“Yes, Mr. Tampo.”
Styke wondered if Tampo actually cared, or whether he was worried Styke wouldn’t be able to focus if something happened to Celine. Tampo was right to worry, but the question intrigued Styke.
“One more thing,” Tampo said as he turned to go. He held out a roll of banknotes. “Fidelis Jes knows that you’ve been released.”
Styke twirled the ring on his finger, feeling along the lance with his thumb. Fidelis Jes could certainly complicate things. “How?”
“Seems one of the guards I bribed had instructions to let Fidelis Jes know if you happened to get out for any reason. We could do without the attention, but no helping it now, unfortunately.”
Styke couldn’t help but agree. He was already looking over his shoulder for this dragonman to come calling—now he had to figure out a way to navigate the streets without attracting the attention of the Blackhats. He was going to have to start taking hackney cabs everywhere. But something else was bothering him. “You have people in the Blackhats?”
“Local police, actually,” Tampo said with a faint smile. “Seems Fidelis Jes has alerted most of the authorities that you’re a mass-murdering war criminal that must be apprehended.”
Styke felt a stab of anger. Being accused of being a murderer didn’t faze him. But a war criminal? That was preposterous. “Does that amuse you?” he asked.
“A little,” Tampo said. “I expect you to go ahead with your work. Just be warned that Fidelis Jes is coming for you. You’ll want to keep a low profile.”
“I’ll be ready for it when he does,” Styke said. He made a fist, imagining that it was around Fidelis Jes’s throat. “If Flint finds out she’ll hand me over without a fuss.”
Tampo’s smile broadened. “The garrisons haven’t been told, so I suspect Lady Flint will not find out for some time. You probably have a week or two to make yourself indispensable. Once you do that—once you’re one of her men—she won’t let Fidelis Jes walk away with you.” Tampo nodded to himself, as if satisfied with the meeting, and then turned and left the café as suddenly as he’d arrived.
Styke looked down at his third cup of coffee, the ice long melted, and then over at Celine. She was watching Tampo go, eyes sharp, and it struck him that she saw and heard more than most children her age. Good. It might just keep her alive to reach adulthood. Styke stood up, paid his bill, and took Celine by the hand. If Fidelis Jes knew he was out, he would stop at nothing to catch him. That meant looking in on old friends. Styke didn’t have a lot of those left, so he thought it best he give them some warning.
CHAPTER 25
Vlora woke to the sound of a violent row outside the Loel’s Fort staff room. She bolted upright, blinking sleep out of her eyes and fumbling for her pistol, only for the door to burst inward. She lunged for the sword beneath her cot but was snatched up by strong hands, lifted bodily to her feet, and thrust into the light of the single window in the center of the room.
“What the pit …” Vlora struggled, only to suddenly find herself free. She nearly collapsed, but managed to keep her balance, blinking at the big, bearded face in front of her. “Vallencian? What are you doing here? By Adom, Vallencian, I’m not dressed!”
The Ice Baron shushed her loudly and spun her around, examining her body in a way that might have been horrifying if it wasn’t so clinical. Vlora tried to come to grips with what was happening, a hangover and far too little sleep keeping her head fuzzy. If there wasn’t a good reason for this, she was going to kill him.
“Ach!” Vallencian exclaimed, snatching up Vlora’s clothes from the chair she’d thrown them on last night and thrusting them into her hands. He turned away, as if suddenly embarrassed, his cheeks turning red, and began to pace furiously from one end of the room to the other as Vlora dressed. “I am sorry for this intrusion, Lady Flint, but I simply had to see that you were unharmed with my own eyes. If they had damaged a single hair on your head …” He let out a strangled exclamation.
Vlora’s own anger died out as she managed to clear the sleep from her head and saw that Vallencian was physically trembling, his hands balled into fists, tears streaming down his face. “Vallencian? Are you all right?”
“My idiot footman waited until I awoke to give me your message, so I have just now found out you were attacked last night on your way home from the gala.”
“Vallencian, calm down, or you’ll give yourself apoplexy.”
“You could have been killed!”
Vlora staggered over to the table, where she counted eight empty wine bottles. For who? Her, Olem, and Styke? Considering how hard it was for a powder mage to get a true hangover, most of that had gone in her. Pit, it was going to be a rough day. “I wasn’t. I wasn’t even hurt.”
“Incredible. A testament to your skill, and to the favor of the god of your choosing. But Lady Flint, you were under my protection. You are my friend. I am mortified, and I hope you will accept any gift that is in my power to give.”
Vallencian’s solemn face, and perhaps a little leftover alcohol in her system, made Vlora giggle. She covered her mouth, mortified that such an un-general-like sound would come from her. Vallencian scowled. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry, it’s just … I’ve had so many people try to kill me. Vallencian, your apology is completely unneeded. I don’t blame you in any way for what happened.”
“I don’t care! I blame myself.” He looked away, brushed tears off his cheeks with his bearskin. “You could have been hurt, and I did lose another friend last night.”
Vlora sobered up. “Devin-Tallis. His family …”
“They will want for nothing!” Vallencian declared. “His widow will be a countess! His children will attend the finest schools! I am not …” He choked on his words.
Vlora’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. She’d never seen someone with so much passion before. For the first time she noticed a few of her soldiers standing just outside the door and shooed them away, wondering if they’d gotten an eyeful before she’d dressed. Oh well. No helping that now. Vlora stuck her head out the door. “Olem! Olem! Someone get the colonel, would you?”
“I’m right here.” Olem rounded the corner at a jog, hand on the hilt of his sword. “Are you all right?”
Vlora jerked her head at Vallencian, who stood with his face toward the corner of the staff room, weeping openly. “Better than him,” she muttered.
“Ah,” Olem whispered back. “That’s quite something. What’s going on?”
“He claims he feels responsible for the attack on me last night, and the death of my guide. Pit, I can’t …” She was cut off by an enormous crash. The sound made her jump, and she checked the window to find a cloud of dust riding over the walls of the fort. “What’s going on?”
“The boys are taking down the first tenement,” Olem answered.
“That was this morning? Pit, you need to remind me not to drink so much.”
Olem cocked an eyebrow at her. “And I need to remind you what happens when I remind you of things.”
“I only punched you in the face that one time.”
“Twice, actually.”
“I said I was sorry.” Vlora looked over her shoulder at Vallencian, who seemed to be getting himself under control. “Can you …?” she said to Olem.
Olem pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. “Vallencian,” he said, “you wouldn’t happen to have any more of those cigarettes?” The Ice Baron blew his nose loudly, and within moments the two of them were smoking up a storm in the corner of the staff room. Vlora stepped outside to get some fresh air, choked on the drifting dust from the demolition project the next block over, and went back inside.
By the time they finished their cigarettes, Vallencian seemed like his old self. He thumped Olem on the back and gave Vlora a sheepish look. “I am very sorry,” he said. “I am known to get overly … protective of my friends.”
“No need for the apology,” Vlora said, realizing the irony that she had been the one attac
ked last night and he was the one in tears. “Vallencian, I do need something, though. Those assassins weren’t there on their own volition, I’d stake my reputation on it. We need to know who had them waiting for me, and why, but the Riflejacks don’t have the contacts in the city, and especially not in Greenfire Depths.”
Vallencian discarded his spent cigarette and immediately produced his pipe, puffing it to life in moments. “I’m not sure I’ll be much help in the Depths. But I can try. I’ll give you all of my resources to discover who did this thing.”
“Just a little help is all we ask.”
“Nonsense! I may not have guile, but I have money and I know how to make it work for me. I’ll find out who tried to have you killed, Lady Flint, I swear it. It’s the least I could do for this mess that I’ve made of your room and for seeing you, um …” He cleared his throat.
“Let’s forget that happened,” Vlora suggested. She leaned over to Olem and whispered, “You need to remind me to get dressed after we …”
Olem chuckled. “Not a chance,” he said under his breath.
“I will put pressure on my business partners to find answers for me,” Vallencian said. “No answers, no ice. The Palo love their iced coffee.”
“You don’t have to put your business at risk,” Vlora assured him. “One other thing, though. Can you tell me anything about Meln-Dun? I spent quite a lot of time with him last night, and he seems eager to help me make friends in the Depths. Does he have a good reputation?”
Vallencian considered the question for a moment. “He does, more or less. He owns one of the few remaining operating quarries in the city, and several hundred homes in Greenfire Depths.”
“He’s a landlord?”
“He is. Always buying up what he can from any Palo who go into debt. He’s fair, though. Always gives them a chance to get back on their feet.”
“I’m surprised that anyone owns anything down there,” Olem said.
Vallencian shook his pipe at Olem. “Property is taken very seriously in the Depths! Most of the Palo own their apartments. It’s a point of pride. I’ve tried to tell you, leave your expectations behind when it comes to the Palo! Meln-Dun, though …” He gave a shrug. “He’s ambitious, but most seem to like him.”
A landlord, with obvious plans to expand his holdings. That would explain why he wanted Vlora’s help rebuilding a chunk of the Depths. Brand-new tenements would end up being prime real estate, and he’d no doubt put them in his pocket by the time construction was done. Vlora wondered how Meln-Dun’s business came into play with Mama Palo’s maneuvering against Lindet. Perhaps it didn’t. Either way, it was something Vlora could use to infiltrate the Depths.
“About his partner,” Vlora said.
“Lady Enna?”
“Yes, her. You may want to pass on a friendly warning. I’m not terribly interested in the politics of the city, but it’s dangerous to be so loudly liberal in a place like Landfall.”
Vallencian grimaced. “I know. I’ve tried, believe me. Lady Enna is a sharp woman, but a little bit of wine in her brings out a bleeding heart. Meln-Dun does his best to make sure she doesn’t go to parties that aren’t predominantly attended by people who either agree with her or are ambivalent. My apologies for leaving you with her—though you did seem to get along fine.”
“Yes,” Vlora said, drawing out the word. The events of last night were coming back to her with more clarity as she gathered her wits. “One last question. Do you know someone named Gregious Tampo? He’s a lawyer.”
Vallencian’s face brightened. “I do! Gregious runs a small mill out beyond the fens. Lovely man, very friendly.”
“A mill?” Vlora searched her pockets and came up with Tampo’s card, handing it to Vallencian. “He said he owned a printing press.”
“First I’ve heard of it,” Vallencian said. “He’s only been around Landfall for a few months but he seems to be in Mama Palo’s good graces. I understand he’s going to set up a law firm in the city once he’s raised the funds. I do hope he finds success.”
Vlora decided not to tell Vallencian about her interactions with Tampo. She didn’t need another passionate speech, or for him to rush off half-cocked. Getting him to focus on finding whoever hired those assassins was the most important thing. She paused that thought, suddenly recalling a warning Tampo had given her before leaving. Beware the Depths, he’d said. It had sounded vaguely sinister at the time, and she wondered whether he had anything to do with the attempt on her life.
Vlora jumped at a sudden boom, and then the following, prolonged crash. She reached for a sword that was not at her hip.
“The second tenement,” Olem explained. “The engineers decided to take them both down today.”
“Could have warned me. Vallencian, thank you so much for checking on me. I need to get to work but please, do not disrupt your business on my account.”
Vallencian waved off her protestation and stalked toward the door. “I will discover who hired your assassins, Lady Flint. I will also try to recover Devin-Tallis’s body. It’s Greenfire Depths, so the scene of your attack is probably already cleaned up, but I will still try.” He turned, flourishing a bow. “For now, good afternoon!” He was gone a moment later, and Vlora let out a sigh of relief.
She ran her hands through her hair. “Is it really afternoon already?”
“One fifteen,” Olem reported.
She mentally sorted through the long list of things she needed to get done, filing them in order of importance. She knew she should feel elation at the success she’d had last night at the gala, but the assassination attempt after left her wondering if this was all a terrible idea. She was getting mixed up in the petty politics of a slum exactly like she’d promised herself she wouldn’t. “Let Agent Bravis know that I’m making progress,” she told Olem. “But also tell him I’m going to need resources and permission to build in Greenfire Depths. Then set up a meeting with Meln-Dun. And,” she said, handing him Tampo’s card, “look into this. Find out who this guy is. He gave me the creeps.”
CHAPTER 26
The Fles family home in Greenfire Depths had not changed much since Styke’s last visit. It was located at the bottom of the quarry near the Greenfire Inlet, where the Hadshaw River Gorge and the Depths connected in a narrow corridor that allowed immense blocks of limestone to be floated up or down the Hadshaw River by barge. The house was an old stone manor, one of the few single homes left in the Depths, facing the inlet in such a way that it actually received a bit of sunlight every day. When Styke approached that time was well past, and the manor was cloaked in shadow.
Styke had expected the Fles family home to be a ruin by now, what with the current reputation of the Depths, but the street outside was devoid of the usual quarry grime, the stone facade of the house scrubbed clean. The big wooden sign that used to hang over the door declaring it FLES FINE BLADES had been replaced with a small bronze placard that said:
FLES FAMILY HOME
FOR BLADES SEE FLES AND FLES
AT HADSHAW MARKET
Styke watched the house for a few minutes while Celine did a circuit of the neighborhood to see if the Blackhats had managed to beat him here. He noted that the inlet was busy with Palo workers loading stone on barges, and there were truncheon-wielding Palo in pale green uniforms at regular intervals up and down the street. A Palo police force. He snorted. They really had taken charge of the Depths.
Celine returned, shaking her head. The Blackhats hadn’t left anyone to watch the Fles home—at least anyone obvious—and Styke took that as a good sign. He went around to the side door, finding the spare key in the false knot halfway up the frame, and let himself and Celine into the old workshop.
Most of the manor had long ago been converted into a smithy for Fles’s business, and then allowed to gather dust when the smithy moved to Hadshaw Market. The forge was now dark, the rooms quiet. Styke guided Celine through the dim light of the old smithy by memory until he reached the heavy oak door tha
t separated the Fles home from the workshop. The door stuck, forcing him to put his shoulder against it, and he pushed his way inside.
The “home” portion of the manor contained several large rooms that all seemed to lead into one another, from the foyer, to the great hall, to the kitchen and larder. The mix of smells hit him first—the smoky scent left in clothes after all day at the forge, the corn oil and lime mix they used to rub the blades. Styke felt himself transported back twenty years, to a time when he was young and stupid, and without direction, hanging around the forge all day to flirt with Ibana while Fles worked his blades in the next room. There was still the old ironwood chair by the front door, atop the striped hide of a swamp-cat rug now worn thin.
Styke thrust aside all his old memories and stalked through the great room to the kitchen, following the smell of a woodstove and the whistle of a teakettle. He found Old Man Fles leaning against the counter beside the stove, snoring quietly, asleep on his feet.
Celine poked him gently. Fles stirred, swatting at an invisible fly, but continued to snore. “Why do old people sleep so much?” she asked.
“Fles has always been a napper,” Styke said, taking the teakettle off the stove. “Fles. Fles!”
Old Man Fles jerked awake, nearly falling over. “I’m up! I …” He blinked and seemed to remember where he was before glancing from Styke to Celine. “What are you two doing here?”
“You said you didn’t want me coming by the market,” Styke answered.
Fles rubbed his eyes, stretched, then snatched the teakettle out of Styke’s hand and poured himself a cup. He didn’t offer any to Styke or Celine. “Right, right,” he said, sniffing. “Surprised you’re still alive. Thought the new city would eat you up by now.”
“I’m a cripple, not an invalid,” Styke said, growling. Bloody old man always liked to bait him.
“I hear you messed up a bar full of Palo kids up on the Rim.”