He read the last page of the diary and then flipped it shut, putting it in his back pocket and looking up at Warsim and the assembled Blackhats. “Take all of this to the Millinery,” he said. “Inventory it and sell it.”
“Even the pamphlets and propaganda?” Warsim asked.
Michel wondered how long it had taken Taniel to create the persona of Gregious Tampo—all the work that had gone into a false human being with an entire history. Tampo had written, published, and distributed a pamphlet that had, despite all the work, accomplished very little. Michel was sure it was not his only scheme, but it seemed like such a waste.
“No,” he said. “Take the books and pamphlets outside the city and burn them. Gregious Tampo is dead, and this whole affair with him. Bring me his old secretary and landlord from the office building to identify the body.”
“Right, sir. Anything else?”
“Yes. Let Fidelis Jes know I need to see him.”
“You’ve brought me a body,” Fidelis Jes said, his tone flat.
The grand master was having lunch at his desk, a napkin tucked into his pressed shirt, a bite of roast pheasant halfway to his mouth, orange sauce dripping onto the desk. He noticed the drip, swore and finished the bite, then wiped the desk with his napkin before tossing it on the half-finished meal and pushing his plate to one side. Jes did not look well—his eyes were bloodshot, his hair unkempt, and his shirt wrinkled. Michel, in the times he’d seen Jes around the Millinery, had never witnessed him so out of sorts.
Michel cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. That’s right.”
“What good is a corpse?” Fidelis Jes asked in a quiet voice. “What can I do with a body? I can’t torture a body, can I? I can’t squeeze it for secrets!” His voice rose in pitch until he finished by slamming a fist down on the desk, making Michel jump. Michel noticed a ring on his thumb—a heavy, silver ring with a lance through a skull. Had Jes worn that before today? Michel had not noticed, but Jes’s fidgeting drew attention to it.
Michel grasped for something to say. “It’s definitely him, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said …”
“I heard what you said,” Jes snapped. “I want to know what you mean. How is that supposed to reassure me? It’s definitely him. Bah! I’d rather it was a double, so I could send someone more competent out to bring the bastard in.”
Michel was careful to let nothing show in his face. Not his rising certainty that Taniel was still out there, not his fear—and certainly not the deep loathing he felt for Fidelis Jes and everything he stood for. “Sir,” he said in a reasonable tone, “that means it’s over.” He slipped the diary from his pocket and set it on Jes’s desk. “With Tampo dead, it leaves no loose ends. Remember how careful Tampo was about bank records and rental agreements and witnesses? Well, he didn’t have a perfect memory. He had to keep it straight somewhere, and it’s right there.”
Fidelis Jes looked at the diary with a vague air of disgust, as if Michel had plopped a dead groundhog on his desk. “You mean we have his organization?”
“Everything,” Michel emphasized. “There was no organization. There was only Tampo. He masterminded the entire Sins of Empire affair, using hired help every step of the way, most of which didn’t even know his real name. He thought that he could overthrow the Lady Chancellor’s regime through a sort of bloodless coup—by turning the populace against her and forcing her to step down.”
“That’s awfully shortsighted for someone so careful.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I checked with several of our propagandists and they said the theory is sound. Tampo wasn’t going to stop with Sins of Empire. He planned dozens more pamphlets over the next few years. It’s all in his diary. This was just the beginning, but we’ve managed to cut the head off the snake before it could multiply.”
Michel leaned forward slightly as he spoke, putting excitement behind his words that he didn’t feel. Jes had to feel this victory, understand its importance. The grand master had to be convinced that Tampo’s suicide was not a fluke. Michel snatched up the diary, turning to the last few pages. “Look, sir. Tampo writes about the close calls he had with our Blackhats. We were right behind him, dogging him every step for the last week. He killed himself because he feared what we would do when we caught him. It doesn’t matter that we don’t have him, because all he worked toward was for naught.”
Jes leaned back in his chair. He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t look irate anymore, either. “I suppose you want to take credit for that, do you?”
“I was the one who dogged him.”
Jes’s eyes narrowed, and he watched Michel for a silence that stretched nerve-rackingly long before he got up, rounded the desk, and took the diary from Michel’s hands. He paced the room, flipping through the pages. Michel stood at attention the whole time, sweat trickling down the small of his back while he waited for Jes to find some sort of mistake that would give away the entire game.
Michel had to admire Taniel’s foresight. The journal was impeccable. It had been written in every week for almost three years, and illustrated the downfall of a disenfranchised Adran nobleman who’d escaped Field Marshal Tamas’s coup in Adro ten years ago and come to Fatrasta, only to lose what remained of his family fortune on speculations. He had no friends or family to question, and this writing illustrated a paranoid mind that was convinced he could remove Lindet from power and then step into a role in whatever government rose from the ashes of hers.
The journal had not been written last night. It was a long, thoughtful work. Likely something Taniel had been keeping as some sort of kill switch for the whole persona of Tampo for the eventuality of being caught by the Blackhats.
But was it perfect?
Almost a half an hour passed before Fidelis Jes thoughtfully set the diary on the corner of his desk, then crossed the room to a small chest sitting above the fireplace. He palmed something, then turned toward Michel. “I’m not pleased by the conclusion of this problem, Agent Bravis,” he said coldly.
Michel licked his lips.
“However,” Jes said, “I am pleased that it’s over. We have far more pressing items of concern going on right now. I consider your wrapping up of the Sins of Empire affair to have involved quite a lot of luck and blunder. But there is a place in the Blackhats even for that, so I will not demote you.”
Michel suppressed a disappointed sigh. Not being stripped of his rank, he tried to tell himself, might have been the best possible outcome here. But it wasn’t what he needed. It wasn’t what Taniel had killed off Gregious Tampo for. He cleared his throat and mentally tossed the dice for a risky gamble.
“Sir,” he said firmly, “I think I earned more than that. Without proper investigative training I tracked down Tampo and I ended the danger he presented toward the Lady Chancellor. I believe I’ve earned my Gold Rose.”
Fidelis Jes crossed the room so quickly Michel threw himself backward, reeling. The grand master caught him by the front of his shirt, yanking him close, their noses almost touching. “You think you’ve earned the Gold Rose, do you?” Jes hissed.
Michel’s throat felt like a desert. “Yes,” he croaked.
“Luck and blunder aren’t enough,” Jes said. “But loyalty? Loyalty, Agent Bravis, is a coin worth more than silver.” He grasped Michel’s shoulder, pressing something hard against Michel’s skin, before releasing him and returning to his desk. Michel managed to catch the amulet before it fell, opening his fingers to reveal a Gold Rose. He let out a long, shaky sigh.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I am short-staffed right now,” Jes said. “But all my Gold Roses have a single objective. Benjamin Styke was captured last night and immediately escaped from Sweetwallow Labor Camp. The camp has been destroyed, and Styke is at large. You’re to bring him in.”
“What about Lady Flint?” Michel asked.
“What about her?”
“I’m her liaison.”
“Not anymore. She’s finis
hed her current contract. If we give her a new one, I’ll assign another Silver Rose. You’ve got work to do. Now get out of my sight.”
Michel closed the door to Jes’s office, leaving Michel in the antechamber with the secretary, Dellina. Dellina gave him a warm smile, as if he hadn’t just about had his heart handed to him by the head of the secret police. “Congratulations,” she said.
“Thanks,” Michel replied in a daze.
“Go get a celebratory drink,” she suggested. “It’ll take the edge off.”
“Good idea. First, I’m going to go change my pants.”
CHAPTER 41
Vlora sat alone and watched the sun rise over the half-built foundations of the tenement that, until just last night, her men had been preparing to erect on the rim of Greenfire Depths. A sleepless night contributed to her sense of deep melancholy, and she wondered if anyone would come along and finish these tenements after she was gone.
It was an encouraging thought. Perhaps Meln-Dun would see them finished, or another Palo businessman. Maybe even the Blackhats. After all, they’d already allocated the funds. But she didn’t know if it would happen, and she tried to tell herself she didn’t care.
Feeling empathy for the Palo people was not new to her. She had tried to break their spirit on the frontier, but she had instructed her men to show mercy and compassion, and attempted to leave the survivors with the tools to better themselves. Her role out there had not been as a governor, but as a suppressor, and she wondered now if she would have found something more fulfilling out of the former.
Despite that preexisting empathy, something about Greenfire Depths made her feel more conflicted over the arrest of Mama Palo than she had over putting down any number of insurrections out in the swamps. She couldn’t quite put her finger on why. Perhaps Vlora respected Mama Palo for her defiance. Perhaps she felt remorse over arresting an old woman.
She pushed the musings aside and picked herself off the street, walking through the tenement foundation and then over two blocks to look out on Greenfire Depths. She had more pressing things to worry about than rebuilding a city slum that held no real significance to her or any of her men. Far more important was how the Palo would react once they found out their leader had been taken by the Blackhats and sent to hang.
Vlora had tried to come up with a way to keep her name out of the story—she even considered making a personal request to Fidelis Jes—but she did not need to owe Jes a favor. Besides, they’d left too many witnesses and too much evidence behind. Everyone knew that the Riflejacks had the only powder mage in town, and all she could hope now was that no one figured out that she had three other mages with her as well. That was a trump card she preferred to hold on to.
No, the Palo would know exactly who had captured Mama Palo. Even if there weren’t outright riots, the attacks against her men would escalate beginning as soon as today, and she had to consider their safety. Meln-Dun might be able to restore order. Or he might fail. Or he might use the Riflejacks as a point of unification to bring Mama Palo’s former men under his control and turn all of Greenfire Depths against her. After last night, it wouldn’t surprise her one bit.
Vlora wondered if it was time to get out of this place. Perhaps even to return to Adro and mend some old wounds.
She walked back to the tenement only to find Olem waiting for her, accompanied by a familiar face: Fidelis Jes. Vlora offered the grand master her hand, which he shook perfunctorily. Jes did not look entirely well; in fact, a second look told her he was still wearing the same shirt as yesterday, his hair mussed, his eyes bloodshot.
“He said it was an emergency,” Olem said in a low voice, coming to her side.
“I see. I didn’t know you left the Millinery, grand master,” Vlora said.
“I do my best not to,” Jes replied. “Hold the pleasantries, this isn’t an honor, Lady Flint. I’m simply here to let you know that the Lady Chancellor is very pleased that you brought in Mama Palo so quickly. I myself am suitably impressed. I didn’t think you could do it.”
Vlora allowed herself to be pleasantly surprised. “Well, then. Thank you. I think.”
If Jes had meant the compliment to be backhanded, he didn’t show it. He turned away from her and Olem, studying the tenement foundation, clearly distracted.
“What will happen to Mama Palo?” Vlora asked.
“Oh,” Jes said with a dismissive wave, “she’s already been tried at a closed court this morning. I oversaw it myself. She’ll be hanged in the public square outside the capitol building at noon tomorrow.”
“I expected you to draw it out.”
“I would have liked to. Mama Palo could have made an excellent example. But publicly torturing an old woman wouldn’t have gained us much, and we’re not entirely monsters, despite what you may think.”
Could have fooled me.
Jes continued: “Noon tomorrow is enough time for the rabble to gather. Not enough time for them to organize.”
Vlora watched him fidget with his sword for a moment and noticed that he was wearing Ben Styke’s knife on his belt. Fidelis Jes had struck her from the beginning as a man who kept trophies. He had not, however, struck her as a man who fidgeted.
It was Olem who voiced her next question. “This isn’t just a congratulatory visit, is it?”
“No,” Jes replied, his voice clipped. He clasped his hands behind his back, still looking away from her and Olem. “This is a matter of some personal embarrassment, but Benjamin Styke has escaped.”
Vlora looked sidelong at Olem, who adopted a look that obviously said good for him, and shook her head. He scrunched up his face and dug in his pocket for his tobacco. “I assumed he was dead.”
“He was not,” Jes replied. “For reasons unbeknownst to me, the Lady Chancellor will not allow Styke to die. He was suitably chastised and returned to the labor camp in which he’s been incarcerated for so many years.”
“I thought he escaped that camp before.”
“It was more complicated than that. Regardless, we thought it was a good place for him.”
Vlora snorted. “But it wasn’t.”
“No,” Jes snapped, finally turning toward her. “The Sweetwallow Labor Camp was destroyed last night, the buildings burned to the ground, the guards slaughtered, and the convicts released.”
“You don’t think that we did it, do you?” Vlora asked, incredulous.
“No. We believe it was the work of Styke’s old comrades, the Mad Lancers.”
The thought of a bunch of angry old veterans attacking a labor camp almost made Vlora laugh. She bit her bottom lip, glancing at Olem.
“Weren’t they disbanded ten years ago?” Olem said.
Jes ignored the question. “I want Styke recaptured, and I want his accomplices hunted down and executed.”
“And you want us to do it?” Vlora asked flatly. Even before he’d finished his sentence she began running numbers and logistics in her head, trying to decide how much work it would be to capture or kill a company of retired veterans. The Mad Lancers were legendary, but they were ten years past their prime. She didn’t doubt her men could handle them. But she wasn’t sure it was worth it.
“Your assignment regarding Mama Palo is over and we have paid you in a mix of bullion, bank notes, supplies, and letters of mark as requested.”
Vlora gave a low whistle. “Already?”
“Yes,” Olem confirmed. It was by far the fastest they’d ever been paid.
“I’ve even authorized a bonus, paid immediately, if you’re willing to take on another assignment this very moment,” Jes continued.
“Styke?”
“Yes, Styke.”
Vlora continued to run through logistics, but suddenly put a stop to it. What was she doing? She hated Jes, didn’t much care for Lindet or her government, and her men were about to have a significant population of the city turn against them purely by default. Besides, she liked Styke. He’d more than proved his mettle and she had no interest in cha
sing after him and putting him down like a mad dog.
She glanced at Olem. He’d managed to restore his card-playing face, but she didn’t even need to ask his opinion on a matter like this. “Is this coming straight from Lindet?”
“From me,” Jes replied.
“Not interested.”
“I’ll have Lindet on board with the idea by this afternoon.”
“Still not interested.”
Jes’s face reddened slightly. Whatever he was expecting, an outright refusal was not it. “Is it because of your relationship with Styke?” He took a measured breath, then said, “We’re rather low on manpower at the moment. I can provide you with a different assignment that will free up my own men to address this menace. We could have you continue your garrison of Loel’s Fort to keep the peace against the Palo.”
“My relationship with Styke, as I mentioned before, was as a sympathetic employer to an old crippled veteran. And no, I’m not interested in having my men picked apart by angry Palo for the next year. You can’t fight what’s going on in Greenfire Depths. You have to either make changes big enough to bring them around to your side, or burn the whole bloody place down.”
“You could garrison Fort Nied …”
Vlora raised a hand to cut him off. She was surprised that Jes seemed so eager to keep her on the payroll. Her impression of him was that he didn’t care one bit for her. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you’re trying to keep me around.”
“You’re … valuable.”
So are green-eyed vipers, but I don’t let them have the run of my luggage. “No thank you, grand master. I expect to give my men some leave, and then we’ll be departing Fatrasta entirely. Back to the Nine with us.”
Jes ground his teeth. “And no amount of money would sway you?”
“Not any that comes to mind,” Vlora replied.
“Well,” Jes said. He fumed openly, his jaw thrust toward her. “I’m sorry to hear that. You’ll understand that we don’t want an unauthorized army on our soil. You have two nights to remove yourself from Loel’s Fort and four to take your men out of the city. Good day, Lady Flint.”