Sins of Empire
Which meant that, as a point, she refused to get pulled into political discussions. Especially with inebriated, well-meaning acolytes. “It sounds … interesting,” she said, handing the pamphlet back.
“Keep it,” Enna declared. “It will open your mind in ways you Will. Not. Believe. Say the word and I can get you more literature. As I said there are thousands of us, and though Lindet thinks she has the upper hand, the writers in this beleaguered city continue to work, churning out new manifestos every day that make me wonder why the world has not risen up to throw off their shackles.”
Definitely drunk, Vlora decided. No one in their right mind shared this much politics in a city where such a thing could get you hanged, or worse. “You know,” Vlora said, “it has been done.”
Enna’s eyes grew somehow larger. “It has?”
“Yes. That revolution in Adro. I was in it. We killed several hundred noble families and the king, sparking a war that ended over a million lives.” And wound up with more than one dead god.
“That’s right! It must have been glorious,” Enna breathed.
“The Adran Coup was the most well-organized revolution in history, and even that turned into a shit show,” Vlora said bluntly, immediately frustrated that she’d allowed her anger to seep through. Her involvement in the Adran Coup and the Kez Civil War had, she’d found, made her a bit of a celebrity among radical leftists. Which made her more than a little uncomfortable. “You don’t want to live through a revolution,” she added. “If you do survive to the end, half the people you’ve ever loved will be dead.”
“Well,” Enna said, her demeanor turning prickly, “you must break your omelet to use your eggs.”
Vlora squinted at her. “What?”
“I think,” a man said, slipping up beside Enna, “that she means you must break some eggs to make an omelet.”
“Yes!” Enna exclaimed. “That’s it!”
“Lady Enna, I think you should sit down,” the stranger said. “Here, give me your arm, and come over here and speak with Vallencian. He has so missed your company.” The man took Enna by the hand, leading her away, and returned a moment later with a rueful smile. He was tall, around Vallencian’s height, but with the lean body of a duelist. He wore an expensive black suit, silver-headed cane under his arm, and had blue eyes that seemed to smile about something only he knew. He had no trace of an accent, suggesting he had grown up in Adro. He offered his hand. “Gregious Tampo,” he said. “Esquire. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Flint.”
Vlora immediately felt something off about the man. A sixth sense made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, and she half-expected his hands to be clammy and cold. She shook his hand. “You look familiar.”
“We’ve never met,” Tampo assured. “Though I’m told I have a soldier’s face.”
“You’re a lawyer?” She studied his face. She’d seen it before, she was certain, and her first instinct was to try to remember any wanted posters she’d seen in local police stations. She opened her third eye, looking for any sign of sorcery about the man, but found nothing.
“I was a soldier, actually. Served in the dragoons during the Fatrastan Revolution. Lawyer now, though, that’s true.”
Vlora tried to ignore her initial misgivings. He seemed polite enough. And a fellow soldier, too. “Vallencian told me all the Kressians down here have business in the Depths. I assume yours is law?”
“I dabble in some politics. Try to protect the local Palo from time to time. But mostly I own a small newspaper that’s printed in Palo. The only one in Landfall, in fact.” He handed her a card. It said “The Palo Herald” on the front. There was no name or address printed on the back. “It’s nothing too active. Just something to give the Palo people to help them keep up on news that matters to them.”
Vlora froze, feeling as if she’d just been caught in some sort of trap. “What kind of news?” Tampo seemed just a little too comfortable; a little too pleased with himself.
“Oh,” Tampo said pleasantly. “Everything we get our hands on. Intertribal politics, government policy, that sort of thing.” He readjusted his cane, snatching a glass of iced tea from a passing servant and downing half of it in one go. “Sometimes we run stories about mercenary companies that have been putting down Palo revolts.”
Vlora considered her words carefully, but all she could come up with was a high-pitched “hmm,” followed by taking a sip from her own glass. She cleared her throat. “Are you a reporter, too, Mr. Tampo?”
“I am not,” he said with a condescending smile. “Though my reporters have written several very detailed articles about you.”
“And you wanted to meet me why?”
“Because the articles they write are fascinating. Something about you has the attention of my reporters. You’ve become a character study.”
“I can’t imagine you know enough about me to create a character study,” Vlora said. She glanced around for Vallencian, hoping to make a polite escape from this conversation, but could not spot him.
“You’d be surprised,” Tampo said. “Reporters dig up an awful lot. And they like to use it to paint a story. Tell me, were you really engaged to Taniel Two-shot?”
Vlora’s stomach clenched. That was ancient history, more than a decade old and across the ocean. Yet it always seemed to rear its ugly head. “I was,” she said coldly.
“Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but he broke off the engagement, did he not? Because he found you in the bed of another man?”
Vlora’s fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword without having commanded her hand to move there, and she had to fight down the urge to run Tampo through without warning. She’d expected a conflict of some kind tonight—perhaps a confrontation with a Palo who knew someone her men had killed—but certainly not with a fellow Adran. “That one, childish decision ruined my life,” Vlora said softly, “and I have spent the last decade putting it together. If you would like to step outside, I will kill you.”
“No dueling, I’m afraid,” Tampo said with a smug smile. “Mama Palo frowns upon it, and this is her residence. But you mistake my meaning. I’m not trying to twist the knife. I’m trying to help you understand something.”
“What, exactly, is that?”
Tampo pointed at her chest. “Taniel Two-shot was a war hero in Fatrasta even before he became a war hero in his native Adro. He helped us win our War for Independence and he was a friend to the Palo. And now the woman who spurned him less than a year before his heroic death is here in Fatrasta putting down Palo revolts in the very location he tried to help both Fatrastans and Palo alike earn their freedom from the Kez. That, Lady Flint, makes you an absolutely perfect villain to my reporters.”
“You think I’m a villain?” Vlora asked flatly. She’d been called far worse, but for some reason the accusation stung. She, a veteran fighter, a revolutionary by most standards, was an enemy? The very idea made her sick to her stomach.
“I don’t write the narratives,” Tampo said. “I just print them. I thought you should know how you stand in the consciousness of the Palo people.”
“Then why am I here?” Vlora demanded loudly. More than one face turned toward her at the outburst. “Why was I invited to this gala if I’m nothing but a figurehead for what these people see as evil?” She’d had nothing to drink, yet her head felt foggy, her vision swimming.
“I don’t know,” Tampo said quietly. He seemed pleased by her reaction, and it made her bristle. “Perhaps not everyone here thinks you are a villain. But how can I know? Anyway, Lady Flint, it’s been lovely meeting you. Have a wonderful evening and, if I may give you some advice, beware the Depths. They aren’t kind to strangers.”
Tampo disappeared into the crowd before Vlora could come up with a retort, leaving her to fume silently. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to kill something, and the little voice in the back of her head—which sounded suspiciously like Olem—told her to remove herself from a room full of civilians bef
ore someone said something stupid to her.
She managed to find a promising wing off the main hall with no occupants. It was dimly lit, and she could sense no patrolling guards as she slapped one hand against the yellow limestone and gave out an angry groan. Taniel bloody Two-shot. Eleven years since he severed their engagement—deservedly so—and destroyed her professional and personal reputation. Her life might have been over had not the Adran-Kez War started immediately, and Vlora’s skills were needed so badly it gave her the opportunity to win back some friends.
Taniel had forgiven her—or so he said—before his death. But even after all this time it hung over her head, a specter of bad choices that haunted her bed, driving her to Olem, a man who never judged her even though she refused to marry him or have his children. She thought all the self-loathing of that choice was locked away in a cabinet at the back of her head, only visible to her, but now it was back to affect her professional life.
A villain.
She was half-tempted to head back inside and call Tampo out, Mama Palo’s rules be damned. She slapped the rough stone wall again and again, until her hand ached and her palm bled. She was here with a job to do, people to charm, and now she didn’t think she’d be able to focus again at all tonight. What a damned waste.
“Lady Flint?”
Vlora ran fingers through her hair, collecting herself, and hid her bleeding hand behind her back as she turned to find a Palo man standing behind her. He was only a little taller than she, with graying red hair and freckles so thick that his face might as well have been ash. He wore a fine tan suit that wouldn’t be out of place in Adran high society, the collar flipped up. He must have been around fifty, and she recognized him as one of the men Vallencian had pointed out. Vlora cleared her throat. “Meln-Dun?”
“That’s right,” he said in slightly accented Kez. “I don’t speak Adran. Is Kez all right?”
“Kez is fine,” Vlora answered.
“Have we met?”
“No, I’m sorry. The Ice Baron pointed you out to me.”
“As he did you to me just a few moments ago. I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”
Vlora could feel the limestone grit still stuck in her hand, her fingers slick with blood. “No, not at all. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Vallencian mentioned we might be able to help each other. It seems you’re worried about the safety of your troops.”
Vallencian has a damned big mouth. Vlora chose her words carefully. “That is true,” she admitted. “But I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. The Riflejack Mercenary Company is a stranger to Landfall and we’ve been placed here rather suddenly to act as a garrison. I’ve been told that Greenfire Depths, and the Palo who occupy it, have an understandable distaste for anyone who works for the Lady Chancellor. I’d hoped to figure out a way around that. It’s why I’m here, actually, though I’m not doing a very good job at it.” She looked at her bloody palm, certain Meln-Dun couldn’t see it in the dim light. “You’re the first Palo I’ve spoken to tonight.”
“But not the last, I think,” Meln-Dun said.
“Oh?”
Meln-Dun came up beside her, frowning down at her hand, which she hid once more behind her back. “We’re all a little curious why you were invited here, Lady Flint. Mama Palo hasn’t shared her reason with us, but we suspect that she wishes to have the same thing you do—a truce.”
Vlora almost let out a sigh of relief, muscles relaxing throughout her body. “Is it possible?” she asked.
“Your reputation works against you down here,” Meln-Dun said. “Some think of you as a butcher. But it also works for you, and even more of us consider you an honorable person with a dishonorable master. Vallencian has been telling anyone who will listen that you’re here on a mission of peace—that you want to work with us, rather than kill us.”
Interesting interpretation. “I would prefer that, yes.”
“I read in the newspapers that your men will begin a new public works project. Vallencian claims the same thing. Is this true?”
“What? Oh, yes. It is. We’re going to tear down some of the tenements up on the Rim and rebuild them with newer, safer materials and standards. We’ve already moved the occupants of two tenements to temporary lodgings.”
“That’s wonderful,” Meln-Dun said warmly. “And this is where I think we can help each other. The Lady Chancellor has public works projects all over the city, but never in Greenfire Depths. I believe the tension between the Palo and the Blackhats has prevented this. But you could work as a bridge between us, and if you could change your project so that your men come down here and begin the monumental task of cleaning up the tenements in the Depths … well, I believe I could help you strike that deal, and grant you the protection you’re after.”
Vlora licked her lips. This was it. This was her way into the Depths, and it was being offered to her on a golden platter. There must be a catch—there was always a catch—but it seemed very straightforward. She had wanted to focus on the Rim, where she could keep her men safer, but if she could convince the Blackhats to give them the resources to begin a teardown in one corner of the Depths she could learn more about the people who live down here, meet their leadership—perhaps even find Mama Palo.
“That would be fantastic,” Vlora said, trying not to sound too excited, “but I’m not sure I could convince the Blackhats to let me go through with it.”
“I understand,” Meln-Dun said. “The Blackhats and their bureaucracy are enemies even to their allies. But if you’re willing to try, this would make great strides in mending the rift between our people.”
Pit, Vlora realized, if this worked she might not even have to take down Mama Palo. This could end peacefully, without her having to betray Vallencian’s trust or kill anyone. It seemed like the light at the end of the tunnel and she ran toward it full tilt. “I’ll try.”
“Thank you, Lady Flint. Now, if you’d like to accompany me back inside, I’ll introduce you to some of the people who could help you make this happen.”
Vlora took out a handkerchief and cleaned her hand, then took Meln-Dun’s offered arm. She was no longer that scared, foolish girl she once was. She was Lady Flint, a decorated general, and she could not afford to feel sorry for herself.
She had work to do.
CHAPTER 19
Styke and the dragonman faced each other for an impossibly long moment as the world around them seemed to slow to a crawl. As far as Styke was concerned, there were only three people left in Landfall: the dragonman, Celine, and him. Celine fell quiet, continuing to wriggle helplessly in the dragonman’s grip. Styke felt the handle of his knife slippery against the sweat on his palm. This was not a good situation. The dragonman had the upper hand, and Styke had always done his best not to fight when he wasn’t confident of a win.
It would be better to retreat, let the dragonman slip away, and live to fight another day. That’s what Colonel Ben Styke would have done, regardless of his reckless reputation. But the dragonman had Celine, and he didn’t look like he wanted to “just slip away.”
“Why are you following me?” the dragonman demanded. Styke remained silent, and the dragonman twisted his fingers. Celine let out a cry. Styke took half a step forward, but the dragonman twisted harder and Celine’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“Orders,” Styke said.
“From who?”
“Your mother.”
“Funny. From who, big man? Who’s asking questions about the dragonmen?”
“You think I care about the girl?”
“Of course you do. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Do you know what will happen if you hurt her?”
The dragonman’s eyes dropped to the knife in Styke’s hand. He snorted, as if finding such a large weapon preposterous. Styke was easily a foot and a half taller than the dragonman and yet he seemed completely uncowed by Styke’s height. It was annoying. “You’re a cripple,” the dragonman said. “You’re
fast. You’re strong. But I saw all your tricks back at the pub. I’ll slit the girl’s throat and then I’ll kill you, too. It won’t be hard.”
“Is that what they teach you in the Dynize army? To kill children?”
The dragonman’s eyes tightened. “Children bleed as easy as anyone else, don’t they? Why would they be spared? A child is nothing but a future enemy.”
“Why are the Dynize in Landfall?” Styke demanded. “Why were they in the Tristan Basin? What do you want with Fatrasta?” He was getting angry, and fighting angry wasn’t going to help him.
The dragonman allowed a small frown to cross his face. “You act as if you have the power here. Is this common among you Kressians? To make demands from a weaker bargaining position? Because it is foolish. Only the strong receive answers.” As if to make his point he tightened his grip, and Celine let out a whimper.
“Ben …”
Styke ignored her. She wasn’t part of this. She couldn’t be part of this. Her survival did not matter right now. He had to focus all his energy on the dragonman, or he would lose the coming fight. Everything about the dragonman was getting on his nerves, from his acid calm to the way he didn’t even sweat in the summer heat. He focused on that, allowing annoyance, instead of anger, to prepare him for a scuffle.
Styke put Celine out of his mind and looked the dragonman in the face. “Lady Flint. Her men killed one of you people up in the Tristan Basin. It was a rough fight, and she wanted to know if there were any more of you around.” He felt a stab of satisfaction as the dragonman’s mouth opened slightly, real surprise registering in his eyes.