“No,” Jes said. “You’re to ignore the Dynize. Whatever you do, do not engage them directly.”
A bit late for that. And what happened to preposterous? “They’re interfering with my work,” Vlora repeated.
“You’ll have to just deal with it,” Jes said. “The Dynize are to be left unmolested.”
Vlora wondered what kind of plans Jes had for the Dynize. Obviously he knew about their presence. Was he watching them? Trying to trap them? Were they here on the behest of the Blackhats to stir up trouble in Greenfire Depths? What the Blackhats had planned for the Dynize was just as murky as what the Dynize themselves were up to, but it made her plenty angry. “Even,” she asked, “if dragonmen are stalking and murdering my soldiers?”
“Dragonmen?” Jes repeated quietly to himself. He sounded genuinely surprised, and Vlora felt a jolt of smug satisfaction. “No,” he finally said. “Steer clear of them.”
Vlora snorted. This was not how she wanted this conversation to go. She was not to be bait in some game being played out of her sight. “Why?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“It is my concern. My men are dying.”
“They’re soldiers,” Jes said coldly. “That’s what they do.” Vlora opened her mouth, but before she could respond, Jes went on. “What is your concern is the apprehension of Mama Palo. Your Blackhat liaison reports that you have your men tearing down and rebuilding entire tenements instead of searching for Mama Palo.”
“In addition to searching for Mama Palo,” Vlora corrected.
“Do you take me for an idiot?”
“No. I take you for someone who understands the nuance of a long-term plan.” The words slipped out, and Vlora once again cursed herself for letting her temper get the better of her.
“You’re trying my patience, Lady Flint.”
“Should that bother me?” Vlora asked. “You gave me an assignment. You gave me two months. I’m less than two weeks in and you’re demanding results. I’m not sure what you expect.”
“I expect someone of your reputation to accomplish your work ahead of schedule. And yes, trying my patience should bother you. You act as if you own this place, Lady Flint. You act as if you’re in Adro, among your friends and admirers. You are not. You’re nothing but a cog in the wheel here, and I expect you to know your place.”
“Are you threatening me, Fidelis Jes?”
“I don’t threaten people, General. I just remind them who I am.”
Vlora bit back a retort. The last thing she needed was a dick-measuring contest. Fidelis Jes was famous for his early morning duels, as well as his rule against using sorcery. She had no doubt that a fight between them without sorcery would be a close one. But she was a powder mage. A sniff of black powder and she would tear through his Blackhats like so much rabble. Perhaps, she thought to herself, I’ve become too arrogant. Perhaps I need to be cautious. She glanced at the ring on his thumb. “Is Styke still at large?”
“Styke has been dealt with.”
Vlora reappraised the blood soaking through his clean shirt and the sweat on his brow when she first entered. Even now he was still flushed. She felt a moment of disquiet. Did he just fight Styke? After seeing what Styke did to the dragonman she couldn’t imagine a normal man living through a fight with him, though Styke had been hurting pretty badly when he left. Whether or not it had been a fair fight, Fidelis Jes was still standing—and he had Styke’s knife and ring.
He looked pretty smug about it, too, so maybe he did kill Styke himself.
“I’m moving the timeline up,” Jes said suddenly. “Things have changed, and we need Mama Palo apprehended immediately.”
“Excuse me?” Vlora didn’t bother to hide her shock. “I have six more weeks.”
“Not anymore.”
“I’ve put plans in motion to take care of this peacefully.”
“I don’t care,” Jes responded. “Bring in Mama Palo. You have three days.”
“That leaves me no other option than to march in there with an army to try to find her. It’ll be a bloodbath.”
“As I said: You’re mercenaries. You’re paid to kill and die. Your illusions of solving this with a little community outreach may be laudable, but don’t pretend to be something you aren’t.”
Vlora stiffened. “I’d like to speak with the Lady Chancellor.”
“The Lady Chancellor has more important things to do than waste time with a mercenary commander. Your men will receive a bonus for the change in the timeline, but you’re expected to fulfill your contract.”
Vlora felt like she’d been slapped. Anger churned inside her, threatening again and again to come out in words she would doubtless regret more than what she’d already said. Jes thought he was putting her in her place, but he was only pissing her off. The problem was she could do little about it. If it were just herself she would call him out and cut him down. But she had responsibilities—she had men to keep safe. He was right—this was not Adro, and she was not among friends.
But marching into Greenfire Depths was not going to do her men any favors.
She pushed down her anger, trying to think clearly. Why was he moving up the timeline? Did it have something to do with the Dynize in Greenfire Depths? Jes was peeved, maybe even shaken. Perhaps from his fight with Styke—if that’s indeed what happened—or perhaps from something else.
What wasn’t he telling her?
“I’ll see it done,” Vlora finally said, wrestling the words out.
“Very good.” Jes pointedly moved a file into the center of his desk, looking down at it in obvious dismissal. Vlora hesitated a moment, and then left.
Her honor guard—an insistence by Olem, who trusted the Blackhats almost as little as he trusted the Palo—stood just outside the Millinery. They had been joined by one of her men on horseback. The soldier tipped his cap. “Ma’am, message from Colonel Olem.”
Vlora pulled herself into her saddle, sighing. “It’s not good news, is it?”
“There’s been another attack.”
Shit. “Where?”
“Just inside Greenfire Depths. Meln-Dun was on a survey mission with a whole platoon.”
Vlora tugged on the reins, turning her horse around toward Loel’s Fort and urging it into a canter. Pit and damnation, Meln-Dun was the key to her entire strategy in the Depths. Even if her hand was forced to violence, she needed some kind of ally there.
The messenger kept pace. “We’ve thirteen casualties, but the platoon managed to pull out.”
“And Meln-Dun?”
“Barely escaped with his life. One of our boys took a bullet for him.”
Vlora bent over her saddle and urged her horse on harder, yelling for traffic to get out of her way.
Vlora swept through a report of the violence—an ambush by Palo insurgents in a narrow street in Greenfire Depths—and rushed into the fort administration office, where a shell-shocked Meln-Dun was having a gash on his face stitched up by a Riflejack medic.
The Palo businessman stared over her shoulder, frowning at nothing the first several times Vlora said his name. Finally he seemed to snap out of it, waving off the medic and meeting Vlora’s gaze. He licked his lips, clearing his throat, but couldn’t seem to be able to find anything to say. Vlora had seen this kind of thing before among green recruits or ordinary citizens caught in unexpected violence. Ambushes were terrifying no matter how experienced you were, and one in such a claustrophobic place like the Depths would be doubly so.
“It’s all right,” Vlora said, putting a hand on Meln-Dun’s shoulder. “I already got the report. I know what happened.”
“They attacked me,” Meln-Dun responded, eyes wide. “I’m trying to help them. I’m one of them!”
“They attacked my soldiers,” Vlora assured him.
“But I was there.” Meln-Dun touched his chest. “I was standing right there in the open where they could easily see me. My own people were down there with us. They killed Seren-Tel and Ele
uia.”
“His surveyor and an assistant,” the medic explained quietly.
“I’ve been working with Seren-Tel for twenty years. He’s been a foreman at my quarry. I was going to …” Meln-Dun choked up, unable to speak any further.
Vlora exchanged a glance with the medic, who no doubt would like his patient left alone to collect himself. But Vlora didn’t have time to leave Meln-Dun to grieve. Pushing him would be a risk, but Fidelis Jes had given her an ultimatum and Vlora saw a way to get what she wanted without marching her whole army into the Depths.
“Who do you think did this?” she asked gently.
Meln-Dun averted his eyes, like a child who doesn’t want to tattle on a friend. Finally he said, “I believe it was Mama Palo’s men. No, I know it was Mama Palo’s men. I recognized one of her enforcers among the attackers.”
“And you’re sure they saw you in the crossfire?”
“I’m sure.” Meln-Dun shifted and allowed the medic to finish the stitches. “Lady Flint, I don’t think I should keep this from you.”
“What?”
“I believe they were coming for me.”
“Why would you say that?”
Meln-Dun waited until the medic had finished the stitches and Vlora had dismissed him. Once they were alone the Palo businessman seemed to gather his wits a little better, soaking the fresh stitches with a washcloth and cleaning the blood from his face. Vlora watched him the whole time, silently urging him to spit it out. She needed him to talk. This could be her opportunity to turn him against Mama Palo.
“I made a discovery this morning,” he finally admitted. “Mama Palo is working with the Dynize.”
Vlora circled around Meln-Dun and took a seat behind her desk. She leaned back in her chair, absorbing the information. Part of her wanted to be surprised, but it was the final piece of a puzzle that she didn’t even know existed. Of course Mama Palo was working with the Dynize. They’d infiltrated the Depths, and Mama Palo ruled the Depths. If even the Blackhats knew about them then she must as well. It made complete sense that she was in cahoots with them.
“To what end?” Vlora asked, not caring if it revealed her previous knowledge of the Dynize.
Meln-Dun didn’t seem to notice. “I’m not entirely sure. Some of us have suspected it for months, but I wasn’t certain until this morning. I was at the Yellow Hall paying my respects when I took a wrong turn—the hall can be confusing even for those familiar with it—and entered a room with dozens of foreigners.”
“You’re sure they were Dynize?”
“Positive. Dynize and Palo may look the same to you Kressians, but to us the difference is as night and day. They didn’t seem at all happy to be found, and I hurried from the place in fear of my life. I returned home, then came immediately here. I thought the safest place to be would be among your soldiers. At least until I could get word from my people whether I was in trouble with Mama Palo.”
Vlora drummed her fingers on her desk, trying to decide what to do. Did she risk pushing him? “How can you be sure they came for you?”
“It would just be another reason,” Meln-Dun said. “My deal with you … Well, to be honest, I haven’t been entirely forthright. I told you Mama Palo knew about it, but I didn’t say she disapproved. Her anger over my defiance, and my discovery of her Dynize allies … that ambush was meant for me.”
So Meln-Dun had lied to her. The fact that he had been willing to work with her against Mama Palo’s wishes had to be a good thing, didn’t it? Vlora opened her mouth, then closed it again, rethinking her strategy. If she suggested an all-out coup against Mama Palo he might refuse. Some people could be mad about loyalty. But if he suggested it …
“I can offer you my protection while you’re here at the fort,” she said. “But beyond that I’m afraid there’s little I can do. My soldiers are here to keep the peace and help with construction efforts, not interfere in the politics of the Depths.”
“I appreciate it, but I—” Meln-Dun was cut off by a knock on the door. Vlora was surprised to find a Palo on the other side. “One of my assistants,” Meln-Dun explained. “May we have the room for the moment?”
Vlora waited outside for almost five minutes, pacing the fort office and drumming her fingers on the wall. Her heart was beating double-time. She had a decision to make, and she couldn’t hold Meln-Dun’s hand through it all. She needed to either prepare her soldiers for an all-out invasion of Greenfire Depths, or figure out a way to get Meln-Dun’s help in a coup against Mama Palo.
A sob broke her concentration. She crossed to her office door and listened for a moment, only for the door to open in her face. The messenger withdrew, leaving Meln-Dun looking pale and shaken. “I’ve just heard word from my quarry,” he explained in a monotone.
“Yes?” Vlora urged gently.
“Mama Palo’s men have seized my assets in the Depths. My quarry, my home, my family. You remember my business partner, Enna? She was found murdered in her home not a half-dozen blocks from here. To be so brazen!” Meln-Dun’s expression hardened. “This has gone too far. Mama Palo must be stopped. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know which is worse—that I must flee my own people, or the prospect of going to the Blackhats for help.”
This was exactly what Vlora had been waiting for. She leaned over Meln-Dun, trying not to appear too eager. “You know the Yellow Hall well?”
“Of course.”
“Mama Palo’s own chambers?”
“I do.”
“Then,” Vlora said, going to the door to summon a messenger, “I think we can help each other.”
CHAPTER 37
Michel reached deep into the depths of his memory to find the tiny marble he’d stored there so many years ago. He handled it delicately, cracking it open like an egg and letting all of the thoughts, hopes, ambitions, and memories flood out into his mind. The outpouring of emotion was so sudden that, even though he knew it was coming, he lowered his head and began to weep.
It took him over an hour to regain control. He struggled to reconcile two different personalities with two very different sets of goals until, finally, they were one again and he remembered who he really was: Michel Bravis, a Son of the Red Hand and to his knowledge the only Palo to ever infiltrate the Blackhats to the rank of Silver Rose.
Taniel stood silently through the entire process, watching him curiously, a slight frown on his face. Michel used Taniel’s face as a lifeline to his old self—the one he’d been before he joined the Blackhats—staring back into those cold blue eyes while his breathing normalized and his hands stopped shaking.
Michel dried the tears from his eyes and within moments found himself laughing. It began as a chuckle, bubbling up unbidden and escaping through his clenched teeth, and was soon a wholehearted guffaw. He slapped his knees, bending over to try to catch his breath.
“What’s so funny?” Taniel asked.
Michel, once again, regained control. “It’s just I’ve barely slept in over a week trying to find the person who printed Sins of Empire, and after chasing him through the bloody streets I come to find out it’s the very man I work for.”
Taniel gave a sardonic smirk. “You almost caught me down in the Factory District. I would have felt a lot better about things if I’d known it was you on my tail.” His face finally cracked into a smile and he seemed to relax, sitting down across from Michel and reaching for the skin of tea.
“If I’d caught you, it might have compromised my cover.”
Taniel made a noncommittal sound. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
Michel considered all the close calls and lucky breaks over the last two weeks, and then tried to think of them from Taniel’s perspective. The whole thing had been a game of cat-and-mouse, only for them both to find out that there’d never actually been a mouse to begin with. It was a little humiliating, if he was being honest with himself, but he decided that if no one found out he could live with it in private.
“The face thing,” he asked. “So
rcery?”
Taniel nodded.
“I didn’t know that was possible. Can’t other Privileged detect that kind of thing?”
“It’s …” Taniel paused. “Very well done. Sorcery woven to cover sorcery. Not even another powder mage can detect me. Unfortunately, it’s going to take a long time to reapply now that I’ve let it drop.”
Michel winced. “Sorry.”
“You had no way of knowing,” Taniel reassured him. “Besides, I thought it important for you to see my face.” He suddenly leaned forward, peering into Michel’s eyes. Michel tapped his foot with nervous energy. He didn’t know everything about Taniel—there were a lot of rumors in the newspapers back during and after the Adran-Kez War, including the suggestion that he’d killed a god—but he did know that, at the very least, he was a powder mage not to be trifled with. “You do,” Taniel asked, “remember your mission?”
Michel considered Taniel a friend, but no more than he might consider a friendly cave lion a pet. He nodded slowly. “Infiltrate the Blackhats. Gain their trust. Climb the ranks. Be indispensable.”
“And?” Taniel asked.
“And wait,” Michel said.
Taniel gave a satisfied smile. “Very good.”
The waiting, Michel had decided, was the hardest part of being a spy. That’s why he created the marble; that’s why he stored the real him in a tiny corner of his mind and locked it away. If he could become someone else entirely, then the waiting no longer existed and he could carry on happily, untethered, until the moment it was time to change sides.
Becoming an actual spy for the Blackhats—a double agent working as a double agent—had been supremely difficult because he could not become someone else entirely. He was still Michel Bravis with a history and a family and friends and a heritage. He wanted nothing more than to make his mother proud of her Palo boy, working for a Palo cause, but instead he’d had to hurt her deeply by becoming the very thing she hated most—a member of the secret police.