Sins of Empire

Chapter 11

“She has me chasing a fairy tale,” Styke said, rolling the weight of his lancer’s ring back and forth between thumb and forefinger. It was barely past seven in the morning, and he stood at the far northern tip of the bay, squinting at the ships out past the breakers, sailing into the morning sun with the tide. His leg ached from the long walk, but he had a piece of horngum in the corner of his mouth and felt better than he had in years. To think, something as simple as watching the ships go out could make his heart glow.

He’d spent his first and second nights of freedom at a sailor’s hostel near the docks. The single room, not much wider than a closet, felt like a palace, and the bunk pallet like a four-corner bed. Celine slept on the top bunk, snoring through the early morning hours as Styke lay awake listening to the sailors break bread in the common room downstairs.

“A fairy tale,” he repeated to himself, counting the eighth ship to leave port in just under fifteen minutes. He remembered a time when two ships a day was considered an event in Landfall. Pit, he could still see the docks burning in his mind’s eye, set ablaze by the Kez navy, and wondering if they would ever rebuild. A lot of horrible things could be said about Lindet, but she had fulfilled her promise to turn Fatrasta into an economic power in just a single decade.

Styke glanced down at Celine, who sat on the rocks beside him with her head drooping sleepily into her lap. She could have stayed behind and slept, but had insisted on coming with him without a word of complaint. “You ever heard any stories of the dragonmen?” he asked.

Celine perked up, shaking herself awake. “No. Dad never told me stories. Taught me how to pick a lock and slip a pocketbook, but never any stories. Said stories were for babies and silly fools.”

“Your dad was a prick,” Styke said.

“I loved my dad.” Celine sniffed. “And he loved me.”

“Doesn’t make him less of a prick. Listen – a thousand years ago, back when this land belonged to the Dynize, the dragonmen came out of the deepest swamps. They were the greatest warriors of a people who thrived on war, worth a hundred soldiers in any battle.” Styke drew his knife, examining the blade in the morning sun before pointing it at Celine. “Dragonmen were trained from birth to be fierce, bold, and give no quarter. They proved themselves in their adolescence by killing the biggest swamp dragon they could find. They fashioned armor from its skin and axes from its bones and were blessed by the bone-eyes – the blood sorcerers. Made them damn near invincible.”

Celine stared up at him, transfixed. “And?”

“And no one knows anything else about them,” Styke said. “It’s been lost in time. The Kez killed the last of the dragonmen decades ago, and the Dynize Empire hasn’t been seen outside of Dynize in over a hundred years.”

“Lady Flint said her men killed a dragonman.”

“Maybe,” Styke said. He had his doubts. Perhaps a fierce Palo warrior slaughtered some of her men. Perhaps that warrior even fought in the traditional dragonman garb. But the dragonmen were long gone.

He stared out at the rising sun. More was the pity. Few warriors – real warriors – existed anymore. This was a world of assassins and soldiers – people who killed in the dark or in formation. In his mind powder mages were the last true warriors and even they preferred to use their sorcery to kill at a distance. He briefly imagined Lady Flint dueling one of these fabled warriors, and it brought a smile to his face. That would be a fight to see!

“Lady Flint and that Olem fellow seemed to know who you were.”

Styke reached down and tousled Celine’s hair. “I thought they might not for a minute.”

“But they did. Were you really as big a hero as they said? People in the labor camps called you a killer, but I didn’t know you were a hero.”

“In a time of war, killing makes you a hero, so…” Styke shrugged. “I guess I was, in a way.”

“Have you killed a lot of men?”

“Hundreds.”

She was silent for a moment as she absorbed the number. “Do you regret it?”

“Sometimes.”

“My dad strangled an old woman once,” Celine said. “She woke up while he was taking the family silver. But it wasn’t during war, so I guess he wasn’t a hero.”

“Real piece of work, your dad.” Styke tongued the bit of horngum in the corner of his mouth. “Why didn’t he hang for it?”

“No one caught him. He was only sent to the camps later on for thieving. Why didn’t you hang for all the people you killed?”

Styke looked down at her. It occurred to him he should be annoyed with all the questions, but he found they made him all the more fond of her. It reminded him of his little sister. Always asking questions, always trying to seek out the how and why. But that was decades ago. Before everything changed. “Because I was Mad Ben Styke,” he said. “I killed for my country, so they slapped medals on my chest until I wasn’t convenient anymore, then sent me to the camps.”

“Could you kill a dragonman?” Celine asked.

“I haven’t fought anything I couldn’t kill,” Styke said, testing the blade of his knife, then sucking the blood off the tip of his thumb. “But I was younger back then. Stronger. I’m pretty good at choosing my battles, and I wouldn’t choose to fight a dragonman. Not one out of the stories anyway.” He sighed, putting his knife away, and lifted Celine to her feet. “They don’t exist anymore, so I’m not worried.”

“If they don’t exist anymore, what are you going to do?” Celine asked.

“I’ll hunt around for a few days, chasing shadows, then I’ll tell Lady Flint not to worry about them and hope she gives me something real to do.” Styke frowned. He remembered the admiration on Olem’s face, and the skepticism on Flint’s, when they agreed to take him on. He had a nagging suspicion that they’d brought him on out of pity and the very thought almost made him sick.

He wasn’t even sure why it bothered him so much. Tampo was his real employer, and his only job was to get close to Lady Flint. He was well on his way to doing it. “I want to be useful again,” he muttered to himself.

“What?” Celine asked.

“Nothing.” Styke took her by the hand. “We’re going to see Old Man Fles. He might have a shadow or two for us to chase.”

Old Man Fles sat out in front of Fles and Fles Fine Blades, a breakfast of milk and bread pudding balanced on his lap, watching as the early morning customers passed his booth to reach the food vendors farther into the market.

“Looks dead,” Styke commented, sidling up next to the Old Man.

Fles tipped the brim of his flatcap back. “Nobody buys knives and swords at this hour. Our sales happen around midday, when the dandies and merchants’ wives go shopping.”

“Used to be a lot more morning traffic.”

“Morning duels have gone out of fashion,” Fles answered.

Styke remembered what Fles had told him about Fidelis Jes’s habits. “Not with Fidelis Jes. You have any more information about him?”

“Pff.” Fles shot him an irritated glance. “It’s been what, forty hours? Have some patience, boy. If you think I’m going to go running to my contacts demanding answers about the Blackhat grand master, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“I thought you might work quickly. For old times’ sake.”

The irritated glance lasted twice as long this time. “I’ve always liked you, Ben, and I’m glad to see you’re still alive even if you do look uglier than a skinned cat. But don’t push it. I still fully expect my daughter to fillet you when she gets back, so what’s the hurry?”

“I owe him,” Styke said quietly.

“Oh, calm down. I’ve already put out some feelers and Fidelis Jes isn’t going anywhere. What are you doing back here, anyway? I’ll be mighty pissed off if you bring the Blackhats around.”

“Have they come by to ask after me?”

“Not yet,” Fles said. “But you better avoid the market. Me and Ibana can keep secrets, but I’ve got apprentices now and there’s far too many eyes here. If you want to chat, come by the house.”

“Do you still own the old place in Greenfire Depths?”

“Of course.”

“I thought the Depths belong to the Palo now.”

“They leave us alone,” Fles said with a shrug. “The Fles name demands enough respect to get some distance. You think I’ve been sharpening Palo kitchen knives for free out of the kindness of my heart? Besides, I’ve never met a Palo who wants a piece of Ibana.”

“Not the piece she’d give them,” Styke said, smirking at the Old Man.

Fles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well. Like I said, you shouldn’t be seen around here.”

“All right, all right. I’m going.” Styke glanced over his shoulder, searching the crowd for Celine. “One last question. This is going to sound stupid, but have you heard anything about the dragonmen coming back?”

He expected a condescending grin and to be laughed out of the market. Instead, Fles removed his flatcap and scratched his head, looking thoughtfully up at Styke. “Funny you should ask that. There’s been rumors about men in swamp dragon leathers down in Greenfire Depths. Nothing substantiated, and everybody thinks it’s just Mama Palo playing with the Blackhats, but you’re not the first person to mention dragonmen to me this week. And nobody has talked about them in more than hushed tones since I was a kid.”

Styke scoffed. “Dragonmen in Landfall? That’s ridiculous.”

“I’m just telling you what I heard.” Fles threw up his hands. “Sounded ridiculous to me, too, but everything’s been crazy since the revolution. The Nine has gone to complete shit. The Adran king was put to death. People say Kresimir returned during the Adran-Kez War, gods fought and died, then Kez tore itself apart with their own civil war. The world’s not right, Ben. The dragonmen returning? Well, anything could happen. If you want to find out about the dragonmen, though, you’ll have to ask the Palo.”

“Maybe I will.” Styke left Old Man Fles muttering gloomily to himself by the front of the smithy and found Celine working her way through the shops. They left the market together, wandering south through the docks and then taking a hackney cab down through the industrial quarter and then to Upper Landfall, so Styke could get a look at the city he’d been absent from for so long.

And so he could think.

Everything he’d heard since being released told him that the Palo were a powder keg right now – not something he wanted to put his nose into. But Old Man Fles was right. If the dragonmen had returned, it was doubtful even the Blackhats would know. Only the Palo would be able to tell him.

He wondered if Flint knew exactly how dangerous it would be for Styke to hunt down answers regarding the dragonmen. Doubtful. She thought him a worthless cripple before she found out who he was – or rather, who he used to be. Searching Greenfire Depths for the most dangerous warriors in Palo history seemed far and above what she’d expected him to do.

But if he got her some real answers – if he had solid evidence that the dragonmen were, in fact, real and of what they were up to – he might wind up as part of her inner circle.

Exactly where Tampo wanted him.

Styke directed the carriage back around the western half of the plateau and through northern Landfall until he’d made a complete circuit of the city. It was well after noon when he found Old Man Fles back in his workshop, polishing his latest blade.

“I thought I told you not to come back here anymore,” Fles said.

“I won’t,” Styke promised. “But I need you to do something for me.”

“What?”

“Set up a meeting.”

“With who?”

“A dragonman.”

“That’s the stupidest thing –”

Styke cut him off. “Just let it slip in the right places that the son of an influential Adran merchant wants to meet a dragonman. Say he’ll pay a huge amount of money just to be able to talk to one for a few minutes. Say I’m a historian.” Styke found a piece of paper and wrote down an address. “Set up a meeting at this pub, and let me know when to be there.”

Fles fingered the paper. “You’re going to attract all the wrong kinds of attention.”

“That’s the idea.”

“You’re mad.”

Styke took Celine’s tiny hand in his and turned to leave, throwing a crooked grin over his shoulder. “That’s what they say.”