Sins of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  Jes strode away, fists clenched, and Vlora turned to Olem the moment he was out of earshot. “Did that seem strange to you?” she asked.

  “Very,” Olem said. “He is going to give himself an apoplexy.”

  “Over one man?”

  “Well,” Olem responded, “a whole company.”

  “It has to be something else,” Vlora responded, though she couldn’t for the life of her decide what. He probably was worried about Palo riots, and he did know about the Dynize, though they were hardly a threat contained as they were down in Greenfire Depths. “There’s no way he’s going that mad over the prospect of a single group of retired lancers running amok.”

  “The Mad Lancers were legendary,” Olem said. “They broke whole Kez armies back in their day.”

  Vlora mulled that over. She’d witnessed legendary companies firsthand—some that lived up to their reputations, and more that did not. But even if every story was true, Jes’s behavior didn’t make any sense. Something else was on his mind. Something big. Styke was just the thorn that continued to prick him. “It’s not our problem anymore. Looks like we’ve overstayed our welcome, both with the Palo and our former employer. Start chartering us passage back to the Nine.”

  “You were serious about that?” Olem asked.

  Vlora hesitated. She had a lot of bad memories back home, some of which she’d been running from for more than five years. Perhaps it was time to head back and take those on. Or perhaps not.

  “Check with the local chapter house of the Wings of Adom. See if they have any work for us. We’ll head home for the winter, then re-form the company in spring. Maybe head to Gurla.”

  Olem touched the brim of his hat. “Right. Any specific action we’re looking for?”

  “I’m sick of oppressing people,” Vlora said, glancing toward Greenfire Depths. “I’m sick of working for tin-pot dictators. Find me an underdog to fight for. As long as they can pay decently, of course.”

  “That’s the kicker.”

  “It always is.” Vlora took the cigarette out of Olem’s mouth and drew on it deeply before handing it back. She had a feeling in her gut, a twisting of her bowels that made her want to look over her shoulder. Their need to be gone from Landfall was suddenly desperate, and she resisted the urge to run back to Loel’s Fort that second.

  “Something wrong?” Olem asked.

  “Indigestion. I hope. Get the men ready to move out.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m taking a day off, then I’m going to see the fruits of our labor. I’ll come find you after Mama Palo’s hanging tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 42

  The Privileged,” Styke asked. “Did you kill him?”

  He sat in bed in a rented room above a pub in one of the dozens of border towns that surrounded Landfall. It was the middle of the afternoon, and he could hear the hum of lunchtime conversation in the room below him and the clatter of traffic in the street outside. Ibana ja Fles, manager of Fles and Fles Fine Blades and second in command of the Mad Lancers heavy cavalry, sat on a chair beside the bed.

  Few people would consider Ibana a beautiful woman. She had a tough, cracked face from years of working the forge, with a broad forehead and flat, pockmarked cheeks. She had dirty-blond hair tucked carelessly into a ponytail, with an easy smirk that brought back more than a few good memories. She towered over most men, just a few inches shy of Styke’s height, and was strong as an ox. She used to entertain the lancers by cracking empty powder barrels between her thighs.

  Ibana popped her knuckles one at a time, first working through one hand and then the other. Styke had been awake for several minutes, and she’d yet to say a word.

  “No,” she finally said. “I dumped him in a ditch on the other side of town.”

  “You’re getting soft.”

  “I told him I’d let him go unharmed if he healed you. I keep my promises.”

  Styke looked down at his shoulder and traced a finger over a thin, pink scar—all that remained of the deep stab wound from Fidelis Jes’s knife. He had seventeen other new scars of varying length over the rest of his body, each of them feeling tight and uncomfortable. He rotated his arm, surprised to feel only the slightest twinge. Everything felt as good as new—or at least as good as it was before his fight with Fidelis Jes. The Privileged had even taken some time on each of the old bullet wounds, and Styke found that he now had more, though not complete, use of his middle and index fingers on his left hand. “Healing Privileged are damned rare. Where did you find him on short notice?”

  “He’s one of Lindet’s personal cabal. I actually nabbed him to take care of the Old Man, but then Celine showed up ranting about you going to the Millinery.”

  “Celine?”

  “She’s safe,” Ibana said shortly.

  “And the Old Man? Is he …?”

  Ibana’s eyes narrowed. “He’ll live. No thanks to you. He’s pissed as a pit about the house.”

  “I didn’t want to involve him.”

  “But you did.”

  Styke chewed on his words, then decided a nod would suffice. “I had just got out. I needed someone I could trust.”

  “So you brought my elderly father into your personal vendetta?”

  Styke scowled, confused. What was that supposed to mean? “No,” he finally said. “It wasn’t about Fidelis Jes at all. At least, not from the start.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Have I ever lied to you?”

  “On several occasions.”

  “About anything important?”

  Ibana worked through her fingers again. Only one of them popped. “I don’t want your excuses, Colonel.”

  Styke felt his stomach clench. Ibana only called him “colonel” when she was worried, or furious. She didn’t look all that worried now. But he was done. He was whole and safe—at least temporarily—for the first time since before the war and he wanted to enjoy it for a few minutes. “What do you want, then?” he demanded.

  “I want an apology.”

  “For what? Getting the Old Man’s shop wrecked? Him beat up? Because if you don’t think I’m bloody well sorry for that then you’re a fool.”

  Ibana’s jaw clenched. “No,” she said quietly. “I expect you to apologize for leaving me alone the last ten years.”

  “Fine,” Styke snapped. “I apologize. I apologize for making enemies with that psychotic horse’s ass Fidelis Jes. For getting put in front of the firing squad. For getting hauled off and buried in a labor camp and then for trying to keep everyone else from getting my shit on them when I got out.”

  “I saw that camp. You could have escaped.”

  “I didn’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I knew that this—your father, Little Gamble’s pub, Sunin’s apothecary—all the things they’d built would come crashing down the moment I escaped. I managed to get out without violence, and I was stupid to think that I was free. But I wasn’t.”

  Ibana regarded him warily. “You knew about all that? Gamble’s pub? People’s homes and businesses?”

  “Not until after my fight with Jes,” Styke said, lowering his voice. “I went to fight him because I thought it would prevent all that. I wanted to keep him from hurting the rest of my friends. But he’d already done it, and he used it to taunt me when I was down.” He let out a sigh, looking around the room, wondering what he was going to do next. Five minutes ago he’d felt like a new man, but the argument with Ibana had taken everything out of him. He felt drained and invalid, and when he tried to move his leg the old bullet wound reminded him that the Privileged hadn’t been able to heal everything. “I’m sorry I left you alone.”

  Ibana stood up, stretching. “Here’s the thing,” she said, before suddenly snapping one fist forward, slamming it across Styke’s face. Styke jerked back, knocking against the headboard, stars swirling before his eyes. He tasted blood and it took almost thirty seconds before he could see clearly. He foun
d Ibana gone, the door left open behind her.

  Styke rolled slowly out of bed, all the aches and twinges he thought he’d left behind suddenly catching up to him. He’d only had healing sorcery to this extent once before, and his body had felt like a new, slightly too-small glove for over a week. He tottered over to the washbasin and mirror on the other side of the bed and washed the blood off his face, checking his nose. It wasn’t broken. Ibana had pulled her punch.

  She was getting soft.

  He checked all the new, pink scars again. Most he didn’t remember getting, but he could still feel the slice along his left wrist that had left him unable to move his fingers. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck and he quickly buried the memory, flexing his hand to remind him that it was working once again.

  Ibana was back. The knowledge was both frightening and comforting at the same time. He’d always been the head of the Mad Lancers, she the backbone; in some ways not unlike the relationship between Lady Flint and Olem—though he guessed Ibana had a cruel streak that would make Olem blanch. None of that mattered now, though, he reminded himself. The Mad Lancers no longer existed. They were an idea, a memory—a shimmer on the distant horizon.

  And his relationship with Ibana? He’d put her father in danger. He’d disappeared for ten years. He didn’t know if she’d taken other lovers or pit, gotten married. He didn’t want to ask. And even if she hadn’t, ten years was an awfully large gap to cross.

  “Pit, you’re old,” her voice said. Styke jumped. Ibana leaned in the doorway, eyeing his naked body. “I don’t remember you being so wrinkly.”

  Styke didn’t bother to look down at his scarred, pitted body. She was right. His skin looked like a tomato left out in the sun too long. He’d never really thought about the wrinkles before. “You still look good,” he responded.

  “Don’t try to sweet-talk me.”

  “Just stating a fact. Everyone ages. You did it way better than me.”

  “Yeah,” Ibana responded, “but you started off prettier.”

  “I guess we’re even, then.”

  “On that account. Yeah.” Ibana cleared her throat and hawked a wad into the chamber pot from across the room. “But you’ve got a lot of catching up to do on all the others. Now, you said this whole thing involving my father wasn’t supposed to be about Fidelis Jes. You said you got out of the labor camp without violence.”

  Styke grimaced. He’d planned on telling her. Eventually. “I’d hoped you missed that.”

  “Not a chance. Tell me what’s going on. All of it.”

  So Styke did. He started with the parole hearing, told her about Tampo, then joining the Riflejacks. He told her about the dragonman, the Dynize, and the Palo. He talked until his throat was raw, and Ibana stood there unmoving through the whole thing. When he finished he looked around for his pants, only to find a new pair hanging by the washbasin.

  “Is the girl yours?”

  Styke froze, the pants around his ankles, one leg raised. “Celine?”

  “Yeah. Her.”

  “I suppose so. She hasn’t got anyone else.” Styke didn’t like the edge to Ibana’s voice. He finished pulling the pants on and buckled the belt.

  “But you didn’t father her in the camps?”

  “No. Her dad was a thief. Died mucking the marshes. Where is she?”

  Ibana’s tone softened. “She’s downstairs playing with Gamble. He says she’s just a few years younger than his daughters would have been if they survived the war, the sap.”

  Styke let out a soft sigh. The fact that, after all this, Celine was safe and close by was as comforting as waking up with a working hand. When he turned back Ibana had a strange half smile on her face. She uncrossed her arms and lifted her chin toward him. She seemed satisfied that Celine wasn’t his by blood, and the fact she cared was somehow comforting to Styke.

  “That’s quite the story you told,” Ibana said. “So what are you going to do now?”

  “I’m not sure.” Styke didn’t trust that smile. It meant Ibana already knew how this conversation was going to end. It was unnerving. “I’ve got two masters right now. Tampo and Lady Flint.”

  “And do you owe either of them anything?”

  “I owe Tampo my freedom. And I owe Lady Flint …” Styke frowned. He wasn’t sure what he owed Lady Flint. She’d given him a job—a purpose—and the fact that he felt a modicum of guilt over the false pretenses he’d used told him all he needed to know. “I like Lady Flint. I like Olem and the Riflejacks. They warned me that the Blackhats were coming for me.”

  “You have obligations.”

  “I have obligations,” Styke agreed. He was torn. He couldn’t go back to Lady Flint. He didn’t know how to contact Tampo and even if he did, was he any use to Tampo now that he was on the Blackhats’ shit list? His best bet was to disappear. He could take Celine and head north. Catch a ship to Gurla or the Nine and be beyond Fidelis Jes’s reach within a few weeks. Vanishing into thin air would be its own sort of vengeance. Jes would lie awake at night, wondering when the knife would come out of the dark, while Styke slept peacefully half a world away.

  “You didn’t mention your other obligations.”

  Styke raised his eyebrows. “You?”

  “You bet your ass me. And everyone else.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ibana advanced into the room. “Have you forgotten the men and women downstairs? The Blackhats attacked your whole officer corps—everyone still alive, that is. They burned businesses, destroyed homes, beat some of our friends within an inch of their lives.”

  Styke’s chest tightened and he looked away. “I … I’ve got nothing to offer them.”

  “Don’t look away from me. I will break your nose, and then I’ll go to work on your fingers. Those people would die for you, and all you can do is avert your eyes out of self-pity? You’ll give them something, even if it’s one last ride into glory and death. You’re goddamned Mad Ben Styke.”

  “A ride?” Styke asked. “What would we ride against? There is no great empire battering down our doors this time.”

  “The Blackhats,” Ibana suggested.

  “The Blackhats,” Styke said, nodding. He held up his hand, suddenly caught on his own words. He repeated his last sentence under his breath. “No great empire …” He looked Ibana in the eye. “The Dynize. Something is going on with the Dynize. I never found out what, but with dragonmen in the city they have to be planning something.”

  “Dragonmen.” Ibana snorted. “Then we have two groups to ride against.”

  Styke’s heart leapt at the idea. The Mad Lancers together again, prepared to fight through the teeth of whatever the world could throw at them. A week ago—pit, an hour ago—it would have seemed a silly thought, but now here it was. “Seems like a lot of enemies.”

  “Never bothered us before.”

  “What happened to our armor?” Styke asked. “Last I heard, Lindet was going to have it destroyed.”

  “Last I heard, too,” Ibana said with a scowl.

  “Enchanted armor is priceless. She wouldn’t destroy it.”

  “It’s Lindet.”

  Styke nodded. That was all Ibana needed to stay. He reached for his knife, his hand coming up empty, and remembered the sound of it clattering away across the cobbles after Jes’s victory. Ibana’s eyes followed the gesture, and Styke said quickly, “I’ll get it back.” He walked toward the door, then thought better of it, opening the window and looking down into the street. He wasn’t ready to face his old officer corps. Not yet. He began to climb through the window.

  “What are you doing?” Ibana demanded.

  “Keep everyone here,” he said. “If you have to move to avoid the Blackhats, leave word for me at Grandma Sender’s.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Styke remembered what Jes had whispered just before having him carted off. I can’t kill you. She won’t allow it. “It’s long past time I had a talk with the one who holds Fidelis Je
s’s leash.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Michel jogged up the steps to the Millinery courtyard, Gold Rose dangling from a chain around his neck, tapping gently against his chest. He shaded his face from the afternoon sun, realizing he’d left his hat on the desk of his new office. It was not, he decided, an auspicious start to his new command.

  The word “command” felt foreign—so military and public, far from what he was used to—but after spending all night and most of the morning being briefed about his new responsibilities as a Gold Rose, he felt it was the most fitting word to use. Silver Roses were, technically, just one rank under a Gold Rose. But there were a lot of Silver Roses, and he’d always remained in the shadows, working alone, only taking advantage of his rank when he needed a couple of bodyguards or someone roughed up.

  A few days ago the idea of bossing around a few dozen Iron and Bronze Roses had been a novel one, though ill-fitting. Now he was expected to take charge of more than six hundred Roses of all ranks and conduct a search for Benjamin Styke and a whole company of angry veterans.

  “How hard will it be to find three hundred or so retired cavalry?” he asked himself.

  “I don’t know,” he responded sarcastically. “How about you wander into the streets and ask around for the lancer unit that put the entire Kez army on edge?”

  “That was ten years ago. They’re all washed up.”

  “Tell that to the guards at the labor camp they set fire to last night.”

  Michel rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t going to be alone in the search. Oh, definitely not. More than ten thousand Blackhats and twice that many in city police were currently combing the streets. He wondered how the pit this had been his first assignment, before remembering the wild look in Jes’s eye when he demanded Styke’s head. Every single Gold Rose—and everyone under them—had been told to look for Styke.

  He wondered what his next assignment would be once Styke had been found and put down. His only real expertise was spycraft. Maybe Jes would allow him to organize the Blackhats’ spies and let him set up a real training program. He’d daydreamed a hundred times what kind of changes he’d make if he were in charge, and now that looked like a real possibility.