Styke pictured a map in his head, considering the location. He nodded.
“The plantation sits on the land near the spring that feeds the tributary.”
“Ah. I think I might know the plantation itself. Not far from where we picked up Little Gamble during the war?”
“That’s right.”
Styke nodded to himself, thoughts turning. “Thanks for that. Where’s Ibana?”
“Bit farther back, sir.”
Styke headed that direction and soon found Ibana dismounted by an old stump. Her warhorse grazed nearby, and she and Jackal bent over a map. “Since when do you use a map?” he asked Ibana.
“It’s been almost six years since I’ve crossed this part of the country,” Ibana retorted. “I’d like to know what we’re looking at the next few hundred miles.”
Styke couldn’t fault that logic. He shouldered his way in to stand between them and squinted at the tiny roads and town names. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the way the map was drawn, and he was soon picking out old haunts and prominent landmarks, orienting himself to their location.
“We’re here,” Ibana said. She pointed to their location, then drew an imaginary line with her finger cutting north of Little Starland and going straight to the Hammer on the west coast of Fatrasta. “Ka-poel says that our search is going to start somewhere around here. You still want to head straight across the middle of the continent?”
Styke considered the question. “Jackal, are your spirits telling you anything useful?”
“Hard to keep up a good conversation with the dead while we ride,” Jackal responded, his voice matter-of-fact. Ibana gave Styke an irritated look, as if to say, Don’t encourage him. She was not, she had made it clear, a believer in Jackal’s ability to talk to spirits. “However,” Jackal continued, “there are a lot of dead coming from the coasts—all the coasts. There’s fighting in every direction. Swinshire is almost certainly gone. Maybe Little Starland, too.”
“That’s not good. Are we going to run into any serious enemies?”
Neither Ibana nor Jackal seemed to know the answer to the question. Hesitantly, Ibana said, “If the fighting is still on the coasts, then we shouldn’t have too much of a problem till we reach the Hammer. We might run into a Fatrastan field army, but they should be pretty preoccupied with reaching the front line. I think we’re safe making a beeline to the Hammer.” She tapped on a dot on the map. “Once we reach Belltower, though, things will get tricky. And if Lindet finds out what we’re up to …”
The idea did not please Styke. “We’ll just have to keep her in the dark as long as possible. Pit, our own men don’t even know what we’re really up to. How is she going to find out?”
“Since when has Lindet not known exactly what was going on?” Ibana countered.
“Right. You remember our talk with Agoston?”
“I remember cleaning his blood spatter off of my jacket.”
“Markus and Zac say that Bad Tenny Wiles is about forty miles south of our current position.”
Ibana’s eyes narrowed. “You want us to change directions.”
“Nah. This is something I’m going to handle myself. I want you to keep heading toward our objective.” He turned his attention back to the map, poring over the roads and towns before pointing to one about eighty miles to their southwest. “I’ll catch up with you here,” he said. “In a week. Shouldn’t take longer. If things get hairy, you can keep moving and I’ll find you farther down the road.”
“All right. Make it quick.”
“Have you ever known me to linger over a kill?” Styke ended the conversation by rolling up the map and handing it to Jackal. He returned to Amrec and began to put the saddle back on while Celine still lay in the grass nearby.
“You’re going to ride with Sunin for the next few days,” Styke told her.
Celine rolled over, staring at him. “Why?”
“Because I’ve got an errand to run. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Oh?” Celine sat up. “You going to kill someone?”
“What gives you that idea?”
“Rumors going around the lancers that you found out about some traitors—the ones who sent you to the firing squad.”
Markus and Zac and their damned loose lips. Styke swore under his breath. “Yeah,” he answered half-heartedly. “I’m going to kill someone.”
“I want to come.”
“You can’t.”
“You took me into battle, but you won’t take me to kill one man?”
Styke finished with the buckles and ran his hand along Amrec’s flank, then patted him on the nose. He thought through a dozen reasons why this was different, knowing that Celine would fight him about each one. Truthfully, he could move quicker and quieter without her. On the other hand, she was his responsibility. Handing her to Sunin every time he wanted her out of the way felt a lot like how his father had treated him as a boy.
The thought caused a sour feeling in Styke’s stomach.
“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go.”
They slipped away from the lancers and turned south, quickly putting a hill between them and the cavalry. Styke preferred to be away before anyone noticed, and back before anyone had the courage to ask Ibana questions, and they were almost a mile down the road before a horse caught up with them at a gallop.
It was Ka-poel. She put her horse in front of Amrec, forcing Styke to pull on the reins.
Her hands moved in a quick, demanding flurry. He could guess what she wanted to know, but instead he just sighed. “I have no idea what you’re saying.”
Ka-poel snorted at him. She produced a piece of slate, like children in a schoolhouse might use to practice sums, and wrote out a sentence, showing it to him. Where are you going?
“Business,” Styke said. “I’ll meet up with you again next week. Stay with Ibana and the lancers.”
No.
“What do you mean?”
I’m coming, Ka-poel scribbled.
Styke looked down at Celine. “What is this? Are the two of you in cahoots? I’ve got work to do, and I can’t protect you by myself. Stay with the lancers.”
I don’t need a bodyguard.
“Damn it.” Styke rubbed his eyes, wishing she’d just turn around and go away. She made him uneasy at best, and he needed his mind clear for this. Having Celine along was already trying enough. “Ibana thinks you’re with her.”
I told her I’m going with you.
“I don’t take orders from you, girl,” Styke warned.
Most people shied away when Styke became visibly annoyed. Ka-poel just smiled at him coldly. She wrote, I ride with you or I follow. Choose.
Styke stared at her for a few moments, then ran his hand through his hair. “Have it your way. Let’s move.”
CHAPTER 15
Michel waited just inside the capitol building for nearly an hour, trying to look nonchalant under the watchful eye of three Dynize soldiers. He found a blank piece of paper in one of his pockets and practiced folding it into various shapes, holding each one up for the purview of his silent guards. They continued to watch, unmoving, unresponsive, though Michel swore that he saw a hint of bemusement in the eyes of one of them.
His patience was finally rewarded by the arrival of a middle-aged woman wearing a soldier’s uniform without the customary Dynize breastplate. She had fire-red hair and a gentle face that Michel immediately associated with an indulgent governess. She was unarmed, and her turquoise uniform was adorned with the stylized symbol of a dagger poised above a cup just above her heart. Crow’s feathers dangled from her earrings.
When she arrived, Michel’s guards seemed to stiffen, and she examined Michel with a detached, unimpressed gaze. “You are the one who brought the Rose?” she asked in passable Palo.
“I am.”
“Follow me.”
Michel glanced over his shoulder toward the door, trying not to let his misgivings get the best of him. This was probably a
terrible idea. He didn’t know the Dynize—not their hierarchy or customs or laws. He didn’t know how to navigate their world, and he was stepping in blind hoping that this Meln-Yaret was smart enough to see the value in Michel’s willing cooperation.
After a few more seconds of hesitation, he followed the woman down the hall.
They walked side by side past rows of offices. They passed soldiers and bureaucrats, officers and errand boys. It was a strange sight, seeing redheads—whom Michel had so long associated only with the Palo—in the government offices, but other than that change everything looked much the same as it did before the occupation. If there had been any particular chaos here after Lindet fled, it had long since been cleaned up, and it appeared that no damage had been done during the fighting.
The woman led him down the first flight of stairs and past several turns, then a whole other set of stairs down into the bowels of the building. Michel began to grow concerned as they left daylight behind and now had to depend on gas lanterns, and was about to ask their destination when the woman stopped and opened a door, indicating with a gentle smile that Michel should step inside.
“I want to see Meln-Yaret,” Michel said.
“I know.”
“Will I?”
“Please.” She gestured to the door once more, and Michel cautiously stepped into the doorway. The room inside was lit by a single lamp. It was small, almost claustrophobic, and it had a drain in the center of the floor.
“Look,” Michel said, “I—” He was suddenly driven to his knees, a pain erupting from his left shoulder. His entire left arm went numb, his vision spotty, and he gasped out loud as he fell. He turned, attempting to scramble away—and farther into the dank room—only to see the woman standing above him with a blackjack held casually in one hand and a wan smile on her face. “Wha …?” Michel tried to ask.
The woman lashed out at his chest with one foot, connecting painfully, and Michel tried to retreat farther, only to come up against the wall. He tried to yell or speak, but all that came out was a breathless whimper.
She came at him with the blackjack, and he raised his numb left arm, only to remember too late that it was the same arm that Emerald had stitched mere hours ago. The blow landed hard, causing him to gasp once more. He dug into his pocket with his right hand, but had left his knuckle-dusters back at the safe house. When she drew back to kick him again, he moved to one side to cause a glancing blow, then attempted to tackle her by the legs.
The woman stumbled, nearly fell, then almost casually swatted Michel just above the ear with the blackjack. It wasn’t even a hard blow, but Michel saw darkness for several seconds before his vision returned, and a horrifying pain shot through his head. He let go of her legs, wrapping his arms around his head, and attempted to curl into a ball to await the next blow.
“Devin-Forgula!” a man’s voice barked.
The next blow never came. Michel hazarded a glance through blurry vision. He saw the woman standing over him, turned toward the hallway, where two men had appeared. One of them was young—probably about Michel’s age, in his midtwenties—and had a bald head and a short, lean frame. This one stared at the woman with outright antagonism. The second man was old, probably in his forties, with a beer belly and two fingers missing on his right hand.
The older man spoke, and it was obvious it was he who’d called out the name. “Devin-Forgula,” he said again, his voice quiet but reprimanding. “Get out.” The words were in Dynize, but close enough to their Palo counterparts that Michel understood.
The woman answered too quickly for Michel to follow.
“Get out,” the older man repeated.
The woman wiped her blackjack off on her sleeve and left at a brisk stride without looking back.
Michel eyed his saviors, trying to focus on them rather than on the immense pain in his arm, head, and shoulder. The older man watched Forgula go, then gave an exasperated sigh and stepped into the room. He bent over Michel, pulling Michel’s arm gently but firmly out of the way and examining the side of his head. “His head is bleeding,” he said in Palo. “And his arm. Can you stand?” The question was directed at Michel, but it took his addled brain a moment to register it. Slowly, he crawled to his knees and then, with the help of the younger man, up to his feet.
He limped after the two men. Neither helped him when he moved slowly on the stairs, but they did not hurry him, either. They headed to the next floor, where they found an empty room. They were still in the basement of the capitol building, but natural light came in through a high window and there was a rug and chairs here—probably the office of a low-level bureaucrat under Lindet’s regime.
Michel sat in one chair, head in his hands, watching blood drip from his arm onto the rug. He felt the eyes of both his new companions but did not look up at them. He was doing all he could not to throw up.
“Forgula says that you are a Blackhat spy,” the older man said. “Is that true?”
“I was,” Michel responded, stressing the second word.
“But no more?”
“I … understand that you are offering rewards and amnesty to Blackhats who switch sides.”
“Switch sides.” The man laughed. “That’s one way of putting it. Yes, that is the offer.”
“That woman—”
“Forgula is not a member of my Household,” the man said, his tone shifting to anger. “She serves another master—one who believes that enemies should be slaughtered rather than turned into allies. Someone told her about this little trinket, and she decided to take matters into her own hands before I could respond.”
Michel finally looked up to find the older man holding his Gold Rose, turning it in his fingers to examine the details in the light. “You’re Meln-Yaret?” Michel asked.
“I am.” The man smiled, and Michel could see that it was both tired and genuine—the smile of, as Silver Rose Blasdell used to say, a man who had to work for a living. “I apologize for letting Forgula get her claws into you. That had to have been”—he eyed Michel’s arm—“unpleasant.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
Meln-Yaret gave a bemused snort. “Forgive me,” he said, gesturing to his younger companion. “This is Devin-Tenik. He is one of my cupbearers.” Michel took a longer look at Devin-Tenik, his eyes finally starting to clear, and realized something strange: Devin-Tenik didn’t have the subtle facial markers that differentiated the Dynize from the Palo. His face was softer, his eyebrows farther apart, and his chin slightly weaker. If he hadn’t been wearing a turquoise uniform, Michel would have immediately assumed he was a Palo. “What do you think of our new friend, Tenik?” Meln-Yaret asked.
“He admits he is a spy.” Tenik had a startlingly deep voice that belied his slim, short stature.
“He admits he was a spy.”
“Once a spy, always a spy.”
“Perhaps.”
Michel squeezed his eyes closed. The pain in his head was a dull throb now, which was only slightly easier to think through than the sharp pain from earlier. He knew that there were layers to this meeting—Forgula, Tenik, Meln-Yaret, Households, and cupbearers. There was more going on than was immediately apparent, but in his current state he could not guess what it was. “I was a Blackhat spy,” he said. “Before the invasion, I was elevated to Gold Rose, which is the highest order within the Blackhats. The invasion came, the Grand Master was murdered, and then Lindet fled the city without warning.”
“And now …” Meln-Yaret made a tutting sound. “What did you tell the soldier to whom you gave this Rose? That you would hand me the Blackhats within Landfall?”
“That’s right. I can help you dismantle their efforts here.”
Meln-Yaret nodded. “You certainly have my attention. Let us start with this: What can you offer me, and what do you want in return?”
Michel forced himself to sit up straight, looking Meln-Yaret in the eye. This was now a negotiation, and he couldn’t conduct a negotiation from a point of s
uch weakness. He needed to appear strong, even if that appearance was obviously a sham. “I can offer you the locations of caches and safe houses. I can help you track down Blackhats who have remained in the city. I can tell you how they work and how they think. I’ll admit that I wasn’t a Gold Rose long, but I spent years as a Silver Rose. I saw far more than the average Blackhat.”
“And what reward do you expect for your aid?”
“People.”
“What do you mean, people?” Tenik cut in. “Slaves?”
The casual way Tenik said the word reminded Michel how foreign the Dynize still were. He shook his head. “Not slaves.” This was something he’d thought about a lot since the occupation.“You’ve been rounding up Fatrastan citizens, the families of Blackhats who left the city with Lindet. It’s part of war, I understand. But those people were abandoned by their government and their loved ones. They don’t deserve to be hunted, tortured, and forced into labor camps or worse. In exchange for my help, I want you to let those people go.”
Meln-Yaret leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully stroking his chin. He glanced at Tenik. “You don’t want riches? Power?”
“I don’t have ambition for power. Riches …” Michel allowed himself a smile. “I intend on proving myself very useful to the Dynize government. The riches can come later. For now, I want those people released.”
“You ask too much,” Tenik said bluntly.
Meln-Yaret held up a hand to silence his companion. “It’s true, you ask a great deal. We gather these people because they themselves may be spies, but they are also useful as hostages and forced labor. We have hundreds already, and I imagine we’ll end up with a few thousand by the end of the year, even without your help.”
“Probably,” Michel admitted, “but the hostages themselves have little value. The spouses and children of low-level Blackhats? Lindet doesn’t care about them. Eject them from your territory. Hand them over to the closest Fatrastan army. Let them be a hindrance to your enemies and disguise it as an act of goodwill. There are already rumors that you’re treating the Palo better than Lindet ever did. The people might begin to see you as a benevolent conqueror. If this war draws on, that itself will be a dangerous weapon.”