Sins of Empire

by Brian McClellan

  This was a lot to take in. Ibana looked skeptical, and Styke himself echoed the sentiment. It was possible to hide from the Else using Privileged sorcery, but it was incredibly difficult. Wearing someone else’s face for long periods of time, and being completely undetectable? It would take a whole Privileged cabal to manage that.

  Or, if Flint was telling the truth, a single powerful bone-eye.

  Styke could think of no reason for Flint to lie. “So does this mean no hard feelings?” he asked slowly.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Flint said, eyes flashing. “But a secret bodyguard is more palatable than a secret assassin.” Her eyes suddenly widened. “Son of a bitch, I don’t have time for this.” She opened the door and yelled for Olem, then closed it behind her, eyes focusing on Styke. “Did you fight Fidelis Jes?”

  “I did.” Styke grimaced.

  “And you lost?”

  “He sent me back to the camps, crippled.”

  Flint looked him up and down. “You don’t look crippled.”

  “The Mad Lancers rescued him,” Ibana explained. “We may have, um, kidnapped a Privileged to heal his wounds.”

  “Kidnapped a Privileged …” Flint muttered. She shook her head. “Bloody madmen. Okay, so that is where we stand. Did you find anything else out about the Dynize before that whole debacle?”

  Styke shook his head. He could see in her eyes that Flint had moved past the apology, the revealed betrayal, and all of that to something else. Her ability to compartmentalize was admirable, but he reminded himself not to make the mistake of assuming she would trust him again.

  “So you know nothing about the Dynize fleet sitting out beyond the bay?” Flint asked.

  “The what now?” Ibana asked, mouth falling open.

  Styke managed to keep the shock off his face, but he felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “That’s not possible,” he said.

  “Neither is Taniel Two-shot being alive,” Flint responded. “But there it is. At least forty ships of war and I have no idea how many support frigates.”

  “The Dynize haven’t left their country for over a hundred years.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “How do they even have a fleet?” Ibana demanded.

  “I’d love to figure that out,” Flint said, “but in the meantime I’d rather know why they’re here.”

  There was a knock on the door and Styke jumped, only then realizing he’d been clutching the handle of his knife. Olem poked his head inside. “Vlora,” he started, then saw Styke and Ibana. “Ah. You’re still here.”

  “Yes, they’re still here,” Flint responded, acid in her voice. “And you and I are going to talk about this later.”

  “Sure,” Olem said coolly. “After we talk about Fidelis Jes standing in the muster yard.”

  Styke was halfway to the door before he even knew he was moving. Flint threw out a hand, putting a surprisingly firm palm on his chest. “No,” she barked.

  Styke clenched and unclenched his fists. This was his chance. He was healed, fresh, angry, armed. He didn’t care how many Blackhats Jes had with him out there, between him and Ibana they would carve through the lot and he’d pop Jes’s eyeballs like pimples. He tried to step forward, but Ibana put an arm around his chest and hauled him back. He growled at her, and she slapped him across the face. It was enough for him to get control of himself, and he stalked to the other end of the room and glared at both Ibana and Flint.

  “What does he want?” Flint asked. “Is it about the fleet?”

  “It is,” Olem answered.

  Flint seemed to vacillate before pointing at Styke. “You, stay here. If you so much as put a finger outside this door I will put a bullet in your head. Olem, let Jes in the building.”

  She disappeared, leaving Styke and Ibana alone inside her office once more. Styke took several deep breaths, letting himself calm down before shrugging Ibana’s hold off his shoulders. “I’m fine,” he said quietly. He’d imagined a quick apology and a quicker exit, and now he was stuck here with his worst enemy on the other side of the door. He should have had a better exit strategy. Slowly, he crept over and put his ear against the door.

  In the next room, he heard Fidelis Jes enter and a cold exchange of pleasantries between the two.

  “What’s going on?” Ibana whispered, joining him.

  Styke listened carefully, only catching about half of the muffled conversation. “Jes is telling Flint about the fleet. Seems he wants to hire her.”

  “She’s not working for him anymore?”

  “No. That’s what Lindet said. Their contract was for Mama Palo.”

  Ibana snorted. “You got lucky then. If she was still with him she would have handed us over. Or tried to.”

  “I don’t think she would have,” Styke answered. He shushed her, trying to catch more of the exchange, but to no avail. “What are we going to do about this?”

  “About what? Jes?” Ibana asked. “We’re going to kill him and use his skin to make you a new saddle.”

  Styke rolled his eyes. “And people say I have anger problems. No, about the Dynize.”

  “Sod the Dynize. We’re riding against the Blackhats.”

  Styke stepped away from the door, taking Ibana by the arm and pulling her into the far corner, where they were less likely to be overheard. “If it’s true, and there’s a Dynize fleet out there, something is happening far bigger than you or I or the Mad Lancers.” He remembered Lindet’s warning to watch the horizon. Had she known this was coming?

  Ibana lifted her face away from his, looking down her nose. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that we should lie low for a few months. See what happens. It may be that the Mad Lancers have more important things to do than slaughter Blackhats.”

  “You’re going to let them get away with what they did to you?” Ibana hissed.

  “Pit, no. I still want that saddle you promised me. But I formed the Mad Lancers to protect Fatrasta, not to avenge my own losses.”

  “You did it for both.”

  Styke chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Fair point. But something is happening.” He paused, a thought occurring to him. He replayed the conversation with Lindet last night through his head. “Pit,” he said breathlessly. “Lindet must have known they were coming.”

  “How?” Ibana asked.

  “She told me to watch the horizon. She said Fatrasta would face its greatest threat and that she didn’t think we would be prepared for it. I thought she was trying to throw me off the trail, but she was talking about the Dynize.” He was certain of it now, and he silently cursed Lindet for it. “Damn it, she could have just bloody well told me.”

  “If she knew, why didn’t she say anything?”

  “She didn’t think I needed to know,” Styke said bitterly. “You know that I’m the only person in the world who knows her birthday? If it’s not pertinent, she doesn’t share it. Just some bloody cryptic warnings. I—”

  His next sentence was cut off by the door swinging open. Styke snatched for his knife, but it was just Lady Flint. She was wearing a scowl, looking like she’d aged five years in the time since she left the room. “Is Jes gone?” Styke asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What did he want?” Ibana demanded.

  Flint crossed between them, rounding her desk and plopping down into a chair. Olem entered the room a moment later, taking up a spot just inside. Neither looked happy.

  Finally, Flint said, “I need you and your Mad Lancers.”

  “Excuse me?” Ibana did not sound pleased.

  Flint’s tone was distant. “We’ll outfit you with horses and kit. I want you riding north within the hour. We’ve got eight hundred cuirassiers and three hundred dragoons stationed in Jedwar. You’re to take command of them and bring them back to the city.”

  Styke’s chest was suddenly tight. “Why?”

  “Because,” Flint said, “I’ve just been deputized as a general in the Fa
trastan army. That fleet outside is making Lindet twitchy. I’ve been given complete control over the garrison and defenses of Landfall.”

  “Is there going to be violence?”

  “We don’t know. Lindet isn’t taking any chances, and I’m the best they’ve got.”

  “What about Jes?” Styke asked.

  Flint’s head turned, her eyes focusing on Styke with a single-minded determination that made him take half a step back. “You and the Blackhats are going to put aside your squabble until the danger outside has passed.”

  “Like pit we will.” Ibana snorted.

  “Like pit. You will,” Flint ordered.

  Ibana scowled back at her, then said in a slightly chastised tone, “It’s Jes you have to worry about.”

  Styke glanced between the two women, wondering if this would still come to blows. He’d never heard anyone speak to Ibana that way and live to tell the tale. But Ibana was still listening, so that was a good sign.

  “Jes will stay the bloody pit out of my way while I am in command,” Flint said, “or I’ll put him in front of a firing squad before Lindet can so much as sneeze. You two can either follow my orders or get out of my office. I have real work to do.”

  Styke glanced at Ibana, then down at his own hands. It was right there at his fingertips, a new commission for him and his men, with horses and kit and a real purpose. All he had to do was reach out and take it. And put aside a decade of hatred.

  Ten years since he last sat in a saddle. His balls were going to be so damned sore by the end of the night. “We’ll leave at once,” he said.

  Flint nodded as if their joining her was a foregone conclusion. “Good. Major Fles. Colonel Styke. Welcome to the Riflejacks. Now go pick up the rest of your command.”

  CHAPTER 49

  What’s her name?”

  Styke stood beside a dirt path in the center of a small town in the marshes north of Landfall, slowly stroking his thumb along the nose of the horse at his side. His attention was drawn to the south, head raised to watch for anyone heading this way from the city. Celine sat in the saddle astride the horse, gently running her fingers through his mane.

  “She is a he,” Styke said, glancing over his shoulder at Celine. She nodded at the correction, as if she’d been right all along. “He’s a gelding, and I haven’t named him yet.”

  “What kind is he?”

  Styke glanced sidelong at the horse, continuing to run his thumb down the center of his nose. “Mix-breed. He’s definitely a Brudanian draft horse, but …” He considered it a moment, running his hand down the length of the horse’s back, enjoying the coarse feel of hair beneath his fingers. It had been too long since he’d last ridden. He’d squeezed the reins so hard they had left an impression on his palm, and his inner thighs chafed like a bitch after just a couple of miles. But they were both good kinds of hurts.

  Pain that reminded him he was a free man.

  “His hindquarters are a bit sleeker than a regular draft horse,” he said. “Look at the coloring. The black with a little brown mottle on the neck, with the white on his rump, is pretty rare. You find that on Gurlish racing horses.”

  “My dad bet on a Gurlish racing horse once,” Celine said.

  “How did that go?”

  “Lost a few hundred krana. Said betting was for fools and threw his hat in the Hadshaw.”

  Styke snorted. “Everyone has to learn sometime.” He ran his hand down the horse’s neck again, enjoying the feel. Lady Flint’s stablemaster said this was the biggest beast he had, and about the orneriest, but after a little heart-to-heart in the stables Styke felt like they had come to an understanding. He wasn’t as big as Deshner, nor as strong, but he had some spirit. “Do you want to name him?”

  “How about Precious?” Celine said.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Juggernaut!”

  “Where the pit did you learn a word like that?”

  “From …”

  “Your dad,” Styke finished for her. “Right, right. Regular ol’ genius, wasn’t he? How about we call him Amrec.”

  “Amrec is a boy’s name.”

  “And Amrec is a boy.” Styke leaned back to look at the gelding’s hindquarters. “Or at least he used to be.” He patted Amrec on the nose, fishing in his pocket for a carrot he’d grabbed from a merchant as he left town. “You like that, Amrec?” Amrec nearly took his fingers off taking the carrot, and Styke jerked down on the bridle gently. “None of that, hear me?”

  He turned away from Celine and Amrec, looking back toward Landfall. They were a couple of miles out, and the plateau rose above the floodplains, hazy in the afternoon heat, while flies buzzed quietly around Amrec’s swishing tail. Styke had picked one of the few rises in this area so he had a pretty good view of the road. He waited, watching, wondering.

  Ibana had gone to tell the Mad Lancers that they had a new command, and that they wouldn’t be tearing up the Blackhats—at least, not just yet. A little voice in the back of Styke’s head whispered that he no longer had it. That the lancers would give up in anger and go home; that they weren’t interested in his command, and just wanted to go out for blood.

  He wouldn’t blame them if they did. The Blackhats hadn’t just beaten him; they’d broken the homes and businesses and, in some cases, bones of almost all the Mad Lancers veterans. Styke’s body and the bones had been mended by Privileged sorcery. The rest was gone—ten years of trying to make something out of themselves, all down the drain because Styke had dared to leave the labor camp.

  He wondered, if he’d known what he would ruin for the rest of them, whether he would have taken Tampo’s offer.

  Yes, he decided. He definitely would have. “No one else’s suffering is ever as acute as your own,” he muttered.

  “What?” Celine asked.

  “Nothing. Here.” He reached in his pocket for his last carrot. “Feed this to Amrec. Talk to him.”

  “Will it make us friends?”

  “Food, in my experience, is one of the few things that can cement a good friendship between strangers.”

  He watched a small group of riders leave the Landfall suburbs and head north along his path. He waited until he could clearly make them out as Blackhats before he took Amrec by the reins and led him around to the far side of the little village, hoping the patrol would pass through without stopping.

  If the rest of the lancers backed out, would Ibana still follow him? She still seemed like her old self. But ten years was a long time, and she’d been furious after they left Lady Flint’s. She’d cursed and yelled before storming off, and only a shout over her shoulder had given him any indication of where to expect her and the rest of the lancers to join him.

  And now he was here. He had a girl, a horse, and the hope that a bunch of rowdy old veterans still thought of him as good enough to follow. By the position of the sun it was past seven in the evening. The others should have been here an hour ago. As it was, they’d have to ride well into the night to reach Jedwar and collect Flint’s cavalry.

  He kicked at a clump of dirt glumly, then put a hand on Amrec’s flank—more to calm himself than the horse. Amrec suddenly stirred, snorting, and Styke reached for his knife and looked toward movement at the corner of his vision.

  He let himself relax. It was just a Palo woman.

  She was less than five feet tall, a slight thing with fiery hair, her skin spotted with the ashen freckles of her people. Her hair was cut short, just below the ears, and she wore a black duster that almost touched the ground when she walked. Her hands were lost in the sleeves, her face shaded by a matching, floppy-brimmed hat. Below the duster she wore weathered buckskins similar to those worn by Palo on the frontier.

  Styke took a deep breath, deciding to just ignore her until she went away, when something pricked his senses.

  He smelled rotten flesh and tasted copper on his tongue, but knew immediately neither of those senses came from this world. It was his Knack, warning him that there was sorce
ry nearby. Potent sorcery, belonging to a bone-eye.

  Styke shifted warily, keeping his eyes on the Palo as she approached. He’d always found it hard to judge the age of Palo women, but she looked like she was in her late twenties or early thirties. She walked toward him slowly, calmly, her eyes sleepy and a half smile on her lips.

  “Who is that?” Celine asked.

  Styke shook his head. “Can I help you?” he asked in Palo.

  The woman stopped about six feet away, her lips pursed, head tilting from side to side as she studied Styke. He felt tiny pinpricks along his skin, the smell of rotten flesh growing stronger. She removed her hands from her pockets and showed him that they were empty.

  A Palo bone-eye. Fancy that. What could she possibly want with him? He gave her his best scowl. “Nothing here for you,” he said. “Best move along.”

  She rolled the sleeves of her duster up, then went through a complex series of gestures. Styke found them almost impossible to follow, and he just shook his head at her and made a shooing motion with one hand. She snorted, then pointed at herself, then at him, and Styke inhaled suddenly, his nostrils flaring, as he remembered a Palo girl he met in the swamps back during the war. She was small, smelled of blood and sorcery, and she hadn’t been able to talk.

  She’d been accompanying Taniel Two-shot at the time and, if Flint was right, still was.

  He took a step back, hand going instinctively to touch Amrec’s neck. The big horse nipped at his ear, then bumped him with its nose. “It’s you, isn’t it?” Styke asked. “Taniel’s girl. I remember you from Planth. Ka-poel.”

  Her smile widened.

  Styke let out a shaky breath. Sorcery had never frightened him particularly. What unnerved him back at Planth, and here now, was Ka-poel’s confidence. She held herself like someone seven feet tall, head high, shoulders squared, daring the world to try its worst. “What do you want?” he asked.