Sins of Empire

  “But you’re going in the wrong direction!”

  “No,” Michel muttered to himself. “We’re definitely going in the right direction.” They broke out of the camp and had gone about a hundred yards when he said, “Wait. No, we’re going in the wrong direction. Taniel, where the pit are we going?”

  “East,” Taniel responded over his shoulder.

  “I can see that! But east is the ocean. East is the Dynize!”

  “We hug the coast and head north back to Landfall. Vlora will need the help, and if we can get any of her men we’ll be able to come back and take the godstone from Fidelis Jes.”

  Michel wanted to shout how stupid an idea that was, and how much he wanted to head away from the burning city, but his words turned into a strangled shout as he spotted a number of Blackhats peel off the main contingent and head to cut them off. “Taniel!”

  “I see them.”

  Ka-poel rode close and snatched Michel’s reins and then bent over her own horse, urging her onward. The three practically flew across the plains, Taniel and Ka-poel riding like the wind while Michel just clung to his saddle horn, hoping he didn’t fly off and break his neck when they leapt a ditch. The Blackhats drew closer and closer, and Michel’s certainty they would be caught grew deeper until Taniel suddenly veered northwest.

  “Why are we heading toward them?” Michel asked.

  “I have a plan,” Taniel said. Michel spared a look up from the back of his horse’s neck to see that Taniel’s eyes were on Landfall, not the approaching Blackhats.

  “Focus!” Michel shouted. He squeezed his eyes closed and heaved, wondering if he had anything left in his stomach to throw up. Their gallop suddenly slowed, and he opened his eyes again to find the Blackhats upon them, Taniel’s hands held in the air. Michel felt a sudden sinking feeling, dizziness threatening to pitch him from the saddle. “We’re surrendering?” he managed.

  “We’re surrendering,” Taniel confirmed. “For now.”

  Michel’s bowels felt like water, and he tried to seek a way out of this to no avail. There were about thirty Blackhats to the three of them. Michel was useless in a fight, and he knew that most of Ka-poel’s sorcery depended on preparation. That would leave thirty men to Taniel, which, he considered optimistically, might not be that difficult if they were all carrying powder.

  He decided that must be Taniel’s plan, and gritted his teeth, waiting for Taniel to detonate their powder, killing the lot of them. The moment never came.

  “Agent Bravis,” a voice called out.

  Michel didn’t think he could feel any sicker. The voice disproved him. “Grand master,” he answered, staring at his saddle horn like a sullen child.

  Fidelis Jes rode to the front of his column of Blackhats, head held high, face flushed from a hard ride. “Gutsy,” he said, a small note of admiration in his voice. “We intercepted a message from Major Cole that you were in the camp about twenty minutes ago. Imagine my delight when you tried to run.”

  “Delight imagined, sir,” Michel said. He wondered if he should just get this over with now—he could charge the grand master, weaponless, and hope that Fidelis Jes’s bodyguards gunned him down in the process. It was the best idea he could come up with on the spur of the moment, and it didn’t sound all that appealing.

  Better than dying slowly in a torture chamber, though.

  Jes rubbed the back of his neck, which was covered by his collar, and Michel allowed himself the fantasy of a dark purple bruise back there. How the bastard had managed to survive being punched in the spine by knuckledusters was beyond him, but when it came to Fidelis Jes his survival seemed almost a given. Jes cast a curious glance at Taniel and Ka-poel, his gaze lingering on the latter. “You have a lot of explaining to do, Agent Bravis. You’ll be coming with us to Dalinport, where you’ll have plenty of time to do so.”

  “The road to Dalinport is blocked,” Taniel said. “The Dynize have landed.”

  “I’ve brought enough men to put down the Dynize in our path,” Jes said.

  Ka-poel gestured at Taniel, then tapped the backs of her hands and held up four fingers. “Privileged, eh? That will certainly help.”

  “Who the pit is this?” Fidelis Jes demanded.

  Michel gave him a wan smile, but did not answer.

  “Who are you?” Jes spat at Taniel.

  Taniel sighed, as if annoyed that it had come to this, and then tugged on the fingers to his left glove. He pulled it off, revealing the blood-red skin of his hand.

  Jes’s perpetual sneer deepened. “The Red Hand? Bah. I expected better of you, Agent Bravis. A cabal spy; a Kez nationalist; I expected you to be better than working for a common rebel.”

  “Not terribly common,” Michel said, watching as Taniel slowly got off his horse and drew his sword from his saddlebags.

  “Fidelis Jes,” Taniel said, “I’ve wanted to kill you for a very long time.”

  “Sir,” one of Jes’s officers warned, “we don’t have time for this.”

  Fidelis Jes seemed to vacillate between getting to the dig site and a good fight. Michel was less than surprised when his baser instincts won out and he slid gracefully from his saddle and grabbed his sword, walking toward Taniel. “Who are you?” he asked. “I expected the Red Hand to be Palo, but you’re obviously Adran.”

  “Michel’s tale of an Adran expatriate was closer than you’d think,” Taniel said, running two fingers down the length of his sword as if to test the blade. Michel thought he heard the sound of distant hoofbeats, but his eyes were glued to the scene in front of him. He silently urged Taniel to just kill the bastard and stop screwing around.

  Fidelis Jes stretched lightly, bending one way, then the next, his eyes never leaving Taniel. “I expect this to be quick,” he said. “So if you have anything else to tell me, do it now.”

  Taniel closed his eyes halfway, holding his sword out in front of him in both hands, tip pointed toward the ground as if he were praying. He remained that way for almost thirty seconds before Fidelis Jes lost his patience.

  “Your time is up,” the grand master snapped, stepping forward.

  Taniel’s sword came up, tip pointing over Jes’s shoulder, and he barked the words, “I’m not here to kill you.”

  Jes sneered. “You’re right about that.”

  “He is.”

  Taniel leapt out of the way of Jes’s thrust, moving so quickly Michel could barely follow him. Taniel grabbed Jes by the back of the hair, kicking one leg to make him stumble, and turned him around, shoving him forward. Michel lifted his eyes, surprised to see more riders coming in just behind the Blackhats.

  The man at their head was the biggest, ugliest man Michel had ever seen. He wore a faded Fatrastan cavalry jacket and rode a black warhorse with a black and brown mottled neck. His face was pitted and scarred, his back slightly bent in the saddle, and he rode ahead of a standard flying an image of a lance through a skull. The same skull that was on the ring that Fidelis Jes wore.

  Michel didn’t have to ask who that was.

  “Jes!” Ben Styke roared, throwing himself from the saddle before his horse had even come to a complete stop. “You’re a dead man!”

  CHAPTER 62

  Styke strode toward Fidelis Jes, chest heaving from the ride, every bit of tiredness that had threatened to make him call a halt on the journey south of the city now gone from his mind. He gripped his saber in one hand, his other balled in a fist, and he ignored the startled shouts of the Blackhats around him. Behind Jes stood Taniel, sword drawn, and behind him Ka-poel and another Blackhat were still on horseback.

  Jes looked between Taniel and Styke as if unsure from which direction the fight was coming, but Taniel stepped back and gave a slight bow. Jes turned his attention entirely to Styke.

  “I’ve already killed you twice,” Jes said. “I’m going to make sure the third time is more permanent.”

  Even Styke had to admit Jes cut a fine figure. He wore the Blackhat uniform, black on black with the but
tons up the side of his jacket, tailored to hug his muscled chest and legs. He wore a thin white scarf around his neck and a Platinum Rose pinned to his left breast, with Styke’s lancer’s ring on his thumb and boz knife at his belt. Styke spared a glance for Jes’s horse, saddlebags weighed down for a long journey. Flint was right—the Blackhats had abandoned the city.

  Styke discarded his saber and drew Ibana’s knife, forcing himself to breathe evenly. At the sight of this, Jes let out a barking laugh. He sheathed his own sword and pulled Styke’s big knife out of his belt, brandishing it mockingly.

  Styke’s mind flashed through all the mistakes he’d made last time—coming into a fight wounded, overcome with anger, letting his emotions overrule his senses. He tried to expel all of that. He knew he was hurting, tired, but something felt righter about this fight. The Privileged that Ibana had kidnapped had partially healed Styke’s crippling wounds. He was Colonel Ben Styke again, the Mad Lancer of Landfall. He wouldn’t be put down like a dog. He looked at his knife in Jes’s hand, the ring that touched the handle. “Those are mine.”

  “Not anymore.” Jes spat the words as he came at Styke at a run. His knife flashed high in a feint, then plunged low for Styke’s belly.

  Styke tossed Ibana’s knife aside and grabbed the blade of his stolen weapon, stopping Jes dead in his tracks. He ignored the sharp blade biting through his flesh, scraping the bones of his fingers, and brought his right fist around to connect with Jes’s nose. The Blackhat grand master’s head snapped backward.

  “This isn’t about revenge,” Styke said. “This is because you’re an asshole.” Styke let go of the knife blade, snatching Jes’s sleeve with his bloody, slippery fingers, and jerked him forward. He slammed his fist once more into the bridge of Jes’s nose and the grand master dropped into a heap at his feet.

  Styke leaned over and slid the ring off Jes’s thumb and over his own finger, relieved to feel the familiar weight of it. He took his knife out of Jes’s lifeless hand, and then with two quick strokes severed his head. He lifted it by the hair, ignoring the blood that soaked his shirt and trousers, and stared into the dead, faintly surprised eyes. He sighed, wishing he had more than a few moments to relish the corpse at his feet, and looked up to find Ibana on horseback, pushing her way to the front of the assembled Blackhats. He tossed her the head, which she caught easily in the crook of her arm. “We don’t have time to make a saddle,” he said.

  Behind him, the Blackhat with Ka-poel was noisily ill.

  Ibana held the head at arm’s length, examining it, then nodded. “This will do.”

  “Taniel,” Styke said with a nod, noting the blood-red color of his hand. He remembered reading something about a rebel named the Red Hand years ago. Funny that it should be the infamous Ghost of the Tristan Basin. “You’ve got a lot of secrets, don’t you?”

  “We all do,” Taniel responded, sheathing his sword.

  Styke eyed Jes’s Blackhat bodyguards. They were silent, shifting wordlessly in their saddles, staring at the headless body of their grand master. “Who’s in charge here?” Styke demanded.

  “Technically he is,” Taniel said.

  Styke turned to look at the Blackhat still mounted beside Ka-poel. The man was green-faced, wiping the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. He gave a sickly smile and waved at Styke. “Gold Rose Bravis at your service, Mr. Styke.”

  “Colonel Styke,” Styke corrected, letting the word roll off his tongue. Pit, he never thought he’d enjoy saying that so much.

  One of Jes’s bodyguards, openly wearing his Silver Rose on his uniform, pointed at Bravis. “Jes said he was a traitor.”

  To Styke’s surprise, Bravis slipped from his saddle and staggered over to the headless body of Fidelis Jes, nudging it with his toe. He whispered to Styke, “I’m working on the fly here, so just go with it.” He looked up at the bodyguards and in a loud voice said, “What did this shitheel tell you was going to happen to your families?” The uncomfortable silence continued, and so did Bravis. “Did he tell you they’d be evacuated from the city in due time? That there were more of us ready to help your friends and relatives make their way away from Landfall should the garrison fall?

  “Or,” Bravis went on, “did he try to tell you that the Riflejacks would hold the city on their own while you all got as far as possible from the fighting?” He shook his head theatrically. “I can see those saddlebags. Thousands of you are packed for a journey, coming down to escort some ancient relic instead of protecting your homes. That sounds a lot like fleeing.”

  The Silver Rose from earlier spoke up. “We’re not fleeing. We’re on the Lady Chancellor’s business.”

  “The Lady Chancellor’s business is protecting Landfall,” Bravis snapped back. He reached down to Jes’s body, looking for a moment like he might vomit again, and plucked the Platinum Rose from Jes’s chest before dancing back just a little too quickly. He thrust his finger at Styke. “Fidelis Jes has been telling you this man—this hero of Fatrasta—is a dangerous criminal. Jes has been lying to you, just like he was lying to me, and this next lie will lose us the city we love, the city full of our friends and families.”

  “And what would you have us do?” the Silver Rose demanded.

  “A thousand heavily armed Blackhats? I’d have you protect the city. You see these flags?” He pointed behind the Blackhats, where the Mad Lancers had gathered up, and Jackal and the Riflejack bannerman rode side by side. “Ride with them. Ride with Ben Styke, hero of the Fatrastan Revolution. Ride with the Riflejacks, defenders of Landfall as appointed by the Lady Chancellor herself. What would I have you do? Fight. Now get back to the main column, gather the rest of the Blackhats, and ready yourselves for a fight.”

  Three Blackhats, all of them wearing Silver Roses, conferred among themselves. They turned to Bravis. “Who’s in command of the Blackhats?” one of them asked.

  Bravis drew himself up and pinned the Platinum Rose to his chest. “I am.”

  There was a brief pause, and for a moment Styke thought they might laugh in Bravis’s face. But the Silver Rose grimaced, then nodded. “As you command, grand master.” He turned, leading the rest of Jes’s bodyguards through the Mad Lancers and galloping back toward where the main body of the Blackhats had formed up about half a mile away.

  Styke joined Taniel beside Michel Bravis and took a long, hard look at him. The Blackhat had forgettable features—a weak chin, round face, and light brown hair mussed from a long ride. He was also trembling like a leaf. Compared to the corpse at their feet, he wasn’t a terribly convincing grand master. But, Styke supposed, he did have a head.

  “Did you just convince them to protect the godstone by convincing them not to protect the godstone?” Taniel asked, tongue-in-cheek.

  “Yeah,” Bravis said shakily. “I think I did.” He looked between Styke and Taniel. “I take it you two know each other.”

  Styke looked at Taniel. Taniel wore a small smile, eyes very clearly saying that he was not yet done with Styke. Styke ignored it. “Yeah.”

  “And you’re down here to intercept the Dynize that are south of us?” Bravis asked.

  “Right on that account, too.”

  Bravis looked about ready to faint. “Oh, thank Adom I got it all right. Whew.”

  Styke eyed Bravis, not sure he was ready to trust a Blackhat with anything, even if he was obviously with Taniel. In fact, he realized, that might make him less trustworthy. “The godstone, is this the artifact Lady Flint sent me down here to protect?”

  “It is,” Taniel confirmed.

  “Do we know anything else about the Dynize we’re going to face?”

  “Only that there’s at least four regiments.” Taniel lifted his chin in the direction of the Blackhat army. “And that, with the Blackhats, you’ve got an extra thousand men and two Privileged.”

  Styke went and found the knife he’d borrowed from Ibana and put it in his saddlebags, taking a few moments to clean the deep gash along his fingers and bind it with a handke
rchief. It stung badly, and it would hurt his ability to fight, but he could still flex his fingers.

  He checked the blade on his own knife and cleaned the blood off it on Jes’s jacket. “Blackhats are little more than a bunch of thugs. They’re not going to be much good against four regiments of these Dynize. The bastards are tough, and they do not break.”

  “Make them break,” Taniel said.

  Styke weighed the odds in his head. A thousand Blackhats. Eight hundred Riflejack and Mad Lancer cavalry. A few hundred Fatrastan soldiers already guarding the godstone. Two-to-one numbers in favor of the Dynize did not please him. “I’ve had worse odds,” he said, heading for his horse. “But you’re coming with me, Two-shot, and I want you to scatter the brains of any Privileged those bloody Dynize have with them.”

  By the time Michel returned to the dig site, the land-barge and its cargo had already begun to move, creeping at a disappointing speed across the fields while horses pulled and the whips of teamsters rose and fell. Laborers helped push from behind, or rushed on ahead to smooth the ground with hands and shovels.

  The monolith was moving, but Michel could already see it was going nowhere quick.

  He forced himself to ignore the murmurs of the Blackhats behind him and rode up to Major Cole, who stared for a long time at the Platinum Rose on Michel’s chest. For better or worse, Michel was in charge now. He was not, however, confident of a command that began with the bloody murder of the last grand master. If he survived the day wearing this Platinum Rose, he promised himself, he’d be a very happy man.

  “Sir,” Major Cole finally said, saluting.

  Michel put as much bluster as he dared behind his voice. “Major Cole, we’ve received almost two thousand riders as backup from Landfall. Colonel Styke is taking command of the defense of the monolith. I asked him to keep the fight as far from us as possible, but I’m going to keep your soldiers in reserve here with the land-barge in case the Dynize make it past them.”

  “With the what?”

  “The land-barge.” Michel felt his cheeks redden. “I just thought it looked like …”