“Sebbith is dead?”
“Yeah. Sebbith is dead. He died squealing like a helpless little girl. Begged for his mother like a green recruit, and shit himself as he bled out.”
The dragonman stiffened. “That is a lie!”
Styke locked eyes with Celine in the moment the dragonman lost his calm. He made a chomping motion with his jaw, and Celine immediately twisted around, biting down hard on the dragonman’s wrist. By the time her teeth closed on the dragonman’s skin, Styke was already running, whipping his knife overhand as hard as he could.
Two things happened at once. The dragonman tossed Celine aside as easily as a doll, and he stepped to one side, snagging the knife out of midair as easily as if it were a ball. Styke slammed into him a moment later, not bothering with finesse, throwing all his weight at the dragonman’s chest.
Both his knife and the dragonman’s went flying. They crashed to the boardwalk, and Styke felt pricks like adder bites as the dragonman struck him flat-handed below the ribs. Styke ignored the punches and snatched the dragonman by the throat with his bad hand, drawing back his good into a fist. His heavy lancer’s ring connected with the dragonman’s nose, which broke beneath the blow, showering them both with blood.
They rolled through the alley trash, punching and kicking. Styke took two quick blows to the head that left him seeing stars, and another to the jaw. He tried to get a solid grip on the dragonman but every time he did, the slippery bastard managed to get loose. They locked hands, and to his surprise the dragonman slowly forced Styke’s arm away, then punched him twice below the arm. Styke tasted blood in his mouth, and spit it into the face of his opponent.
The dragonman managed to slip out of his grip again and was suddenly on his feet. Styke was too slow, coming up behind him and receiving a boot to his face for his troubles. The dragonman turned on Styke, seemingly to attack, before he looked up and suddenly fled, disappearing down the alley and into a nearby warehouse.
Styke remained on his hands and knees, blood dripping from his nose onto the boardwalk, and only looked up at the murmur of voices. A crowd had gathered, at least two dozen people, and someone was calling for the city police. The dragonman, it seemed, did not want to be seen by the public. Styke filed that bit of information away before getting to his feet.
Celine hid behind a nearby crate, sniffling and nursing an arm. Styke retrieved his knife, saw that the dragonman had dropped his own, and picked up that, too, before lifting Celine in one arm and pushing his way through the crowd. He was followed for about a block before people seemed to lose interest and he was able to disappear into the evening traffic.
He remained on the larger streets, ignoring the people who stared at his bloody clothes, until he was sure the dragonman hadn’t doubled around to follow him. He found a quiet pub at the base of the plateau and ordered himself a beer and washbasin, then carefully checked Celine. She had bruises on the back of her neck, and when he touched her arm she did not cry out.
“Is it broken?” she asked.
“No,” Styke replied. “Can you bend it?”
She bent it several times for him. Bruising, then. She probably caught herself on it when the dragonman threw her. She stared at her feet.
“Anything else hurt?” Styke asked.
“My neck.”
“It’ll heal.”
“I know.”
“You did good back there. Sorry I didn’t find you sooner.”
Celine sniffled, rubbing her nose on her sleeve. “I’m mad he caught me. Shouldn’t have happened. Dad would have been furious.”
“Shit happens,” Styke said, finally allowing himself to sit down. He took a deep breath and drank his beer the moment the barmaid brought it over, then cleaned his face and hands in the washbasin they brought him next. When he finished he put one finger under Celine’s chin, lifting her face so they looked each other in the eye, and he considered her for several moments. What a funny kid. She was a knife’s stroke away from being a goner, yet she was disappointed in herself for getting caught in the first place. She probably didn’t even know how close she’d come to dying.
Styke wasn’t about to tell her.
“You did well,” he repeated. He put one arm around her, pulling her against his chest. He considered the anger that had almost overtaken him when she was in danger, and wondered if this was what it was like having a flesh-and-blood kid. He’d been furious, protective. Like he was when one of his men had been in danger back in the war, but … more.
“I didn’t do good. I lost him,” Celine said, frowning.
Styke patted her on the cheek and drew the bone knife from his pocket. He held it up to the oil lamps of the pub. Swamp dragon bone, if the stories were true. Guess they had swamp dragons over in Dynize, too. The damned thing was bloody sharp. “Oh,” he said, “I wouldn’t say we lost him for good. I’ve got a feeling he’ll come looking for this.”
It took only a glance for Michel to realize that the secretary wouldn’t be much help. Within minutes of arrival at Tampo’s office building—probably about the time she figured out she was in Blackhat custody—she was a nervous wreck, and no one had so much as laid a hand on her. Michel sat on Tampo’s desk, staring sullenly at the crates of Sins of Empire, wishing that he had it in him to beat on a helpless person.
He needed something to punch.
He got up and paced the room. Warsim had already confirmed with the landlord that the false Tampo was, indeed, the janitor, and it was agreed that the two had the same general hair color and build. Michel had the Iron Roses take all the hapless man’s information and sent him home. The secretary they kept, sitting behind her own desk. She tried to put on a brave face in what she probably thought was her last night of freedom before a long stint in the labor camps.
Michel crossed to her desk. “What’s your name?”
“Glenna.”
“Glenna what?”
“Just Glenna. I don’t have a family name.”
“Right. Now, Glenna, tell me exactly what you do here.”
Glenna’s eyes were wide, her whole body trembling. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were a Blackhat. I didn’t mean to do any—”
“Just,” Michel cut her off, “tell me what you do.”
“I’m Mr. Tampo’s secretary. I don’t really have a lot of work, but he employs me for sixty hours a week and pays quite well. I remain here and keep the office tidy, handle his mail, and deal with any visitors that might come by.”
“Are there many?”
“No! There’s an occasional workman, sometimes another attorney. I was ordered never to take any names—just introduce them if Mr. Tampo is in and take a brief message if he is out.”
“How does Tampo know who the messages are from?”
“I give a brief description of the caller. Tall, fair-haired, smokes a pipe. That kind of thing. Mr. Tampo has always taken that as sufficient. He told me that no one will ever have this address that doesn’t know his particular method of communication. That’s why I was so suspicious when you came by today.”
“What about the mail?” Michel asked, feeling his frustration deepen. Tampo was careful. Damned careful.
“Always outgoing,” Glenna said. “Sometimes to Adro or Novi. Maybe Brudania. Redstone and Little Starland. I never see the letters themselves. I just drop them in the post.”
“How does he pay you?”
“Cash. Every two weeks. Same time he has me pay the rent.”
“When’s the last time you saw him? Today?”
“No. Four days ago. He worked late one evening and told me he might come in tonight.”
“But you didn’t see him at all today?” Michel growled. This was getting him absolutely nowhere. Tampo had to have slipped up. No one was this thorough.
“After your visit this afternoon I sent him a message at our usual place—he keeps a box at the bank in Lindshire he checks every afternoon so I can contact him in an emergency—and told him that a strange man st
opped by demanding to see him. I got a response by courier telling me to head home early and come in late tomorrow morning.”
“Is Tampo always this cautious?”
“I never thought of it that way, but now that you mention it, yes.”
“And you never considered it suspicious?”
“I thought he was an eccentric.”
“Of course you did.” Michel continued to pepper Glenna with questions for another half hour while Agent Warsim wrote down her answers. Michel’s frustration only continued to increase as it became clear that Tampo didn’t make the kind of mistakes that most people did. He didn’t even make uncommon mistakes. His planning was damned perfect.
“What about the crates?” Michel asked. He reached down, picked up one of the copies of Sins of Empire that he’d knocked over earlier, and waved it under Glenna’s nose. “Did you know what was in them?”
Glenna recoiled. “They were delivered just yesterday. I’m not a revolutionary! I’m a secretary and a good Fatrastan. If I’d known what was in them I would have reported it to the police immediately.”
“You were never curious?”
Glenna lifted her chin. “Of course I was curious. Mr. Tampo left a message telling me not to look, so I didn’t. I wouldn’t jeopardize a good job like this, not in the current economy!”
Michel sighed, eyeing her for a few moments while he slapped Sins of Empire against one palm. “All right,” he said. “You’re free to go.”
“Excuse me?”
Michel made a shooing motion. “Go on. Get out of here before I change my mind. If Mr. Tampo contacts you, you’re to let us know immediately.”
Glenna fled the room, a look of relief on her face. Michel waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps before he nodded to Warsim. “Have someone follow her. Watch her. Four men at all times. I want to know her every move.” Warsim nodded and left the room, and Michel waved to the other two remaining Iron Roses. “Outside. I need a moment to think.”
The room was soon empty, leaving Michel alone with all the crates of pamphlets. He pinched the bridge of his nose, staring at the floor, furious with himself. “You were sloppy.”
“I did everything I could,” he snapped back.
“You were sloppy, and you’ve lost your chance at a Gold Rose.”
“I’m a spy, not an investigator. I shouldn’t even be on this case.”
“You’re the one who offered to take it further. You’ve got two failures in a row to explain to Fidelis Jes.”
Michel paced the room. This Tampo wasn’t some careful academic. He knew how to hide, and how to protect himself from being discovered. He’d had experience in counterespionage, maybe back during the war or in the Nine. Pit, for all Michel knew he could be a rogue or retired spy from one of the cabals of the Nine. How perfect would that be?
There was a knock on the door and Warsim poked his head inside. Michel opened his mouth to snap at him but managed to rein in his temper. “What is it?” he said.
“I thought you’d want to know the grand master is on his way over here.”
Michel felt a knot tighten in the pit of his stomach. Shit.
CHAPTER 20
Styke returned to Loel’s Fort at almost two o’clock in the morning. He carried a sleeping Celine on his shoulder, his hips and knees hurting from walking halfway across the city, his ribs aching from his fight with the dragonman, and several tender spots on his chest and stomach that would be vivid bruises within a day or two.
He wasn’t staying at the fort. He didn’t quite feel like he was “one” of the Riflejacks yet, and the dilapidated barracks was still under construction, so he rented a cheap room a block away. He was looking forward to falling into bed and sleeping well into the morning, but first he wanted to leave a message for Lady Flint. It was with some surprise that he found a lantern still on at the staff office, and when he knocked on the door there was an immediate “Come!” from inside.
Olem sat on the other side of a round table in the middle of the staff office, four other officers clustered around it, cards and coins scattered on the table. Olem glanced up at Styke, then across the table at the pretty, middle-aged captain sitting directly across from him. “Your draw. What happened to you?”
“Got into a scrap,” Styke said. He laid Celine down on a sofa in the corner, then stretched down to touch his toes, hearing his back pop in several places. The muscles of his bad knee twinged painfully. He dug a bit of horngum out of his pocket and tucked it into his cheek.
“Trouble?” Olem asked.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Styke wondered when he’d last played cards. It was next to impossible to get a full deck in the labor camps. The camp guards thought it was funny to remove the same three cards from each deck you could buy at the camp commissary. It was annoying, but the convicts just came up with their own games to play that required three fewer cards.
“Heard someone busted up Mama Sender’s earlier tonight,” Olem said. “Some big beast of a guy killed three Palo and crippled a fourth. Took off chasing a fifth. Mama Sender swore he looked just like Ben Styke.”
Styke scratched behind his ear. “Yeah, about that. I should probably send her a few hundred krana.”
Olem threw a card down. “Already took care of it. Nobody in this city cares much about some dead Palo. Just try to clean up better next time. Any luck tracking down a dragonman?”
Styke examined Olem for a few moments. No tone of reproach. Just professionalism. He liked that. Olem seemed distracted, though, and despite everyone else in the room looking tired-eyed the silence at the card table was tense. What were they all doing up this late on a weeknight? Olem’s Knack kept him from needing sleep, but the others doubtless had duties in the morning.
“I did,” Styke said. “Was going to leave a message for Lady Flint and then head to bed. She’s not awake still, is she?”
Olem reached over, plucking a cigarette from an ashtray on the table and sucking on the end, discarding it with a disgusted look when he realized it had gone out. “Lady Flint is down in Greenfire Depths.”
Styke froze mid-stretch. “Alone?”
“Yeah. Got invited to a gala at something called the Yellow Hall. They wouldn’t let her bring an escort or anything, and this is her best shot at getting an in with the Palo.”
“You let her go into Greenfire Depths alone?”
Olem looked up, an angry glint in his eye. “I don’t ‘let’ Lady Flint do anything. She can take care of herself better than anyone in this room.” Including you, his tone implied. Styke wasn’t about to argue with the sentiment, but he still didn’t like it. Here he was, off chasing mythical warriors, when his real purpose—Lady Flint—was off in the most dangerous part of Landfall without a guard. If she got herself killed right now, Tampo might very well sell Styke back to the Blackhats.
Styke made a calming motion with his hands. “Agreed, but Greenfire Depths. I don’t like the sound of it.” Not one bit. One person, all alone in the Depths? This wasn’t an invitation; it was a damned death trap.
“What could we do?” Olem asked. “None of us knows this place. Without her invitation, she wouldn’t even be able to find the Yellow Hall.”
Styke rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. This was bad. He pointed at Olem. “I can. But if she’s meant to be alone there’s no taking an army down there. Let’s go.”
He expected an argument, or an indignant response about giving out orders. Instead Olem threw down his cards, scooped up a pile of coins, and wordlessly buckled on his belt. “Any of you know where Davd or Norrine is?” he asked the table. He was answered by a round of headshaking and gave a frustrated grunt.
Styke went over to the sofa, nudging Celine awake. “You told me that you know Greenfire Depths. Can you find the Yellow Hall?” he asked gently. It took her a moment to wake up, then she was on her feet. “It’s been a while,” he added. “The Depths change, and I’m rusty.”
“I can find it,” Celine assured hi
m.
Styke nodded to Olem. “Let’s go find Lady Flint, and hope we’re not too damned late.”
Vlora spent hours mingling with the Palo elite and their Kressian business partners. She relaxed for the first time since entering the city, laughing at jokes, smiling, doing her best to drop the stony demeanor that had earned her her epithet. She was surprised to find most of the elite well educated, some of them even having gone to universities in the Nine, and by the end of the evening she could have been convinced that this was a whole different class of people from the insurrectionist tribes she’d put down in the swamps.
The guests retired one by one, leaving through the front door and down side halls, until only a handful remained. Vlora said her good-byes to Vallencian and Meln-Dun, pleased that Tampo was nowhere in sight, and found Devin-Tallis sleeping in his rickshaw outside. Water dripped through the tenements, and somewhere distant she could hear the patter of rain on the roofs well above them.
She woke Devin-Tallis, and they were soon heading down the narrow streets. “Was the celebration to your standards?” he asked.
Vlora settled into her seat, feeling more at ease and confident, slightly buzzed from one too many drinks. She had let her guard down, but now felt pleased to have done so. “I think I made some friends tonight,” she said.
“Very good, Lady Flint. Ah, I found out what ‘Ka’ stands for while I waited for you.”
“Oh?”
“‘Ka’ is one who protects. It’s a Dynize epithet, meant only for bone-eyes from the royal family. None of the tribes use it.”
Vlora tilted her head. “The Dynize haven’t been here for a very long time. How could anyone possibly know it?”
“Our languages are similar. Besides, I asked one of the old-timers. The Palo, we have so little property that we pass down knowledge like you would family heirlooms.”
“Sounds like it comes in handy.”
“It does, Lady Flint.” Devin-Tallis smiled over his shoulder at her. “See, Lady Flint. There is more than just fear in Greenfire Depths. There is knowledge, even friendship. I think that you …” He trailed off, suddenly slowing.