“Ah, Agent Bravis. Will you accompany me on my walk?”
Michel examined her with a mixture of horror and alarm. “It’s just Michel, ma’am. You’re not planning on going down into the Depths, are you?”
“I want to take a quick look around.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“You go down there and you won’t come back up.”
Vlora peered closely at Michel. He was genuinely worried. The man seemed absolutely certain that Greenfire Depths was some sort of a death trap. Based on the construction alone she might agree, but … “You are aware I’m a powder mage?”
“Even powder mages can get lost. Or ambushed. Or overwhelmed.”
Vlora knew that better than most. She remembered a campaign through the north of Kez, hunted by overwhelming numbers, cutting her way through enemy territory with the very men she eventually formed into her mercenary company. She’d survived that. She could survive a Palo slum.
“I think I can handle myself, Agent Bravis.”
“I’m sure you can, ma’am, and I say this with the deepest respect—it’s a maze. You won’t be able to find your way out.”
“Could you?”
“Of course, ma’am, but I’ve lived in Landfall my whole life, back before the Depths belonged to the Palo.”
“Well, then,” Vlora said with more than a little relish. “You should give me a tour.” And a real damned barracks next time.
Michel froze. Vlora turned to face him, and could see him struggling to keep a lid on a torrent of emotions. “Ma’am,” he finally said, “do you remember yesterday, when I said that Blackhats only go there in force? It’s because they’ll skin us alive if we get caught down there on our own.”
Vlora wondered if he really believed that. She’d heard of slums in Adro where the police preferred to work in numbers, but they feared a robbery and a beating; nothing so savage as straight-up torture. She shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she said, and continued to walk.
She heard a string of curses behind her, then Michel said, “Wait a moment, ma’am.”
He disappeared into a nearby house and came back a moment later. His black jacket and hat were gone, replaced by a workman’s brown jacket, the elbows patched and repatched, and a matching flatcap. Even the rose medallion, which the Blackhats seemed to wear like shields, was no longer hanging around his neck. Perhaps he really did fear being skinned alive. “A changing house,” he explained. “It’s always good to have a spare set of clothes lying around when you’re a Blackhat near Greenfire Depths.”
Michel led her down several side streets until they reached a thoroughfare that descended by way of switchbacks down the side of the quarry wall. Within two switchbacks they were equal to the tops of most tenements, and after six Vlora was more than a little disconcerted that she could not see the sky without looking straight up. The ground soon leveled out, and her boots splashed in a filthy morass of sludge.
“Welcome to the Depths,” Michel said.
The air was damp, stifling, and dim. There were only glimpses of the sky, and most of the light was provided by well-placed mirrors redirecting the sun from the tops of the tenements. Michel noticed her examining one of the mirrors and said, “Courtesy of the Lady Chancellor, back before the Palo took over. It was a cheaper and safer way to light this place in the daytime.”
“It needs it,” Vlora said.
Michel pulled the brim of his flatcap forward. “We should keep moving,” he said.
Vlora pulled herself away from examining the distressing construction of the tenements, with walkways and curtains running between them, whole buildings propped up by jacks and beams, and noticed that almost everyone within sight was staring at them. No, not at them. At her. Unlike Michel, she was still wearing her hat and uniform. She wondered if these people knew who she was, and that she’d spent the last year out in the frontier fighting their cousins for the government.
Perhaps this expedition was as ill-advised as Michel suggested.
Any sense of a real thoroughfare disappeared within a hundred paces. She could barely see the sky now, and after they’d gone just a hundred more she had to admit to herself that she was hopelessly lost. There was no sense of direction in this place, no recognizable landmarks. She was as good as underground.
She also noticed the sudden silence. A few moments ago there had been children playing in the streets, vendors haggling with old women, pedestrians strolling along the corridors. Now there were scarcely half a dozen people within eyesight and all of them heading the opposite direction. She couldn’t help but feel the weight of watchful eyes between her shoulder blades. The silence seemed to make the stink worse, a noxious stench like rotten food and dead animals, and she now noticed the rats running every which way as they passed.
They took several twists and turns before Vlora said, “I think we’re being followed.”
“We’re definitely being followed,” Michel agreed. His mouth was a firm line, and they ducked down two more bends quickly. “It’s pretty common down here. I told you, the Palo are organized. They keep an eye out for strangers—anyone with a Kressian face that they don’t recognize. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re being watched by Mama Palo’s own spies right now.”
The sense of helplessness that overcame Vlora as she tried to figure out which direction they were going was disconcerting, to say the least. Her eyes darted between doorways and windows but there were too many crannies to keep an eye on. An ambush down here, undertaken by a capable leader, could slaughter an entire brigade.
Her brigade.
“I think we should go,” Vlora said.
“What do you think we’re doing?” Michel’s voice was on edge now, a little higher than usual, and before he’d finished the sentence they rounded one more bend to find the entrance to the switchbacks right in front of them. She thought she heard Michel give a quiet sigh, and then again once they’d reached the top of the switchbacks. She took a moment to catch her breath, looking back over the surreal slums below them.
“That,” she said, chewing on her words and trying to work the smell out of her nostrils, “is not a pleasant place.”
Michel gave her a tight smile, as if to say I told you so, but followed it up with a sympathetic nod. “That’s putting it lightly. It used to just be a confusing slum. Get lost, ask for directions, you’ll make your way back out by morning, perhaps with an empty purse. But now, with the Palo in charge, entire Blackhat squads go missing and are never heard from again.”
“They really hate you, don’t they?”
“Me?” Michel asked. “Ma’am, you seem like you prefer people to be honest with you, so I’ll tell you this: They hate us. They may not know yet, but word will spread who you are and who you work for. When it does, your men will start disappearing.”
The words felt like a punch in the gut. What the pit had she gotten herself into, coming to a place where her men couldn’t be safe walking down the street? Surely, this kind of thing should be familiar? The swamps of the Tristan Basin were just as impenetrable and dangerous, yet it felt like a betrayal to come to a modern city and find the same kind of danger. But, she decided, they’d managed in the swamps and they’d manage here.
“Any advice I should give to my men if they get lost down in the Depths?” she asked. If you say ‘pray,’ I will punch you in the face.
Michel scrunched his nose, gazing down over the edge of the Rim, then checked his pocket watch. He swore to himself. “Advice? Yeah. Try to find a quarry wall, then stick with it until you find a switchback out. Don’t leave the floor of the quarry until you find a switchback because if you go up one of those tenements, your maze has become three-dimensional.” He checked his watch again. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I have several more meetings today. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Always running off. Vlora glanced toward Loel’s Fort, where she could see the company flag being hoisted. It reached the top of the flagpole, jumpe
d once, and the whole flagpole suddenly toppled over, raising a cloud of dust above the fort. That doesn’t bode well. “Yes,” she said. “I’m not going into that place without some sort of intelligence. You said you had agents in the Depths?”
“Yes. Well. Sort of. Here,” Michel said, scribbling on the back of one of his business cards and handing it to Vlora, who read the words and address.
“The Ice Baron?” she asked.
“He’s a businessman.”
“Can he be trusted?”
Michel seemed to hesitate. “He’s a man without guile so I guess in that sense, yes. He can be trusted. I’d suggest being discreet about your mission.”
“What’s our public reason for being stationed just outside the Depths?” Vlora asked. “People are going to ask questions, after all. We’re a whole damned army.”
“We haven’t given one yet,” Michel said. “The propagandists are working on it.”
Vlora gave a derisive snort. Propaganda was a normal part of any government, but referring to their public relations office that way sounded damned cynical, even for Blackhats. “How about this,” she suggested. “My men have been put on ice until the next mission. We’ve been recalled because of the recent riots, and we’re here to keep the peace. While we wait for our next assignment I have several engineers who have offered to begin reconstruction around the rim of Greenfire Depths.”
Michel cocked an eyebrow. “Do you have several engineers?”
“Very good ones,” Vlora said. “And I like to keep my men busy when they’re not fighting. I’ve noticed that the Lady Chancellor seems to love construction projects, so let us knock down and rebuild a few tenements and it looks like we’re doing community good. Might even give us an excuse to snoop around the Depths.”
Michel mulled it over. “It might work. I’ll pass it up the chain of command.”
“Let me know by tomorrow afternoon. People will begin asking questions, and I want an official answer to give them.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Michel tipped his hat and headed toward the building where he’d left his Blackhat uniform.
Back at Loel’s Fort, Vlora stood in the doorway to watch the organized chaos of an army setting up a new headquarters. Olem noticed her after a moment and came by.
“How did it go? Is it as horrifying as they say?”
“No,” she replied. “I’d like to build a summer home here. Retire. Let the grandchildren play in the streets.”
“We’d have to have children first.”
That was a conversation she wasn’t having right now. “I’m being sarcastic. It’s a bloody maze. Makes my skin crawl, and not just because of the sludge you have to walk through. I don’t like it one bit. Oh, and I may have just set up a construction project for the engineers. Once they’re done rebuilding the fort, that is.”
Olem looked aggrieved. “I’ll tell Whitehall. He’ll be thrilled. Do we have a plan of attack for finding Mama Palo?”
“I’m not sure,” Vlora answered, “whether the Blackhats thought they could trick us into using force, but I am not going to fight my way through that slum. We’re going to finesse this thing. Agent Bravis gave me a card for someone called the Ice Baron. Know him?”
“Businessman,” Olem said.
“I gathered. Sounds like he’s our intelligence. Set up a meeting, and let’s figure out how to get inside Greenfire Depths.”
CHAPTER 11
She has me chasing a fairy tale,” Styke said, rolling the weight of his lancer’s ring back and forth between thumb and forefinger. It was barely past seven in the morning, and he stood at the far northern tip of the bay, squinting at the ships out past the breakers, sailing into the morning sun with the tide. His leg ached from the long walk, but he had a piece of horngum in the corner of his mouth and felt better than he had in years. To think, something as simple as watching the ships go out could make his heart glow.
He’d spent his first and second nights of freedom at a sailor’s hostel near the docks. The single room, not much wider than a closet, felt like a palace, and the bunk pallet like a four-corner bed. Celine slept on the top bunk, snoring through the early morning hours as Styke lay awake listening to the sailors break bread in the common room downstairs.
“A fairy tale,” he repeated to himself, counting the eighth ship to leave port in just under fifteen minutes. He remembered a time when two ships a day was considered an event in Landfall. Pit, he could still see the docks burning in his mind’s eye, set ablaze by the Kez navy, and wondering if they would ever rebuild. A lot of horrible things could be said about Lindet, but she had fulfilled her promise to turn Fatrasta into an economic power in just a single decade.
Styke glanced down at Celine, who sat on the rocks beside him with her head drooping sleepily into her lap. She could have stayed behind and slept, but had insisted on coming with him without a word of complaint. “You ever heard any stories of the dragonmen?” he asked.
Celine perked up, shaking herself awake. “No. Dad never told me stories. Taught me how to pick a lock and slip a pocketbook, but never any stories. Said stories were for babies and silly fools.”
“Your dad was a prick,” Styke said.
“I loved my dad.” Celine sniffed. “And he loved me.”
“Doesn’t make him less of a prick. Listen—a thousand years ago, back when this land belonged to the Dynize, the dragonmen came out of the deepest swamps. They were the greatest warriors of a people who thrived on war, worth a hundred soldiers in any battle.” Styke drew his knife, examining the blade in the morning sun before pointing it at Celine. “Dragonmen were trained from birth to be fierce, bold, and give no quarter. They proved themselves in their adolescence by killing the biggest swamp dragon they could find. They fashioned armor from its skin and axes from its bones and were blessed by the bone-eyes—the blood sorcerers. Made them damn near invincible.”
Celine stared up at him, transfixed. “And?”
“And no one knows anything else about them,” Styke said. “It’s been lost in time. The Kez killed the last of the dragonmen decades ago, and the Dynize Empire hasn’t been seen outside of Dynize in over a hundred years.”
“Lady Flint said her men killed a dragonman.”
“Maybe,” Styke said. He had his doubts. Perhaps a fierce Palo warrior slaughtered some of her men. Perhaps that warrior even fought in the traditional dragonman garb. But the dragonmen were long gone.
He stared out at the rising sun. More was the pity. Few warriors—real warriors—existed anymore. This was a world of assassins and soldiers—people who killed in the dark or in formation. In his mind powder mages were the last true warriors and even they preferred to use their sorcery to kill at a distance. He briefly imagined Lady Flint dueling one of these fabled warriors, and it brought a smile to his face. That would be a fight to see!
“Lady Flint and that Olem fellow seemed to know who you were.”
Styke reached down and tousled Celine’s hair. “I thought they might not for a minute.”
“But they did. Were you really as big a hero as they said? People in the labor camps called you a killer, but I didn’t know you were a hero.”
“In a time of war, killing makes you a hero, so …” Styke shrugged. “I guess I was, in a way.”
“Have you killed a lot of men?”
“Hundreds.”
She was silent for a moment as she absorbed the number. “Do you regret it?”
“Sometimes.”
“My dad strangled an old woman once,” Celine said. “She woke up while he was taking the family silver. But it wasn’t during war, so I guess he wasn’t a hero.”
“Real piece of work, your dad.” Styke tongued the bit of horngum in the corner of his mouth. “Why didn’t he hang for it?”
“No one caught him. He was only sent to the camps later on for thieving. Why didn’t you hang for all the people you killed?”
Styke looked down at her. It occurred to him he should be annoye
d with all the questions, but he found they made him all the more fond of her. It reminded him of his little sister. Always asking questions, always trying to seek out the how and why. But that was decades ago. Before everything changed. “Because I was Mad Ben Styke,” he said. “I killed for my country, so they slapped medals on my chest until I wasn’t convenient anymore, then sent me to the camps.”
“Could you kill a dragonman?” Celine asked.
“I haven’t fought anything I couldn’t kill,” Styke said, testing the blade of his knife, then sucking the blood off the tip of his thumb. “But I was younger back then. Stronger. I’m pretty good at choosing my battles, and I wouldn’t choose to fight a dragonman. Not one out of the stories anyway.” He sighed, putting his knife away, and lifted Celine to her feet. “They don’t exist anymore, so I’m not worried.”
“If they don’t exist anymore, what are you going to do?” Celine asked.
“I’ll hunt around for a few days, chasing shadows, then I’ll tell Lady Flint not to worry about them and hope she gives me something real to do.” Styke frowned. He remembered the admiration on Olem’s face, and the skepticism on Flint’s, when they agreed to take him on. He had a nagging suspicion that they’d brought him on out of pity and the very thought almost made him sick.
He wasn’t even sure why it bothered him so much. Tampo was his real employer, and his only job was to get close to Lady Flint. He was well on his way to doing it. “I want to be useful again,” he muttered to himself.
“What?” Celine asked.
“Nothing.” Styke took her by the hand. “We’re going to see Old Man Fles. He might have a shadow or two for us to chase.”
Old Man Fles sat out in front of Fles and Fles Fine Blades, a breakfast of milk and bread pudding balanced on his lap, watching as the early morning customers passed his booth to reach the food vendors farther into the market.
“Looks dead,” Styke commented, sidling up next to the Old Man.
Fles tipped the brim of his flatcap back. “Nobody buys knives and swords at this hour. Our sales happen around midday, when the dandies and merchants’ wives go shopping.”