“Used to be a lot more morning traffic.”
“Morning duels have gone out of fashion,” Fles answered.
Styke remembered what Fles had told him about Fidelis Jes’s habits. “Not with Fidelis Jes. You have any more information about him?”
“Pff.” Fles shot him an irritated glance. “It’s been what, forty hours? Have some patience, boy. If you think I’m going to go running to my contacts demanding answers about the Blackhat grand master, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“I thought you might work quickly. For old times’ sake.”
The irritated glance lasted twice as long this time. “I’ve always liked you, Ben, and I’m glad to see you’re still alive even if you do look uglier than a skinned cat. But don’t push it. I still fully expect my daughter to fillet you when she gets back, so what’s the hurry?”
“I owe him,” Styke said quietly.
“Oh, calm down. I’ve already put out some feelers and Fidelis Jes isn’t going anywhere. What are you doing back here, anyway? I’ll be mighty pissed off if you bring the Blackhats around.”
“Have they come by to ask after me?”
“Not yet,” Fles said. “But you better avoid the market. Me and Ibana can keep secrets, but I’ve got apprentices now and there’s far too many eyes here. If you want to chat, come by the house.”
“Do you still own the old place in Greenfire Depths?”
“Of course.”
“I thought the Depths belong to the Palo now.”
“They leave us alone,” Fles said with a shrug. “The Fles name demands enough respect to get some distance. You think I’ve been sharpening Palo kitchen knives for free out of the kindness of my heart? Besides, I’ve never met a Palo who wants a piece of Ibana.”
“Not the piece she’d give them,” Styke said, smirking at the Old Man.
Fles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well. Like I said, you shouldn’t be seen around here.”
“All right, all right. I’m going.” Styke glanced over his shoulder, searching the crowd for Celine. “One last question. This is going to sound stupid, but have you heard anything about the dragonmen coming back?”
He expected a condescending grin and to be laughed out of the market. Instead, Fles removed his flatcap and scratched his head, looking thoughtfully up at Styke. “Funny you should ask that. There’s been rumors about men in swamp dragon leathers down in Greenfire Depths. Nothing substantiated, and everybody thinks it’s just Mama Palo playing with the Blackhats, but you’re not the first person to mention dragonmen to me this week. And nobody has talked about them in more than hushed tones since I was a kid.”
Styke scoffed. “Dragonmen in Landfall? That’s ridiculous.”
“I’m just telling you what I heard.” Fles threw up his hands. “Sounded ridiculous to me, too, but everything’s been crazy since the revolution. The Nine has gone to complete shit. The Adran king was put to death. People say Kresimir returned during the Adran-Kez War, gods fought and died, then Kez tore itself apart with their own civil war. The world’s not right, Ben. The dragonmen returning? Well, anything could happen. If you want to find out about the dragonmen, though, you’ll have to ask the Palo.”
“Maybe I will.” Styke left Old Man Fles muttering gloomily to himself by the front of the smithy and found Celine working her way through the shops. They left the market together, wandering south through the docks and then taking a hackney cab down through the industrial quarter and then to Upper Landfall, so Styke could get a look at the city he’d been absent from for so long.
And so he could think.
Everything he’d heard since being released told him that the Palo were a powder keg right now—not something he wanted to put his nose into. But Old Man Fles was right. If the dragonmen had returned, it was doubtful even the Blackhats would know. Only the Palo would be able to tell him.
He wondered if Flint knew exactly how dangerous it would be for Styke to hunt down answers regarding the dragonmen. Doubtful. She thought him a worthless cripple before she found out who he was—or rather, who he used to be. Searching Greenfire Depths for the most dangerous warriors in Palo history seemed far and above what she’d expected him to do.
But if he got her some real answers—if he had solid evidence that the dragonmen were, in fact, real and of what they were up to—he might wind up as part of her inner circle.
Exactly where Tampo wanted him.
Styke directed the carriage back around the western half of the plateau and through northern Landfall until he’d made a complete circuit of the city. It was well after noon when he found Old Man Fles back in his workshop, polishing his latest blade.
“I thought I told you not to come back here anymore,” Fles said.
“I won’t,” Styke promised. “But I need you to do something for me.”
“What?”
“Set up a meeting.”
“With who?”
“A dragonman.”
“That’s the stupidest thing—”
Styke cut him off. “Just let it slip in the right places that the son of an influential Adran merchant wants to meet a dragonman. Say he’ll pay a huge amount of money just to be able to talk to one for a few minutes. Say I’m a historian.” Styke found a piece of paper and wrote down an address. “Set up a meeting at this pub, and let me know when to be there.”
Fles fingered the paper. “You’re going to attract all the wrong kinds of attention.”
“That’s the idea.”
“You’re mad.”
Styke took Celine’s tiny hand in his and turned to leave, throwing a crooked grin over his shoulder. “That’s what they say.”
CHAPTER 12
When Vlora knocked on the door to a large townhouse about half a mile east of Greenfire Depths, the last thing she expected to see when the door opened was a tall, stocky man with the dusty skin of a Rosvelean and a black bearskin draped over his shoulders. His face was red, sweat pouring from his brow, and he was dressed more like someone from the Adran Mountainwatch than a Landfall native. He looked from Vlora to Olem, then back to Vlora.
Vlora opened her mouth, but he spoke first. “Lady Flint?” he asked in a thick Rosvelean accent.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “I’m looking for Baron Habba … Habber …”
The man grinned at her. “Baron Vallencian Habbabberden,” he said proudly, throwing the door open. “Come in, come in. Agent Bravis said to expect you.”
Vlora exchanged a glance with Olem, then followed the big man inside, through the hall, and into a sitting room on the left. She was surprised to find the foyer, hall, and sitting room entirely devoid of furniture. There were no wall hangings, decorations, or even lamps other than a few gas lanterns hanging from the walls. There also appeared to be no staff, despite the house being big enough to need a full retinue of servants.
The big man went to the mantelpiece, leaned against it, and produced a pipe from his pocket that he quickly puffed to life. “Lady Vlora Flint. Standing in my own home. What an honor!” He paused, looked around. “I have to apologize about the furniture. I was born in a tent smaller than this room and now I own four of these damned houses. I don’t have the first idea what I’m supposed to put in them.”
Olem cleared his throat and turned to one side to cough, clearly trying not to laugh.
“You’re the Ice Baron?” Vlora asked, more than a little skeptical.
“I am. Don’t try to say my name, nobody can. Just call me the Baron, or Vallencian to my friends. And you, Lady Flint, are my friend. I read your biography. It was very good.”
What the pit is he talking about? “I don’t have a biography.”
“You do,” the Baron assured. “It was written by a Rosvelean mercenary who served in the Kez Civil War. Excellent stuff. I’ll have a copy translated and sent to you.”
“Thank you? I think?”
“It is nothing. You must be Colonel Olem.” Vallencian suddenly lurched forward, shaking both their hands
warmly. “You like cigarettes, yeah? Try one of these.” He removed a box from his jacket pocket and flipped it open with one hand to reveal a line of pre-rolled cigarettes.
Olem beamed. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Vlora waved away the offer as Olem lit his, trying to get a read on this Ice Baron. He was obviously a foreigner, obviously relished his status as such, wearing such a damned getup in this heat. “Forgive me if this is rude, but are you really a baron?”
“Are you a lady?” Vallencian shot back. He immediately threw up his hands. “I joke, I joke. I was born in a village in northern Rosvel, high up in the mountains. I bought a barony last year, but I’ve never been to it. A cousin manages the thing. Poorly, I understand. But I’ve been called the Ice Baron for far longer, just as you have been called Lady Flint for longer than you’ve had a title.”
Vlora glanced at Olem. “I’ve never had a title. Lady Flint is just something that someone called me once, and it stuck.”
Vallencian seemed to consider this, his brow furrowing. “That biography. I won’t send it to you. It’s shit.”
Olem couldn’t cover up his laugh that time, and Vallencian joined in with a chuckle. “Ah,” he said, rubbing the back of his head, “I’m sorry for the state of this place. I’d say it’s new, but it’s been unfurnished for three years now. My footman just recently convinced me to buy a bed.” He patted the bearskin on his shoulders. “All I need is Rangga here under my head and the saints sing me to sleep. And chairs? Ostentatious, I tell you.”
“Don’t you entertain?” Olem asked. “I mean, I’ve heard your name several times around the city. You run in prestigious circles.”
“I am very entertaining,” the Baron said, grinning in a way that made it obvious he knew what Olem had meant. “But I prefer to be a guest, rather than have guests. It feels more right to me. Gives me an excuse to give expensive gifts to my hosts, instead of just offering some wine and a bite of food. And with no hosting, I don’t have to employ a bunch of assholes. Speaking of which, where is my damned footman?” He rolled his eyes. “Useless. I sent him out for dinner. I asked for lobster. Have you seen the lobsters here? I’ve never seen something so ugly, and when I first saw it I thought, I must kill it and eat it and now”—he smacked his lips—“I love it.”
Vlora recognized when a man liked to talk, and it was already very clear that it was one of Vallencian’s favorite hobbies. Talkers, she knew, could go on for hours if you didn’t put a stop to it right away, so she coughed into her hand and said, “Baron, you said Agent Bravis had told you to expect us?”
“Yes, yes, of course. You want information about the Palo?”
“Greenfire Depths, specifically.”
“Ah, the Depths.” The Baron gazed at the ceiling, as if remembering a walk in a particularly striking park. “Have you ever seen anything like that before?”
“It’s a rat’s nest,” Vlora responded bluntly.
Vallencian shook a finger at her. “There is beauty in a rat’s nest; warmth, security, companionship. There is all of that and more in Greenfire Depths, and I try to tell that to the Blackhats but does anyone listen to Vallencian? No.”
Vlora examined the baron’s face. In some of the circles she’d traveled in Adro they would consider him a simpleton, but no simpleton amassed a fortune that would allow him to buy a barony after having been born penniless in a mountain village.
“Exactly how familiar are you with the Depths?” Olem asked. “And you must tell me where you got these cigarettes. This is terrific.”
“I’ll send you the name of my tobacconist. And I’m quite familiar. I meet with my business partners there every week. It’s a very pleasant place once you get used to it.”
Vlora shuddered, remembering the sense of dread she felt on just a short walk through the narrow corridors with Michel. “I’ll take your word for it. You’re telling me that you openly do business in Greenfire Depths, but you work for the Blackhats?”
“‘Work’ is a strong word,” Vallencian said. “I did not get this rich to work. The Blackhats come by every few weeks and ask me questions about what I’ve seen and heard in Greenfire Depths. I tell them. I also give them a substantial bribe and in return, they leave my ships alone. The Palo know of this, and they don’t speak of anything within earshot that I might pass on. It’s a good relationship. I try to operate my business without, how do you say, guile?”
“And you can travel freely in Greenfire Depths?”
“I avoid the bad neighborhoods.”
“The entire thing is a bad neighborhood,” Olem said.
Vallencian tilted his head at them. “Let me tell you something about Greenfire Depths. It has its own, what do the naturalists call it, ecosystem? It is its own world. It has its own economy, social classes, armies, even its own weather. To all the high and mighty in Upper Landfall the Depths looks like a shithole. But the Depths has its own slums, the worst of the worst, and its own palaces—places that would make you gasp upon sight. It is as varied as the city in which it resides.”
Vlora rocked back on her heels, chewing on her lip. “That sounds complicated.”
“It is complicated. It’s taken me years to work it out myself.”
“What,” Olem asked, “is it you sell down there?”
“The only thing I do sell,” Vallencian responded. “Ice.”
“Ice?” Vlora echoed.
“When I was young, I made a small fortune in Rosvel in the beef industry. I came to Fatrasta, and the first thing I noticed was how damned hot it was. In Rosvel, they bring ice down from the mountains to keep food and drinks cool during the summer months.”
“Same in Adro,” Vlora said.
“Yes, and my family has done so for generations. Anyway, I spent my fortune on a ship to bring ice to Fatrasta.”
“And people bought it?”
“The ice melted.”
“Oh,” Vlora said.
“So I packed it in sawdust, I did another trip.” Vallencian scratched his chin. “The ice made it all the way here, and you know what I learned? No one wanted ice. Nothing here is cold, not even the mountains, and when no one knows of the cold they have no use for it. I lost everything. Then the war came. I smuggled guns for Lindet in the only thing I had left to my name: a rowboat. Smuggled some more guns, bought a yacht, smuggled some cannons, then the war ended. Spent my money on a new ship and brought more ice over to Fatrasta. Most of it melted before I could sell it, but then a funny thing happened.”
“Yes?”
“The Palo decided they liked iced coffee. It caught on, and the Fatrastans and the Kressian immigrants began to ice their tea and now, about eight years later, here I am.”
“You’re very persistent,” Olem observed.
“Persistence has earned me ninety-eight merchantmen and almost three hundred warehouses across Fatrasta and Rosvel. And,” he said, looking around, “these big damned empty houses I don’t know what to do with.” Vallencian brought a hand to his chin. “Maybe I should bring more of my cousins over.”
Vlora let out a low whistle. That had to make Vallencian one of the richest men in all of Fatrasta. Probably the Nine, too. And he didn’t have a butler or a stick of furniture. What a strange man.
“So,” Vallencian finished, spreading his hands. “That is who I am, and that is my relationship with the Palo. I’ll help you how I can.”
Vlora had thought long and hard about what information to share, and what not, and she decided for Vallencian’s safety it was best to pare back even that. “My company has been assigned to the rim of Greenfire Depths. We’re going to undertake some public works projects and act as a garrison.”
“The Palo are not going to like that,” the baron said, thrusting a finger at her. “They know who you are.”
“That’s what I need help with. I want to learn more about the Palo and find out how we can coexist. I don’t want my men disappearing when they go out on patrol. I want a truce.”
“And y
ou think I can get that for you? Hah. Agent Bravis has exaggerated my place among the Palo. I’m just a businessman. An outsider.”
“Bravis didn’t tell me anything, actually. But it’s clear that you’ve made it into the Palo inner circle. And that’s what I want to do. For everyone’s safety.” Vlora chewed on her words for a moment, hoping they didn’t sound disingenuous. This was for everyone’s safety. But she was trying to capture the Palo’s matriarch, and she found that leaving that out of the conversation made her feel a little guilty. She liked Vallencian. Lying, even by omission, felt distasteful. “Is there anyone I can meet to make that kind of deal with?”
The baron waffled on the question for a moment. “Perhaps I can introduce you to a few.”
“What about this matriarch I’ve been hearing about? This Mama Palo? Is she the one who makes those decisions?”
Vallencian scoffed. “No outsiders talk to Mama Palo.”
“Have you met her?”
“Haven’t even seen her. I’ve talked to a few of her lieutenants, but never her.”
“Is she a myth?”
“If she is, someone down there is playing the world’s biggest joke on all of us, including the Palo. Mama is real. The Palo believe it. The Kressians believe it. Blackhats have been trying to catch her for years.” Vallencian squinted at Vlora, but made no further comment on the matter. “If you want to make some sort of a truce with the Palo, you need to meet the right people. There is a gala in Greenfire Depths in a few days. I’ll see if I can get you an invitation.”
“A gala?” Vlora asked. She exchanged a glance with Olem, trying not to smirk.
“I told you,” the baron said, “slums and palaces. Whole ecosystem. Where are you staying?”
“Loel’s Fort,” Olem said.
“Very good. I will get an invitation and send it to Loel’s Fort. Hopefully I will see you at the gala then.”
Vlora and Olem were shown out by the baron and returned to their waiting hackney cab, where they sat in puzzled silence.