They stood at the top of three steps leading down into an enormous room, easily a hundred paces across, with dozens of nooks and crannies. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and there were hallways and balconies above them that implied the building was much larger than this one hall. Light came from gas lanterns; food and drink, including wine and iced coffee and tea, were provided by smartly dressed servants. The walls and floor were made of the same dark yellow limestone from which the capitol building had been constructed, though the architecture here looked much older.
Guests filled the entire hall, dancing, speaking, lounging on couches along the walls. She had expected a sea of freckled faces with bright red hair, but instead found that only about half the people in the room were Palo. The others were Kressians from a variety of backgrounds, from white Adrans and Kez, to dusty Rosveleans, to black-skinned Deliv, and they all seemed to mingle freely.
“Welcome,” Devin-Tallis said, “to the Yellow Hall.”
Michel spent all day setting his trap. The grand master’s office lent him Iron Roses to cover the entrance to the office building, to watch the windows, the back door, and the street. He had men follow the secretary home—which turned out to be just a few blocks away on the edge of the industrial quarter—and positioned people outside her door. This was his chance at wrapping up this investigation in just a few days. It would get him his Gold Rose.
He was not going to fail.
It was almost nine when Agent Warsim, Michel’s sometime partner, scurried across the street and joined Michel in his hiding place beneath the shadow of a nearby factory. Warsim wore his Bronze Rose and carried a pistol and truncheon. “The boys think they’ve spotted Tampo,” he said in a low whisper.
Michel bit nervously at his nails, eyes on the street, and headed out into the waning sunlight. He arrived a half a block from the office building in time to see a man in a sharp black suit and top hat, carrying a silver cane under one arm and an attaché case under the other, slip in the entrance.
Michel looked up and down the road, making fists to keep his hands from trembling. Pit, this was it. Tampo wasn’t going to escape. He let himself inside and ascended the staircase, followed by Warsim and three Iron Roses. The building was quiet, most of the offices empty, and on the second floor there wasn’t a single lantern lit except for the flicker of light coming from underneath the door of the suite at the end of the hall.
“Give me your pistol,” Michel said, taking the weapon from Warsim. The five of them crept down the hall, careful not to make any noise, and came up against the suite door. He listened for a moment, then nodded to the biggest of the Iron Roses. “Open the door!”
Styke followed the dragonman through the city for almost two hours. He hung back—far back—so as not to draw attention, keeping his shoulders hunched and his hat pulled low. It was hard to follow anyone for a man of his size, but he kept Celine as a lifeline. She had her eyes on the dragonman, and Styke had his eyes on her.
The dragonman ranged all over. His path seemed random at first, and Styke was worried he knew he was being followed, but it soon became apparent that the dragonman was meeting with people. He stopped by a brothel in the industrial quarter, spent an hour in the Treasury building in Upper Landfall, then went down to the docks, where he visited three different ships in the course of fifteen minutes.
Styke got more than one good look at the dragonman in the light of day, and he was more convinced than ever that he was a Dynize. The Dynize were related closely to the Palo, both in looks and language, but there were subtle markers that someone with a good eye—and enough historical education—could see right away. The dragonman’s eyes were slightly more oval, his cheeks a bit too gaunt, and his ears were pierced at the top of the ear instead of the lobe.
The mystery became to Styke not that the dragonman was a Dynize, but rather why he was a Dynize. Even before Styke’s time at the labor camp the Dynize had been isolationists, the borders of their continent closed to outsiders—including merchants and missionaries. No one had seen them anywhere outside their country for more than a hundred years, even though Fatrasta lay practically on the Dynize doorstep. What were they doing here now?
Styke didn’t even know the Dynize had dragonmen. The stories said the Palo developed their own warriors after the Dynize pulled out of Fatrasta. It seemed, though, based on the tattoos, that they’d taken their dragonmen straight from Dynize society. Which meant that the Dynize might have a whole nation’s worth of dragonmen, and even if they were one in ten thousand, the prospect of an army of mythical warriors was … off-putting.
But all that seemed like a pretty huge assumption. Styke needed to stop getting ahead of himself and get the drop on the dragonman. It would be best to take him alive, but even tossing a dead body at the feet of Lady Flint would answer some questions. At the very least it would get her to trust him, which, Styke reminded himself, was his primary mission.
Styke pulled his head out of his own thoughts for a moment, looking around for Celine. He’d lost her a few times, but she wasn’t hard to spot in her yellow shirt and boy’s trousers. She kept well ahead of him and he didn’t begin to worry until he’d gone almost a full block and saw no sign of her anywhere.
They were still down in the docks. This area was packed with warehouses and silos, half of them on the boardwalk, forming a myriad of alleys and switchbacks. It wasn’t the ideal place to follow someone.
But it was a great place for an ambush.
Styke felt his heart beating a little faster. Celine would have called out if she ran into trouble, wouldn’t she? She was a smart girl, more than quick enough to get away from most adults. But this was a dragonman, a killer as bloody and remorseless as Styke himself.
He found himself doubling his pace, head whipping back and forth as he rushed past alleys, looking for any sign of Celine. He kept one hand out in front of him, pushing dockworkers and sailors out of the way, the other hand on the hilt of his knife. She was here somewhere, he knew it, and he’d find her.
“Ben!”
Styke only needed to hear the sound once. He about-faced, backtracking through the evening traffic, even shoving a pack mule bodily from his path, his mind racing. His name had been yelled in desperation.
He checked the face of an alleyway and came up short.
The dragonman stood less than twenty paces away. His head was cocked, an expression of annoyance on his face, and he held a squirming Celine by the back of the neck. In his other hand was a polished bone knife, curved and wicked like a ceremonial dagger.
Styke felt his chest tighten at the sight of Celine. The dragonman was clearly hurting her, and he clearly didn’t care.
“Ben, was it?” the dragonman asked casually. “You’re going to answer some questions.”
Styke drew his knife, knuckles white on the hilt, and took a step forward. “Like the pit I am.”
The Iron Rose kicked in the door, cudgel in one hand, pistol in the other. His companions knocked in the two office doors of the suite, and Michel heard a string of protestations and a startled yell from one of them. He ran a hand over his mouth, trying to keep the enormous grin off his face.
He was a professional, after all.
He counted to ten seconds, then followed the Iron Roses inside suite 214, looking around. Tampo was in the office on the left, sitting behind the desk with Agent Warsim behind him. Tampo’s jacket was pulled halfway down, trapping his arms so he couldn’t move. Tampo would be feeling more than a little terror right now, and Michel was willing to let that last another couple of moments.
He did a quick circuit of the opposite room, using a knife to pry open one of the many crates that were stacked haphazardly around. He blinked down at the contents, frowning, before that big grin he’d been trying to suppress finally broke through his defenses. “Bring me that lantern.”
One of the Iron Roses brought him the lantern from Tampo’s desk. Michel held it over the crate, light spilling across the contents, to
reveal stacks of Sins of Empire. With so many crates in this room and the next, there were probably thousands of copies here. There was now no doubt this was the man who’d arranged the printing of the pamphlet.
And Michel had him at gunpoint in the other room.
He suppressed the urge to dance over to Tampo’s desk and instead walked, measuring his steps. He set down the lantern and leaned forward, gazing into Tampo’s eyes. The lawyer was frozen in terror, his mouth working but nothing coming out. The trousers of his fine suit were soaked with urine. Sedition against the Lady Chancellor wasn’t so clever now, was it? Michel found himself unsure of where to start. Was he supposed to question him? Take him straight to the Millinery?
“Looks like we’re both in for a long night,” Michel said, sitting on the edge of the desk. “Tell me, is your real name Tampo? Because I couldn’t find it in any of the public records, and I had people searching all afternoon.”
The lawyer’s mouth continued to work. Michel frowned. He’d expected someone timid—revolutionaries often were once you took the piss out of them—but he hadn’t expected someone so frozen by their own terror that they couldn’t speak. He must realize how close to the end of his life he had come. Michel didn’t particularly relish what was going to happen to Tampo. He didn’t like torture, though it certainly had its uses, but he was exceedingly pleased to be the one to bring Tampo down. It was going to earn him his Gold Rose.
He leaned forward, smacking Tampo on the cheek gently. “Have anything to say?”
Tampo’s jaw trembled, and he whispered something between his chattering teeth. Michel leaned forward to better hear it. “Speak up.”
“I don’t know who you think I am,” the man said. “But I’m the janitor.”
All the joy Michel had been floating on disappeared. This couldn’t have been a mistake. Janitors didn’t wear five-thousand-krana suits. They didn’t carry canes. “Excuse me?”
“The lawyer who works here said he’d give me a hundred krana to come in tonight wearing his clothes.”
Michel licked his lips. He snatched up the man’s right hand, examining his fingers closely. They weren’t the fingers of a lawyer. They were rough, burned, and blistered from years of manual labor, paint on his knuckles and dirt under his nails.
This was not Tampo.
“Son of a bitch!” Michel kicked over one of the crates, pointing at one of the Iron Roses. “Go get me the secretary. Now!”
CHAPTER 18
The Lady Vlora Flint,” Devin-Tallis announced loudly, as if he were a herald at a king’s ball. He gave a half bow and withdrew, leaving Vlora at the top step, looking out over the array of faces that turned to look at her.
The normal conversation stopped, and the quiet buzz of whispered gossip replaced it. She could make out any of them if she focused, thanks to her powder trance, but she decided she’d rather not know what they had to say. Some faces seemed welcoming, others openly hostile, while even more were perplexed. Vlora resisted the urge to check the cuffs of her uniform and polish the crossed muskets of her brass Riflejack pin.
“Ah!” a voice boomed from nearby. “Lady Flint, my friend.” Vallencian moved through the crowd like a bull through a herd of sheep, coming over and taking her by the arm and leading her down into the mingling guests, and to her relief the regular conversation immediately resumed. “I am so glad you took me up on the invitation,” Vallencian said. “I know you military types. Don’t like a place without a clear exit. But I tell you, it’s worth it!”
“Thank you for arranging an invitation for me,” Vlora said, ignoring the irony as she checked for exits and reached out with her senses to spot the guards. She passed familiar faces, though none with names she could remember, and caught more than one Palo staring at her. “I’m wondering,” she confessed, “if this was such a good idea.”
“It’s fine,” Vallencian declared. “Lady Flint has no need of an honor guard. You are an honor guard.”
“I’m not sure what that means, but I’m beginning to think the biography you read of me may have greatly exaggerated my accomplishments,” Vlora said. “I’m just a soldier.” Which seemed an understatement right now. She had never liked this sort of crowd. Politicians always rubbed her the wrong way—one of the reasons she’d left Adro despite being a decorated general—and places like this were breeding grounds for the worst kind of petty politics. This had been a very bad idea indeed. “What is this place?”
“The Yellow Hall. Built by the quarry foreman back when the quarries here provided all the wealth in Landfall.”
“It looks old.”
“A hundred and fifteen years, I think. It’s held up remarkably well for being buried underneath a dozen tenements. The yellow limestone is no facade—solid blocks.” He led them near one of the walls and slapped it with one hand as if to demonstrate.
A whole villa, buried down here in the center of the Depths, long forgotten by the rest of Landfall. Surely the Blackhats must know about this place? “I thought there would be more Palo.”
Vallencian led her through the press, past a table where he nabbed a glass of iced coffee and pushed it into her hands, and then toward the far corner. “Yes, yes. Usually more Palo, but it’s a public celebration—as public as the Palo get—so they’ve invited everyone who does business down here.” He pointed to a young woman in a sheer dress. “That is Lady Enna, she owns the biggest quarry in Greenfire Depths along with the Palo next to her, Meln-Dun. That old man with the glasses, that is Rider Hofflast. Owns ten thousand acres of sugarcane on an island off the coast, employs mostly Palo. There is a man who sells the lumber, a woman who trades furs. Everyone here does business with the Palo.”
She wondered how so many Kressians could be down here, doing open business, while the Blackhats feared stepping foot in the Depths. It seemed preposterous and she wanted to ask Vallencian but it was a question she didn’t want overheard. “I thought Lindet owned most of the businesses in Landfall.”
Vallencian snorted. “She likes to think she does and,” he said with a shrug, “she has a piece of every company in Fatrasta. It’s the cost of doing business. Don’t get me wrong, I respect Lindet. She’s a smart, driven woman, even if she’s as savage as a high-mountain bear. But she’s overextended, and just one woman.”
“You respect her?” Vlora echoed, looking around to see who might have overheard. This seemed poor company for such an utterance.
“Of course,” Vallencian responded. “I never said I liked her. But she’s a powerful, driven woman. There is a lot to admire.”
Vlora glanced up at Vallencian. She found she was growing to like him more and more. “Even after the way she treats your … business partners?”
“I see the good in people,” Vallencian said, matter-of-factly. “Even when it’s hard to find.”
“You see too much of the good in people,” a voice suddenly said sharply. Vlora turned to find the woman in the diaphanous dress, Lady Enna, standing at her shoulder. Enna seemed just a little younger than she, well-endowed with long, brown hair and lips that most courtesans would kill for. She took Vlora’s other arm, unasked, and leaned in conspiratorially. “Lady Flint, I am Lady Enna and I am absolutely honored to meet you.”
“Thank you,” Vlora said, giving her a tight smile. Enna’s eyes were just a little too big, her expression just a little too forward, in a way that struck Vlora as artificial. Vlora opened her mouth to ask Vallencian a question, but the Ice Baron suddenly disengaged with an apology and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Vlora alone with Lady Enna.
The bastard.
Before Vlora could say a word, Enna leaned even closer. “Don’t think I’m being too hard on Vallencian. We all love him to death, but he is a big stuffed bear, the mighty fool. He’s too soft on Lindet and her blasted Blackhats. She is a terror and she must be stopped.”
Vlora raised her eyebrows, startled to hear such a declaration. Was it that kind of party, full of dogmatic liberals? Or had Lady Enna had to
o much to drink? Vlora could smell the wine on her breath. She was tempted to say, You know I work for her, right? But she managed to keep her lips sealed. “I, uh … Do many other people feel the same way?”
“There are thousands of us,” Enna assured. “Have you heard of the New Fatrasta movement?”
“I’m sure I have,” Vlora said, though she definitely hadn’t.
“Well, let me tell you, the New Fatrasta movement aims to put Lindet out of power, and to disband her group of legalized thugs.” She leaned so close her head was practically on Vlora’s shoulder. “Did you see the pamphlet that came out last week? Sins of Empire? Well, I have it on good authority that it was a high-ranking member of the New Fatrasta movement. There’s whispers it was even the Red Hand. Wouldn’t that be exciting?”
Vlora had dealt with agents of the Red Hand out on the frontier. “Exciting” was one word for it, but not one she would have chosen. He was one of the more effective Palo revolutionaries operating out of the wilds, and rumor had it his small guerrilla army drove Lindet to distraction. “This New Fatrasta, is it an organized thing?” she asked.
“Oh, no. We’re not organized.”
Doubtlessly.
“I’m sure you have a copy, but here, take this,” Enna said. She paused to search her handbag until she found the pamphlet, thrusting it in Vlora’s hands. It wasn’t large, maybe ten or twelve pages, and when she turned it over the title Sins of Empire was printed on the front. “If you have not read it, you must immediately. It is an exposé on everything Lindet has done to this poor, helpless country. It tells us how her greedy, landgrabbing ways have destroyed the Palo people and raped Fatrasta’s heritage. It speaks of the revolutions in Fatrasta and Adro and the changes that came from the Kez Civil War as a starting point to a whole new world that is led by the common people, for the common people.”
Vlora opened her mouth several times through the tirade, but couldn’t get a word in edgewise. She’d heard of this pamphlet—copies were given out all over Landfall the last couple of days, despite the Blackhats’ efforts to censure them. It was a fascinating read with a few radical, naive ideas but a central premise that she basically agreed with. But as a necessity she kept her politics quiet, and out of her business. Politics had been the forte of Field Marshal Tamas, her mentor, a skill that had not rubbed off on her. Besides, mercenary generals didn’t always get to choose who they worked for when their men had to be paid.