Kez vases crushed.

  Styke squinted through the low light, taking in the wreckage. He knew immediately who had done it—the Blackhats—and he saw that they had been thorough. Even the walls had been attacked, hundreds of holes punched through the plaster in a hurried fury. The destruction could only have been more thorough if they’d set fire to the house, and only the fear of burning down the whole of the Depths would have stopped them. Somewhere within the house he could hear the sound of weeping, and that sound more than the ruin caused his heart to crack.

  He felt his chest tighten, making it hard to breathe, and he croaked, “Where is the Old Man?”

  “In the workshop,” the apprentice said.

  Fles’s workshop had received the brunt of the damage. Workbenches were split, tools scattered, swords and knives bent and broken. In the center of it all huddled a small group—three apprentices, all of them gathered around a still form on the floor. The youngest of the boys, no older than Celine, wept openly while the other two had red eyes and trembling chins. Styke pushed them gently out of the way and knelt by the Old Man.

  Old Man Fles was as beat up as his home. His face was a mess of blood and bruises, and one arm was bent at an odd angle under him. His shirt was soaked with as much blood as Styke’s, and he clutched a broken sword in one hand. He lay where he’d fallen, the boys not daring to move him.

  Styke’s chest tightened further. He tried to speak, but satisfied himself with a gesture and a grunt. “Water,” he ordered. He laid two fingers on the Old Man’s neck, then put his ear next to his mouth. He could feel the faint pulse of the vein, the gentle touch of breath on his cheek. Old Man Fles was still alive.

  Relief won out among all the other emotions swirling through Styke’s chest. He forced them all down, clearing his throat, then clearing it again, when he noticed that the Old Man’s eyes were open.

  “Big, bloody idiot,” the Old Man whispered.

  “Shut up,” Styke said. “Save your strength.”

  The Old Man tried to roll off his bent arm. He let out a high-pitched moan, then ceased his struggles. He managed to turn his head slightly, looking away from Styke, eyes searching the workshop. “A lifetime’s work,” he muttered.

  “Because of me,” Styke said. It was the only reason, of course. The Old Man paid his bribes, kept his nose clean. The Blackhats had no reason to attack such a highly regarded craftsman. Not
unless they were trying to get to Styke. They must have found out the Old Man was passing him information somehow. Maybe one of the apprentices. Maybe a spy watching the house. Maybe the Old Man himself had slipped up.

  “Of course it was cuz of you,” the Old Man hissed. “Always knew you were bad luck.” He tried to move his arm again, unsuccessfully.

  Styke rolled the Old Man on his side gently, ignoring the protesting squeal, and pulled the arm around and laid it on his chest. It was definitely broken, and would probably need to be set. Styke could do it, but he had no idea if the shock of it would kill the Old Man. “You summon a doctor?” he asked the oldest of the apprentices.

  “Just you,” the apprentice responded. “He said no doctors.”

  “Well, he’s an idiot. Go get the best surgeon in this half of the city, now.”

  “No doctors,” the Old Man grunted.

  “Shut your flapper,” Styke snapped. The apprentice hesitated, looking from Styke to the Old Man and back. Styke bared his teeth. “Whatever you think he’ll do to you if he gets better, I’ll do worse right now. Surgeon. Go.”

  The apprentice fled, and Styke had the others light the lanterns and gather what was left of the Old Man’s bed before carrying him to it. The Old Man cursed Styke’s face and parentage throughout the whole process, then passed out once he’d been laid still again. Styke sat on the floor by the bed, back against the cold manor wall, while the remaining apprentices busied themselves cleaning up the workshop.

  Styke stared at the ceiling, trying to remember the last time he had cried. Decades, probably, and the tears weren’t coming now even if he wished they would. The Old Man had been the closest thing he ever had to a mentor. He was a national treasure, a craftsman on par with the gunmaker Hrusch, and he’d always been inviolate. No one touched him, because everyone wanted his blades.

  “Right,” Styke said to himself, the corner of his mouth lifting in a rueful smile. “Last time I cried was when I killed that old bastard who called himself my father.”