Blood of Empire

Chapter 7

Michel stood on the southern rim of Greenfire Depths, trying to ignore the terrible pain in his left hand. The stubs of his now two missing fingers felt like they were on fire, and it had taken several shots of the worst kind of rotgut Palo whiskey to get to the point where he could even think through the agony. Despite the very fresh feeling of losing his ring finger and having had the wound over the pinkie stub reopened, what remained of both fingers was expertly handled by precise applications of sorcery and bits from his face-painting kit.

The wound looked healed-over naturally, at least a year old, with no sign of bruising around the knuckle of either finger. It was, he decided, the worst thing he’d ever done to sink into a character. He hoped it was worth it. The Dynize were looking for a man with the month-old scar of a single missing finger – not the healed-over stubs of two.

He breathed in deeply, attempting to put the pain from his mind, and took in the familiar smell of garbage, shit, piss, and sweat that rose from the Depths on the afternoon heat. The mixture of smells was joined by the stale odor of burned wood and garbage, residual from the fires set by rioters during the siege of Landfall. He hadn’t returned to the Depths proper since well before the invasion. Blackhats never went down there alone, and only seldom in force. Even for someone like him, who had friends scattered throughout the cavernous slum, it would have meant taking his own life in his hands.

Now, masquerading as a full-blooded Palo, he should be fine to walk the winding web of enclosed corridors that passed as streets – at least during the day.

Should be.

The idea of heading down there sent a flutter through his stomach. Beside him, Ichtracia stared into the Depths with a look of mild disgust. Her presence was a gamble. If they ran into real danger, she would resort to her sorcery without hesitation, and the moment that happened they would paint a large red flag over their heads for the Privileged and bone-eyes in Landfall.

She’d taken well to her disguise. He’d thought that cutting her hair and giving her softer features would lessen her imposing presence. If anything, it had increased it. Wearing loose workman’s trousers and a sharp vest over a cotton button-down, her pale skin and confident demeanor told the story of a northern Palo businesswoman, someone who was more used to the confines of factories or political buildings but with a history of giving orders.

At least, he hoped that’s what other people saw when they looked at her. Creating a disguise to match an amateur could be extremely difficult.

“People live down there?” Ichtracia asked, craning her neck to get a better view of the immense quarry as it wrapped around the nest of patchwork buildings below.

“You’ve seen it before, haven’t you?” Michel asked in surprise.

“Driven past it in a carriage,” she replied. “I never stopped to get a good look.”

“You don’t sound thrilled.”

“I’m certain we have slums in Dynize. I have never seen them.”

Michel opened his mouth, but Ichtracia cut him off. “If you ask me if I’m sure about this one more time, I’m going to toss you off the edge of this cliff. You just had me cut off your bloody finger for the sake of a disguise. I think I can handle a slum and some dangerous Palo.”

He snapped his jaw shut. “Understood. We have an appointment to keep. Shall we?”

They descended by a narrow series of switchbacks carved into the wall of the quarry known as the Southern Ladder, steep enough that Michel’s shins hurt like the pit by the time they reached the bottom. The towering hive of buildings blocked out the sun and a good part of the midday heat, leaving the bottom of the Ladder cool, dark, and very damp. The smell of soot was so strong down here that it gave him a headache, and he wondered how the Palo continued existing in such a place.

The air felt closer, more oppressive, and Michel had to force himself to breathe so as not to get overcome by claustrophobia. Ichtracia’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightened, but she did not comment on the stifling atmosphere.

Michel had worried that the slums would be abandoned from the fires, that the bulk of the Palo population would have been conscripted for Dynize labor or had fled the riots or had left of their own accord. But the bottom of the Ladder was as crowded as ever, people shouldering past them. No one seemed to give either him or Ichtracia a second glance, though within ten steps he had to wave off three different street vendors trying to sell them unidentifiable meat, half-rotten vegetables, and used boots that had probably come off the corpse of an Adran mercenary.

Michel headed into the interior at a measured pace, slipping into the rhythm of this place with almost startling ease, a hard, Don’t talk to me look on his face, and with one shoulder forward to cut through the jostling crowd like a knife. He paused every few moments to make sure Ichtracia was behind him. It became instantly clear that she was not used to navigating crowds; after all, she was used to people moving for her. Not the other way around. She was shoved and buffeted so badly that she was almost thrown to the grime-encrusted street.

He finally moved back to stand beside her when he spotted her reaching for a pocket in anger. He took her by the hand. “Your gloves,” he whispered, pulling her along, “they’re in your pockets?”

“Yes.”

He swore silently to himself. “That’s a good way to get them stolen.”

“I couldn’t leave them back in the room.”

Michel pulled her into a recess where two disjointed buildings met and took the bag off his shoulder. “Put them in here. My bag is less likely to get stolen off my shoulder than your pockets are to get picked.”

“I want them at hand,” Ichtracia protested. Her tone was almost pleading rather than commanding. He could tell that she was feeling this place already – learning why it was still a fetid slum even after a decade of effort by Lindet.

“You have an extra pair tucked beneath the soles of your shoes, right?”

“Yes, but…”

“We can’t risk anyone snatching a glove off you and selling it to Sedial,” he said in a low, urgent tone. “Would Sedial hesitate even a moment in marching a whole field army down here to find you, no matter the cost?” A vein on Ichtracia’s left temple throbbed visibly. She finally reached into her pockets, pulling the gloves out in a wad, and stuffed them to the bottom of Michel’s pack. He said, “Next time we get some privacy, I’ll show you a little trick Taniel showed me that a friend of his uses to hide his gloves and keep them at hand.”

Ichtracia nodded. She looked visibly ill, and Michel tried not to feel a little bit vindicated. This, he wanted to tell her, is what it feels like to be powerless like the rest of us. He wisely kept his mouth shut.

As they proceeded deeper into the interior, he noticed that more than just the fires had changed Greenfire Depths. There was a glut of Dynize propaganda. Posters and handbills had been plastered to every wayward intersection of roads and hallways, proclaiming a better life for the Palo under Dynize rule. A common motif was a printed drawing of two freckled hands clasped in friendship, and “DYNIZE AND PALO: COUSINS UNITED” written in big block letters in Palo, Adran, and Dynize.

Michel stopped to examine one of the posters and found a tiny checkmark hidden inside one of the freckles of the left hand of the drawing. He pointed it out to Ichtracia. “I know the artist. He used to work as a Blackhat propagandist. The Dynize must have turned him.”

“It’s easier to make friends than enemies,” Ichtracia said.

“If only Lindet had learned that.” Michel bit off a further reply. He still only half believed that the Dynize were sacrificing Palo. It was impossible to buy into it completely. All the newspapers and propaganda spoke of unification. The Palo seemed to be treated well enough. He struggled with the thought of the changes he’d already noticed compared to what he had expected. What had he expected? As much as the fires and propaganda had left a mark, this was still Greenfire Depths.

They continued on until they reached a narrow strip of road where there was stone beneath their feet and sky above their heads – a sliver of blue between two tall, dilapidated buildings. A view of the clear sky was a rarity in the Depths, and the road was flanked by shops crammed in as tightly as humanly possible as well as dozens of dark entrances that led to mala dens, whorehouses, gambling houses, and a thousand hidden crannies. The road was packed to the point of barely being able to move, and Michel had to take Ichtracia firmly by the arm and shove a path through.

He caught sight of a narrow doorway and cut across the crowd in that direction. They reached the side of the road and gained purchase on a doorstep, where Michel double-checked the sign above the door. It was a picture of a man in a baker’s hat sitting on a bench, pants down, above the words THE SQUATTING MILLER. Ichtracia in tow, he stepped inside.

They descended a trio of steps into a cool, dank room lit dimly by gas lanterns. Despite the press of bodies outside, the room contained just a handful of people. Michel stopped on the bottom step to allow his eyes to adjust to the low light, and quickly picked out a familiar figure in one corner.

Emerald sat with his back to the wall, one knee pulled up in front of him on the bench, sipping from a pewter cup. His green-tinted glasses were pushed up on his head, his stark-white skin and hair distinguishing him from the handful of Palo in the room. Michel zigzagged through the benches and tables and dropped down across from him. “I’m surprised you wanted to meet in public. And in the Depths, no less.”

Emerald tipped his head forward, his glasses falling onto the bridge of his nose. “Kresimir,” he swore, squinting back and forth between them. “You two look nothing like yourselves.”

“That’s the idea,” Michel replied as Ichtracia took up a position just behind him, leaning against the wall.

“It’s the Dynize,” Emerald said, a note of unease in his voice. “They’ve started sending their own people to work in the morgues. I’m still technically in charge, but I don’t trust the eyes and ears in my own territory now. That’s why we’re meeting here.”

“They like to have a grasp on all public services,” Ichtracia said, leaning over Michel’s shoulder. “I’m surprised it took them this long.”

Emerald eyeballed Ichtracia. He’d made it very clear, when Michel had limped to him just after the confrontation with Ka-Sedial, that he did not trust her. He had obviously not changed his mind. “Yes, well, it’s going to make my hobby a little harder. I’m known in the Depths. I help out at one of the Palo clinics from time to time. I’ve done enough favors for people that I’m left alone – so yes, any meetings we have from now on will have to be here.”

“That’s a lot of favors,” Michel commented. “Being a spymaster is a hobby, now?”

“Yes,” Emerald snapped. “And you should do well to remember it. If you rely on me too much, you may arrive one day looking for help and find that I’ve packed up and left for Brudania.”

Michel ground his teeth. Emerald was right, of course. He’d been very forthright about the fact that he could only be so useful before putting himself at risk. “Then let’s make this short. I need every update you can give me.”

Emerald looked skeptical. “What, you want troop movements? The arrival of Dynize politicians?”

“No, no,” Michel said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, I should narrow that down.”

“You should.”

“We need to know about the Palo,” Ichtracia said.

“What about them?” Emerald asked.

“Rumors,” Michel said. “Public leanings. Events. Whatever has happened since I left.”

Emerald grimaced. “Not much, to be honest. The riots died down while you were still here. Aside from the fires during the initial Dynize attack, the Palo seem to be the least affected by the invasion. Some of them have left, of course. Others have moved into abandoned houses in Upper Landfall. Everyone else…” He gestured around them. “They’re just going about their business.”

Michel exchanged a worried glance with Ichtracia. “That’s it?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific if you want more,” Emerald said with a hint of exasperation.

“Disappearances,” Ichtracia suggested.

Michel nodded. “Right. People going missing. Children, the elderly. People who won’t be missed.”

Emerald considered the question for a moment. “Those kinds of people always go missing during a war. You’re looking for something specific?”

“We are, but I don’t think you should know. Not yet.”

“Understood.” Emerald seemed to accept that bit of compartmentalization without further comment. “Nothing in particular has come to my attention, but I can look into it. Check morgue records. Ask around quietly. As I said, people disappear during times of conflict. But if there’s something out of the ordinary, a pattern should emerge.” He frowned. “The Dynize are recruiting Palo by the thousands, which is going to make the job harder.”

“For what?”

“Construction. Public works all over the city. A great big fortress down south, surrounding the godstone. They’ve even started a conscription program. If there are two hundred thousand Palo left in Landfall, roughly a fourth of those are being shuffled around by Dynize programs.”

Michel had heard these rumors already, but he wanted to get Emerald’s opinion on them. “And you don’t find this suspicious?” Michel asked.

“Not really. The Palo are being treated quite well. Very few complaints come out of either the labor camps or the army reserves, though I suppose the Dynize have control of what gets in and out.” Emerald nodded to himself. “I can do some digging, but beyond that…” He spread his hands helplessly.

Michel swore to himself. He’d hoped that Emerald would be able to give him some sort of evidence for or against these sacrifices. Instead he’d painted a picture of accepted enlistment and bureaucratic shuffling. If the Dynize wanted to make a few thousand people disappear, they could do so easily in all that hubbub. “Do what you can, but be as circumspect as possible.”

“That’s what I do best.”

Michel looked over his shoulder at Ichtracia, who gave him a small shake of her head. No ideas there. He’d have to work on his own angle and hope that Emerald could come up with something. Frustrated, he mentally moved on to the next thing on his checklist. “What is the mood of the Palo right now? Do they support the occupation?”

“You might as well ask if every Kressian worships Kresimir,” Emerald replied blandly. “Everyone has their own thoughts on the Dynize. Like I said, the Palo are being treated pretty well. Fair pay, chance at rank in the military, equal housing. Compared to Lindet’s regime, they’re living the dream.”

That was not what Michel wanted to hear. If the Palo were truly better off beneath the Dynize, it would force him to change his entire plan of attack. In fact, it might remove his plan of attack. How could he justify helping Taniel against the invaders when the invaders were so much better than the alternative? Then again, if the Dynize were plucking the young and infirm and using them for blood sacrifices, he couldn’t think of a Palo he knew who’d find that an acceptable option for their future.

“That’s not everyone, though?” he asked.

“Of course not. I couldn’t even give you an estimate at what percentage of the populace supports the Dynize. It’s high, though.”

“Do they have some sort of leader? Someone local who has the Dynize blessing?”

“They do. Meln-Dun.”

Michel snorted. That snake who manipulated Vlora Flint into capturing the last Mama Palo? It made sense, though. He’d obviously sold out to the Dynize a while ago, and he was in a position of leadership as the biggest employer in the Depths. “Did Ka-poel appoint a new Mama Palo before she left?”

“She did,” Emerald replied. “Mama Palo is the other big political leader. She hasn’t done a lot since the invasion – when Meln-Dun found out that he’d missed his target, he was furious. He’s had a private little task force chasing her around for the last couple of months. She has to keep her head down and stay on the move, and it’s losing her a lot of support.”

“The Dynize aren’t hunting her?”

“The Dynize don’t care. They’ve identified Meln-Dun as the leader of the Landfall Palo and left all internal matters to him.”

“As long as they think he’s bought and paid for,” Ichtracia spoke up, “they won’t worry about him or the Palo until after the end of the war. External threats first, then internal.”

Michel leaned back, considering. “So we’re isolated here?”

“Pretty much,” Emerald replied. “Besides their propagandists and some spies, the Dynize want nothing to do with the Depths while they’re still fighting a war on two fronts.”

The gears in Michel’s head began to turn, and he set aside the blood sacrifices for the moment to focus on the more immediate enemy: Meln-Dun. The Dynize puppet would have to go. But Michel knew the Depths and he knew the Palo. Meln-Dun’s authority depended on his status as a community leader and employer.

“We could kill him,” Ichtracia suggested.

“We’re spies, not assassins.”

“You’re a spy,” she countered.

“How do you plan on killing him without alerting your grandfather to our presence?”

Ichtracia’s lip curled, but she didn’t retort.

Michel said, “These are my people. I’m going to avoid killing – or having them killed – as much as possible. I believe you understand that?”

Ichtracia gave a sullen nod.

“Besides, killing Meln-Dun would only cause chaos. We don’t want chaos. We want to organize against a common enemy.” Michel thought furiously, a plan beginning to form in the back of his head. He chuckled quietly to himself.

“Is something funny?” Emerald asked.

“Yes,” Michel said. “Yes, it is.”

“What’s that?”

Michel ignored the question. “That task force that Meln-Dun has chasing Mama Palo. Can you get me on it?”

“Are you joking?”

“Not at all.”

Emerald scratched his chin. “I can make introductions through one of my contacts. Do you have a good cover story?”

“Leave that to me.” Michel tapped the table between them. “If I can join his task force, I can steer their investigation and have a reason to creep around the quarry.”

“What for?” Ichtracia asked.

“So I can set up Meln-Dun.”

“You want to discredit him?” she asked.

“To the Dynize, yes.”

“And to the Palo?” Emerald asked.

Michel grinned. “We’re going to make that snake a Palo martyr.”