Sins of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  Little Gamble. Ferlisia. Sunin. Chraston. Jackal.

  Ibana ja Fles.

  Ibana half-turned to the others, the pistol aimed at the head of the Privileged unwavering. “What the pit are you assholes waiting for? Set the inmates loose. Torch the admin buildings.”

  “The guards are held up in their bunkhouse,” Ferlisia said.

  Ibana grabbed Ferlisia by the collar, pulling her close. “Do you see what they’ve done to Ben? Our colonel? You set the guardhouse on fire, and shoot anyone who tries to escape. Shoot ’em in the legs and throw them back in. Pit-damned Blackhats have declared war on the Mad Lancers. They should have known better.”

  Styke jumped at the gentle touch of gloved fingers and felt his arm lifted to the light of the torch by the Privileged. The Privileged examined him clinically, then said quietly, “This is going to hurt. A lot.”

  The last thing Styke remembered was a blinding white light.

  CHAPTER 39

  This is it?” Meln-Dun asked.

  Vlora cocked an eyebrow at him as he stood in the doorway of the small pub back room she and a handful of chosen men had occupied on the rim of Greenfire Depths. There was some noise from the street outside, but for the most part things were quiet, peaceful. The Palo looked nonplussed, and she could see him counting the small group over and over again in his head until he finally turned to her with a pained expression. “This is not enough men.”

  There was a pregnant silence, only interrupted by the sound of Norrine dragging a whetstone across the blade of her sword. The scraping sound repeated twice before Vlora pointed to the man on her left. He was twenty-three and looked significantly younger with black hair and not a strand of beard on his chin. He was dressed just like her in dark green travel clothes, brown boots, high-collared shirt, and a slightly floppy tricorn that did well to hide his face. He carried a blunderbuss, nervously tapping the flared end against his boot.

  “This is Davd. He was a drummer boy during the Adran-Kez War. Eleven years with the Riflejacks.” She thrust a thumb to the woman on her right. “This is Norrine. She’s been with the Adran Army for forty-two years. She was trained by Field Marshal Tamas himself.” Norrine was an older woman with dirty-blond hair and an elfin-like face. She was nearly to her sixties, but a tight physical regimen made her look fifteen years younger. She continued to sharpen her sword, smirking at the fourth member of their group. Vlora introduced him. “Buden je Parst is Kez. Doesn’t speak a word of Adran so don’t bother. And Olem,” Vlora finished, slapping Olem on the knee, “you’ve met.”

  Buden grinned at Meln-Dun, revealed six missing teeth. He was missing most of his tongue, too, but he preferred not to draw attention to that. Meln-Dun’s pained expression deepened. “I understand your men are experienced,” he said slowly, “but the Yellow Hall is guarded by the best the Palo have to offer. If the Dynize are there as I fear, there may even be dragonmen. You should take no fewer than two companies.”

  “Two companies,” Vlora responded, “will just draw attention and slow us down. We’re not going in there for a fight. We’re there to smash in the door and bring in Mama Palo.”

  “Even still …”

  Olem snorted. “Don’t let her lead you on. This is the Riflejacks’ dirty secret. Everyone in this room but you and me is a powder mage.”

  Meln-Dun’s eyes widened and he swept his gaze across the small group once more. “I see. I had no idea the Riflejacks even had other powder mages.”

  “Hence the dirty little secret,” Vlora said. She took a deep breath, trying to get in the right frame of mind for a night raid. She hadn’t done anything like this for years, and the prospect both thrilled and scared her. Five men against a whole warren of Palo thugs was dangerous, even if four of them were powder mages. Mistakes could—would—be made. There would be surprises. Everything they planned could go awry the moment they stepped out the door of this pub.

  Tamas had always said that a greater risk had better come with a greater reward. She was risking the very heart of the Riflejacks, but the reward was that she could accomplish the entire assignment in a single night—and she and her men walk away tomorrow with a full year’s pay. Mama Palo’s fall might even bring long-term stability to Greenfire Depths. The money was great, but her conscience allowing her to sleep at night was even better.

  “Even with powder mages, I still don’t see …” Meln-Dun began, but Norrine held up a hand.

  “It’ll be enough,” she assured him.

  The Palo finally entered the room and shut the door behind him, taking a seat. He seemed remarkably calm despite the attempt on his life earlier that day, and Vlora wondered if he’d been drinking to settle his nerves.

  “Are you sure you’re able to do this?” Vlora asked.

  Meln-Dun gave a confident nod. “I am. I have to. They’ve killed my friends, taken my family and business hostage. If this does not happen tonight, I am finished.” He scowled, then looked up at Vlora. “Something has been bothering me, Lady Flint.”

  “What’s that?” Vlora mentally checked her kit, counting her powder charges, then making sure both her pistols were already loaded.

  “Mama Palo told me something when we spoke last: that a known Blackhat was seen leaving your headquarters on more than one occasion.”

  Vlora exchanged a glance with Olem. “That is true,” she said. “I’ve made no secret that we’re employed by the state. In fact, I believe that’s the reason you came to me in the first place.”

  “Yes, but this business with the rebuilding. Was it your main reason for being here?”

  “Keeping the peace has always been our reason for being here.” Vlora swore inwardly. Was Meln-Dun getting cold feet? Did he suddenly realize how deep he was with the Palo’s long-standing enemy? Surely this mustn’t be news to him. She reminded herself how easy it was to be self-delusional when you had a passion.

  “But,” Meln-Dun pressed, “your purpose here. Were you assigned to bring down Mama Palo by the Blackhats?”

  Vlora exchanged another glance with Olem, wondering if this would be a good time to lie. But, as she so often told her men, she hated a liar. “Yes.”

  Meln-Dun was silent for several long seconds, his tongue between his lips and his eyes on the floor. “All right. We can do this. I just wanted to know where you stood.”

  “Same place I’ve always stood,” Vlora responded. “And I’ve never lied to you. I do have an interest in helping rebuild Greenfire Depths.”

  Meln-Dun looked away, unresponsive. Olem shrugged. Buden spat a wad of tobacco on the floor.

  “It’s well past time to get moving,” Norrine warned.

  “Agreed,” Vlora said, getting to her feet. She checked her men, using her mage senses to be sure they had enough powder and their weapons primed. She took a spare pistol off the table behind Davd and held it out to Meln-Dun. “Have you fought before?”

  “It’s been many years,” he said hesitantly.

  “Take this just in case.” She turned to face the others and said, “Remember, we’re not here to conquer or fight or dilly-dally. We’re grabbing Mama Palo and we’re getting the pit out as quickly as possible. Keep your knives and swords handy. Firearms are to be kept in check unless it’s absolutely necessary—if at all possible we want to be gone before they even know we’ve arrived. And only kill if we need to.”

  “There will be violence,” Meln-Dun said with a frown. “Killing can’t be avoided.”

  “I’m making as few enemies as possible tonight.”

  “Every one of Mama Palo’s men you leave alive is another enemy on the morrow.”

  Olem inclined his head toward Meln-Dun in a way that said he has a point. Vlora shook her head at Meln-Dun. “We’ll keep it as bloodless as possible, but make no mistake. We’re all killers. This’ll go painfully if it needs to. Let’s get moving before it gets any later.”

  Davd led them out through the back of the pub and down a side alley, checking to be sure they weren’t spotte
d, before motioning for Meln-Dun to go ahead. It was a quiet evening, a weeknight curfew in effect by order of Lindet, and they were nearly alone on the dark streets of the plateau.

  Meln-Dun took a deep breath and stashed his pistol beneath his shirt before he led them along a series of winding streets. They crossed boulevards and back alleys running parallel to the Rim overlooking the Depths before finally taking a small, little-used path behind someone’s house down into a narrow hallway cut into the very rock of the plateau.

  They descended rapidly into the cool stone passage, the steps becoming impossibly steep, and only a quick pinch of powder snorted in each nostril gave Vlora enough night vision to see what she was doing. She heard the others preparing themselves likewise. At the front, Meln-Dun seemed to navigate confidently despite the pitch-black, and behind her Olem kept a hand on her belt, cursing from time to time as he stubbed a toe or bashed his elbow on the side of the quarry.

  Their descent was arrested suddenly as Meln-Dun stopped to fiddle with a door, and a moment later they were on flat ground once again.

  “Ground,” Vlora corrected herself, wasn’t the word for it. They had certainly not gone all the way to the bottom of Greenfire Depths, and as they walked down what appeared to be plastered hallways, their footsteps echoed like they were tramping along the scaffolding of a tenement construction site and felt only slightly more stable.

  This appeared to be some sort of highway, and despite the twists and turns the corridor remained wide with small shop windows along either side and the occasional Palo family sitting along the walls with a gas lamp, taking a late meal or enjoying gossip with the neighbors. For the most part Vlora’s small group was ignored, and when they reached the next junction she asked Meln-Dun about it.

  “We’re in what we call the Cobweb right now,” he explained. “Suspended fifty feet above the floor of the Depths, some of these halls span the entire length of the quarry. It’s much safer up here, but Kressians are never allowed.” He put an emphasis on “never” and Vlora lowered the brim of her hat slightly, glancing over her shoulder.

  They continued on for what felt like miles until Meln-Dun suddenly held up a hand. They came to a stop behind him. The Cobweb was much more active here, even more active than the streets up on the plateau, and the group had begun to receive more than one curious glance. Things were even better lit here, too.

  “What’s going on?” Vlora asked, gesturing for Olem to drop back with Norrine to watch their rear.

  Meln-Dun pointed through an arched passage to a door a little farther on. “We’re getting close to the Yellow Hall. Mama Palo’s men patrol this area heavily. We’re going to have to go down now, but we may encounter guards, starting just behind that door.”

  Vlora gestured to Davd, tapped her eyes, and pointed at the door. The young powder mage crossed the hall quickly, slinging his blunderbuss over his shoulder, and pressed gently on the door. Vlora counted to five, then followed.

  Just inside lay a Palo man in a pale green uniform, slumped on his side. Davd tapped the side of the man’s head. “He’ll live, but he’ll have a pit of a headache when he wakes up.”

  “Let’s be in and gone before he does,” Vlora said.

  They were joined by the others, and Meln-Dun frowned at the unconscious Palo. “Those are the uniforms Mama Palo’s personal guard wear. You shouldn’t leave them alive.”

  “Yeah, you said that,” Vlora responded, feeling a bit peeved. Meln-Dun was a businessman, but in her experience the strangest people could get overtaken by bloodlust when they had power over others. “There’s no reason to kill him. Let’s keep moving.”

  They descended two more levels down a narrow staircase, then a ladder, before Meln-Dun stopped them again. “We’re here.”

  “Already?” Vlora asked.

  “That was quick,” Norrine commented.

  Meln-Dun tossed aside a carpet to reveal a trapdoor. “We won’t be able to come back this way,” he said.

  Vlora found out why a moment later. Below the door was a ten-foot drop to what appeared to be old clay shingles. She had a moment of confusion before she finally chuckled. “We’re above the Yellow Hall. That’s the original roof, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Meln-Dun answered. “The Cobweb was built above and around everything that existed in Greenfire Depths before, with the exception of some of the houses near the working quarries.”

  “Is that roof going to hold us?” Norrine asked.

  Vlora glanced down into the darkness. “I hope so.”

  Davd went first, dropping down onto the clay shingles, scrabbling for purchase before getting a good footing. Vlora tossed down his weapons, then her own, and lowered herself down from the trapdoor by her arms before letting go. Davd caught her, helping her get her footing, before aiding the rest of the group down. Norrine came last, lowering the trapdoor gently onto her fingers before taking the drop.

  They spread out across the roof, checking their weapons in the darkness before creeping along to the very edge of the shingles. Vlora could sense a steep drop below her—probably three stories or more—and wondered how they were going to get down. She and the other mages could make that jump without suffering damage, but Olem and Meln-Dun would break a leg.

  Meln-Dun provided the answer a moment later, showing them to a small belfry that rose above the roof. Vlora joined them just as a few sharp words broke out.

  “You’ve been planning this,” Davd hissed.

  Meln-Dun recoiled. Vlora shushed Davd and turned to Meln-Dun, only to find the Palo was not denying the accusation. “What does he mean?” she asked him.

  “I mean,” Davd answered, “all of this. The roof, the trapdoor, this belfry. He had to have planned this out well ahead of time.”

  “Don’t mind me,” Olem whispered. “Can’t see a damn thing because I’m not a bloody powder mage. I’ll just stand here in the dark until you’ve got this sorted out.”

  “He’s been planning this,” Davd insisted.

  Vlora glanced quizzically at Meln-Dun before remembering that he couldn’t see in the dark, either. He was doing all this by feel. “Well?” she asked.

  “I …” There was an uncomfortably long pause, then Meln-Dun said in a defeated tone, “I’ve considered the need to remove Mama Palo for several months. She’s been getting worse, more erratic, harder to negotiate with. I knew something would have to be done. I planned out this route several weeks ago, thinking I would be bringing Blackhats or Palo mercenaries in here to assassinate Mama Palo.”

  “Assassinate” was a dangerous word for a businessman. The idea bothered Vlora, but she thrust it aside. It turned out Meln-Dun was using them just as much as she was using him, and somehow that made her feel a little less guilty. “It’s too late to quibble now. Get us through here.”

  “The belfry is boarded up from the inside. We’ll have to break through it.”

  Davd thumped on the boards. “That feels pretty tight.”

  “It’s going to make a pit of a lot of noise,” Olem warned.

  Vlora vacillated for a moment. She might be able to drop down and find another way in, then make her way back up to pry the boards off from the inside. But the Yellow Hall was an enormous house, and she could just as easily get herself lost and cornered. More important than staying silent was staying together.

  “The belfry leads into the old master suite,” Meln-Dun said. “It’s where Mama Palo lives and holds court.”

  “We’re above her court right now?” Vlora demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “Making a damned racket. They probably already know there’s someone up here.” Vlora reached out with her senses, trying to find everyone within a hundred yards with the slightest bit of powder on them. She felt her other mages doing the same. Immediately below them there were concentrations of powder that amounted to three armed men. A fourth and fifth were coming up the stairs to the second floor of the Yellow Hall and beyond that … well, she lost count at thirty.
<
br />   Mama Palo had a lot of bodyguards.

  “Right,” Vlora said, readying her pistol. “Davd, knock it in.”

  Davd backed up and took a running start, throwing himself against the boarded window of the belfry. There was a mighty crash and he disappeared in a swirl of dust. Vlora followed him through, helping him to his feet, while Norrine, Olem, and Buden rushed down the stairs with weapons at the ready. There was another crash as they forced a door below, and then a torrent of shouting in Adran, Palo, and Kez.

  Vlora leapt down the stairs, blinking as she entered a brightly lit room. The walls were made of the same yellow limestone as the rest of the hall and decorated with candelabras and tapestries. The light came from lamps fed by haphazardly strung gas lines, and Vlora pulled up to find herself looking down the barrels of three pistols as well as the blades of another two swords.

  There were five men, not three, and she suspected they would be joined by many more within a few moments.

  The five Palo guards wore pale green uniforms and looked angry and startled, their faces red, fingers pulling triggers that wouldn’t respond. Vlora could sense Norrine suppressing the powder in the pans, keeping the pistols from firing.

  “Stop!” Vlora said, drawing her sword. “There’s no need for bloodshed.” She hoped to pit that they understood Adran, because her Palo was terrible. “We’re here for Mama Palo. No one has to get hurt.”

  Behind the five men Vlora spotted an old woman lounging on a divan in the center of the room. She had a regal bearing, her chin held high, and she wore faded old buckskins and no jewelry like the Palo one might find deep in the Tristan Basin. She looked to be well into her seventies, hands shaking with rheumatism, and Vlora had a sudden pang of guilt.

  This was who was causing so much trouble? This was who Vlora had come for? Could she bring herself to drag an old woman to the Blackhats and watch her hang?