“Right. You’re the one I’m looking for.” Michel took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve to reveal blood-soaked bandages. “If it’s not too much trouble, I need you to stitch this up for me.”
Emerald looked taken aback. “You want a doctor, sir. I think someone has sent you to me as a joke.” His eyes narrowed. “Tell me, who gave you that name? Emerald? Only my friends know me by that.”
“Look, I don’t know you, but we have a mutual friend. His name is Taniel.”
Emerald made that hmm sound again. “I see. And you are?”
“Michel Bravis, at your service. Or rather, I’m hoping you’ll be at mine.” Michel indicated his wounded arm with a hopefully charming smile.
“Do you have a password?”
“ ‘Touch the noontime bells,’” Michel responded. It was the last password he’d used with any of Taniel’s people. He hoped it was current.
“ ‘And listen to them ring,’” Emerald finished. “Well, then, Michel Bravis, give me your arm.” He took Michel gently by the shoulder and led him to a workbench in the corner, where he quickly began to unwrap Michel’s bandages. “I was told you’d only contact me in the event of an emergency,” he spoke as he worked, a flash of annoyance crossing his face. “Taniel left town just five days ago. Has it all gone wrong so quickly?”
Michel considered how to answer. Taniel had expressed complete trust in his contacts, but he hadn’t actually told Michel how much information they knew. Emerald knew both Taniel and Michel’s real names, so that was a start. “It hasn’t gone … well.”
“I would say it hasn’t.” Emerald finished unwrapping the arm and turned it one way, then the other, to examine the three cuts. “I have seen rheumatic blind men make tighter stitches than these.”
“Thanks,” Michel said flatly. “Can you fix them?”
“I have doctorates from four different medical colleges. If I can’t do a better job than this, I should kill myself now.” He rummaged through his workbench before coming up with a needle and thread. Without warning, he began to pick out Michel’s stitches.
“Ow.”
“Oh, yes. This will sting a little. Tell me, Michel, does Taniel know that the Blackhats have turned on you? Or was that after he left?” Michel tried to pull his arm away, but Emerald snatched him by the bicep with his free hand. “Hold still, please.”
Michel swore under his breath. “How much do you know?”
“You don’t know whether to trust me,” Emerald stated. He finished pulling the stitches from one cut and began to redo them, working quickly and precisely.
“That’s about the size of it.”
“I know a lot,” Emerald said. “I have been friends with Taniel and Ka-poel for about eight years now. Ka-poel uses my spare mortuary rooms to practice her blood magic. I know about the Red Hand and your infiltration of the Blackhats—though he only filled me in on that last week. I do not know why you are still in the city, and I will not ask.”
Michel didn’t know how to respond. He winced as Emerald tightened a stitch. “Well. That’s … a lot more than I expected.”
“I am Taniel’s eyes and ears within Landfall.”
“You’re a spy.”
“Indeed I am.”
Michel processed this information. He had expected to be sent to “a guy who knows a guy,” not directly to Taniel’s spymaster. He realized immediately how dangerous it was for them to meet directly like this and why Taniel had instructed to only meet his contacts in an emergency. If either Michel or Emerald were caught and tortured, they could reveal the whereabouts of the other. “He didn’t tell me,” Michel said quietly.
“He wouldn’t have.”
“You were the only contact on his list that he said could be trusted implicitly.”
Emerald paused his stitching and rested his elbows on the workbench before looking at Michel over his glasses and letting out a soft sigh. “I apologize for being cold. You’re not a stupid man, so I’m guessing you’ve already realized the risks you took coming here.”
“I have.”
“But since my job is to know things, I am well aware of your break with the Blackhats.”
Michel hesitated. Every bit of information that Emerald shared could be a weapon against either of them. “You have eyes in the Blackhats?”
“I do.”
“I’m not sure myself how bad it is,” Michel admitted. “My companion—Hendres—followed me to my meeting with Taniel. Then the Dynize found our safe house, and she assumed that I’m working for both the Red Hand and the Dynize.”
“Sloppy.”
“I know.”
“No, I meant these stitches.” Emerald paused. “But yes, allowing her to follow you was sloppy as well. I know this: There is a Gold Rose remaining in the city.”
“Taniel told me.”
Emerald went on as if he’d not been interrupted. “I’m not sure which Gold Rose was left behind, but they are attempting to re-form the Blackhats as a spy network to funnel information back to Lindet. Hendres has made contact with them. Most of the Blackhats are now on the alert, and know to look out for you.”
“Shit.” There went Michel’s possibility of creating a schism within the Blackhats. He couldn’t risk using their caches or safe houses now, either. One chance meeting could get him killed—or worse, captured. “Do I have any chance of getting back in with them?”
“That’s not for me to judge,” Emerald said. “But I do know that several Blackhats who remained behind were with Fidelis Jes when he died. They corroborated Hendres’s story. They are very confident that you are a traitor.”
“So much for that.” Michel closed his eyes, trying to ignore the stab-and-pull of Emerald’s needle. He had a whole boatload of new enemies, many of whom knew what he looked like. The escape routes he and Hendres had put together could no longer be risked, which meant he’d have to figure out another way of getting Taniel’s informant out of the city. If he could find her. “Hendres thought I tipped off the Dynize, but I didn’t. Any idea who did?”
Emerald shook his head.
“Maybe it was just bad luck,” Michel grunted.
“Probably,” Emerald said. “The Dynize have managed to capture or turn a few Bronze Roses, which compromises safe houses. They’ve also increased their patrols and random searches since the bombing.”
“So, who is responsible for the bombings?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t found out yet. There was another this morning—a café was destroyed when someone lit a fused artillery shell and rolled it among a group of Dynize officers. Managed to kill about half of them, along with nine civilians.”
Michel swore. It was probably some misguided Blackhat cell, attempting to use force to scare the Dynize out. It was also stupid; random killings would turn the population against the Blackhats and only serve to increase Dynize aggression. That wasn’t his problem anymore, though. His mind raced as he moved on, mentally writing off the Blackhats and trying to shift his way of thinking. He had to focus on staying alive while he found this Mara woman whom Taniel needed moved. “Do you have any resources you can lend me?”
Emerald finished the stitches on one of the cuts. He dabbed away the blood gently with a wet cloth and smiled at his handiwork. “I will give you whatever information I can, but I’m afraid information is all I can give you. I will not risk allowing you access to anything that will jeopardize my position here.”
“Understood,” Michel said tightly. He swore on the inside. Emerald likely had contacts, escape routes, supplies, safe houses. All of that was closed to Michel, and it annoyed the pit out of him. But he understood why. “How the pit are you able to run Taniel’s spy ring from a public morgue?”
Emerald gave him a coy smile. “I’ve run the Landfall City Morgue for over twenty years, under three governments. The occupying administration did the exact same thing Lindet did when she took over the country a decade ago: They saw that I was running a tight ship and left me to my own
devices.”
“That’s it?”
“Public morgues aren’t so different from sewage systems. People only notice them when they’re run badly. Besides, I’m a widely published physician who’s never had a drop of politics in his writing. I take care of the messy business of bodies and in exchange, the government leaves me to my work. Why should any administration look closer than that?”
Michel decided not to ask what, exactly, his work entailed. “Hiding in plain sight. Intriguing. What can you tell me about the Dynize?”
“What do you want to know?” Emerald started on the next cut.
“Who is in charge? Wait, no. Who is in charge of their counterespionage? Who is the one giving out rewards for any Blackhat who comes over to their side?”
Emerald gave Michel a considering glance, his lips pursed. “You’re not thinking about doing something stupid, are you? If the bone-eyes get ahold of you …”
“I know the risks. Right now, I just need to know what I’m up against.”
Emerald clearly didn’t believe him. “His name is Meln-Yaret. His title translates to something roughly akin to ‘minister of scrolls.’”
“Scrolls?”
“The connotation is probably closer to ‘minister of information.’ I haven’t been able to find out much about him beyond the fact that he exists. I have no idea how much power his title actually holds, or where he stands in the Dynize hierarchy. He is, apparently, well liked by his underlings. Other than that …?” Emerald shrugged.
“Right.” Michel thought over the archaic-sounding title and tried to picture the man who would hold it. In his mind’s eye, this Meln-Yaret looked like a stern librarian or the headmaster of a religious school. Tall, with graying hair and angular features. He realized after a moment that he was picturing a redhead Fidelis Jes. “Anything else you can tell me about the Dynize?”
Emerald didn’t answer until he’d finished up the next set of stitches. “They are very efficient. They are preparing a census of the city to find out how many people remain and who they are. Their finest minds are studying Kressian technology. They want to upgrade their gunsmithing and metallurgy to compete with ours, and I suspect that they’ll begin retooling Landfall’s factories by the end of summer to upgrade their armies.”
Michel reeled. “They’re really moving that quickly?”
“They’ve planned for this,” Emerald said. “I don’t know for how long, but it may be decades. They prepared for Fatrasta’s armies and sorcery and even for Lindet. One of the few things they underestimated was the military-technology gap. They assumed that rifling and sword bayonets wouldn’t play as big of a part as it did. If they eliminate that gap, they believe the war will be won by the end of next year.”
“Pit,” Michel breathed.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Emerald continued. “They’re also almost stupidly cocky. Most of their generals believe this war will be over by winter, and then they can take their time figuring out the godstones and preparing their armies for anything the Nine decides to throw at them.” He finished one last tug at the stitches. “However, I’m just passing on what whispers I’ve heard. I’m not a military man myself.”
Michel examined his arm. The stitches felt tight and uncomfortable, but they were as precise as if they’d been done by a machine. “I’m not, either. I’ll leave all that to Taniel.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime,” Michel said, thinking of Taniel’s informant, “I have my own tasks to accomplish.” He wondered how quickly he could even find this woman, and if the war would already be lost by then. Strictly speaking, the war wasn’t between the Dynize and Taniel’s faction of Palo. But if Fatrasta fell, Michel had little doubt that the Dynize would crush any other opposition to their rule. The longer Lindet managed to hold out, the longer Michel had to accomplish his task. “I appreciate the help,” Michel told Emerald. “I need to get out and clear my head.”
Emerald politely inclined his head. “I hope I was of some use. Just remember that in the future …”
“Only in an emergency.”
“Precisely.”
Michel left the morgue, stewing on all this new information, and headed to one of the few remaining markets in the city, where he procured wood ash and vinegar. He returned to his safe house, where he created a mixture of the two and let it sit in his hair for part of the afternoon. When he washed it out, his hair was a shocking dirty blond. He carefully shaved the stubble from his face, leaving only a mustache.
He practiced holding faces in the mirror, subtly changing the depths of his cheeks and the squint of his eyes until he found something that he could keep up steadily in public. When he finally looked at the finished transformation, he barely recognized himself.
He leaned over the washbasin, staring at himself in the mirror, taking several long, deep breaths before fetching his shoes. Removing the sole of the left shoe, he produced both his own Gold Rose and the Platinum Rose he took off Fidelis Jes’s body a month ago. He practiced his best confident smile in the mirror.
Wearing a new jacket, he headed for the capitol building.
He approached the guards out front, asking several before he found one who spoke passable Palo. “I’m looking for Meln-Yaret,” Michel said. “Can I see him?”
“Only with an appointment.”
“I understand he wants information.”
“That is true.”
“And he’ll pay for it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Take him a message for me. Tell him my name is Michel Bravis, and I would like to help him dismantle the Blackhat presence in Landfall.” Michel produced the Gold Rose and gave it to the guard. “When you tell him, show him this.”
CHAPTER 14
The Mad Lancers rode hard after splitting with the Riflejacks, circumventing the Fatrastan Army and heading southwest across the countryside. Plantations seemed to stretch forever in every direction, broken only by the slight roll of the land and lines of willow and birch that divided the fields. Every plantation they passed told the same story—laborers scurrying in the fields to try to get in an early harvest, while the households packed up everything of value and prepared to head toward safety.
Styke wondered if safety was even an option at this point. Each new town was filled with panicked rumors—that the Dynize had landed on the west, south, and east coasts. That nothing within fifty miles of the ocean was safe from their barbarity. A passing farmer claimed that Swinshire had been burned to the ground, while a cobbler said that Redstone itself was under siege.
The lancers took roads when they could and forged their own paths across the vast plantation fields when they couldn’t. At this point, Styke wanted nothing more than speed. They had a thousand men and three times as many horses. Subtlety was not an option, and he had an itch between his shoulders that told him they were being followed.
He called a stop on the afternoon of the third day to let their horses rest and graze, regrouping in a field next to one of the thousands of nameless roads that crisscrossed Fatrasta.
Styke leaned on his saddle just off the road, letting Amrec graze without a harness. Celine lay on her stomach in the grass, feet bare, picking the heads off flowers with her toes. Normally, Styke would enjoy watching her foolery for a few quiet minutes, but he found his gaze drawn to the bone-eye witch wandering among the men and horses.
Ka-poel hadn’t communicated in three days, sticking to herself at the back of the column, stopping frequently to scramble in the dust and then riding hard to catch up. Sometimes she ranged on ahead with the scouts, sniffing the air like a bloodhound, her fingers pressing against the wind as if touching a pane of glass.
Styke found himself drawn to her—she was amusing to watch in much the same way as Celine—but he had an inkling that her antics had a much darker purpose than childlike wonder, and he didn’t like it.
“Have you found me a horse?”
Styke pulled himself away from watch
ing Ka-poel and turned his attention to Celine. “Still looking,” he said. “Anyone catch your eye from our reserves?”
Celine plucked a piece of grass and stuck it between her teeth. “You said I can’t have any of the horses that someone is already riding.”
“Right. Don’t take a man’s horse. Not unless you’ve paid him, killed him, or stolen it fair and square.”
Celine pouted. “And I can’t steal from our men.”
“No, you cannot.”
“Then, no. I haven’t found a horse I like.”
The problem, Styke found, was that first-rate horses were rare. Most of the men in his cavalry were riding second-rate horses already, and there wasn’t a single first-rate horse left that didn’t have a saddle on it.
Now, there was nothing wrong with a second-rate horse. They could be strong, fast, smart, dependable, but not all of the above. He wanted Celine to have a creature that wouldn’t let her down, one she could bond with. He’d find it one of these days, but not among the horses they had with them.
Until then, she’d ride with either him or Sunin.
“Colonel,” a voice called. Styke looked up to find Zac and Markus riding up the column toward him. The two brothers, in addition to their normal rags, tended to ride junk horses that none of his other lancers would spare a glance. Perhaps it was part of their scouting disguise, but Styke didn’t understand it himself. A good horse was worth more than any amount of blending in.
Styke nodded to the pair as they approached.
Zac snapped a sloppy salute. “Colonel, we had a question, sir.”
“What’s that?”
“Are we heading on a fixed course?”
Styke cocked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“This direction we’ve been going. We continuing on for the next few days?”
“Why?”
Markus cleared his throat. “Because, sir, you’re going to miss Bad Tenny Wiles.”
Styke perked up. “That’s right. He’s nearby, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir. He owns a plantation about forty miles south of here. Big ol’ building right next to a bend in a stream, surrounded by birches. You know the Cottonseed tributary?”