Sins of Empire

Chapter 16

It took Old Man Fles three days to arrange a meeting for Styke. The information came in the form of a note, telling Styke that someone would meet him at Sender’s Place in order to discuss the dragonmen. The note contained no other information about who, exactly, Styke was supposed to meet. But it would have to be good enough.

Sender’s Place was an old pub on the Rim overlooking Greenfire Depths. It was in the basement below a proper gentleman’s club and in Styke’s day had been soldier-exclusive – a place where the infantry could drink away the horrors of battle while their officers smoked and played cards in their posh velvet couches just upstairs. It all took place under the watchful eye of Grandma Sender, who brooked no fights or pulling of rank. To the veterans of Landfall, it was a damned institution.

It wasn’t the type of place anyone would try to start a fight.

It was about seven o’clock in the evening and Styke sat on a stoop across the street from the entrance to Sender’s Place, his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched and flatcap pulled down to cover his face. It seemed, from the look of things, that old Grandma Sender had fallen on hard times. The windows of the gentleman’s club upstairs were boarded up, the paint peeling and the front stoop occupied by a beggar and his mutt.

“I’ve been here before,” Celine told him.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, my dad used to fence stuff here.”

“To Grandma Sender?”

“No. A man he met in a back room. Grandma was nice, though. Always gave me a sweet.”

“I always liked Grandma Sender,” Styke commented. He was sad to see the ramshackle state of the place, and suspected it was held less sacred than it used to be. Oh well. Maybe it hadn’t been the best place to set up a meeting. “All right. You stay out here. You see anyone suspicious head toward the stairs, you throw a pebble at that window there. If there’s more than one, throw more than one pebble. Got it?”

“Right.”

Styke headed across the street and put his hand on the iron handrail leading to the underground entrance.

“Ben!” Celine called.

He turned back.

“Be careful.”

He nodded and headed down the stairs, ducking into the cool darkness. The pub was just as he remembered it – dimly lit, the faint smell of mala smoke hanging in the air, drunks sleeping off their afternoon hangovers on the corner benches, and old Grandma Sender herself, looking the same as she had ten years ago, standing behind the bar polishing glasses. Only the press of warm bodies and the sound of rowdy drinking songs were missing.

Styke let his eyes adjust to the dim light. He counted a dozen occupants, most of them drunk or on their way there, only a couple of them having dinner. None of them were Palo. He felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth as the smell of the place brought back memories. He’d met Ibana here, more than fifteen years ago. She’d broken his nose, and Grandma Sender had thrown them both out for the night, so they’d bluffed their way into a card game upstairs and cleaned every krana out of two Kez generals.

“You just going to stand there eyeing the place or you going to have a drink?” Grandma Sender said, not looking up from her polishing. “Don’t think about robbing us, we got nothing left.”

Styke went to the bar. “Hard times?” he asked, laying down several banknotes. “Whiskey and a pipe.”

Sender peered at him, scowling. “I know you?” She was a rough old woman, no doubt nearing seventy by now, skin wrinkled, leathery, and pale. She had one eye that seemed to perpetually squint.

“Doubt it,” Styke said.

She shook her head. “Yeah, it’s bad times.” The money disappeared off the bar. “Used to be a veterans’ pub. All the veterans either work down in the mills or been sent to the camps.”

“No more veterans in Greenfire Depths?” he asked.

“Some,” Grandma Sender admitted. “But not as many as you’d think. Taken over by the Palo these days and that lot is useless as far as I’m concerned. They won’t drink a drop if the owner of the place isn’t a Palo themselves so all I get is the rejects.” She put a full glass in front of Styke, then packed a pipe with cherry-scented tobacco and handed it over. “You a veteran?” she asked. “You look familiar.”

“Just another one of the weary dead, Grandma,” he said. He laid another krana down and nodded to the corner of the bar farthest from the door. “Light. Over there.”

Grandma Sender lit one of the myriad of gas lamps above the spot Styke had indicated and then left him alone with his whiskey and pipe. He produced the morning’s newspaper and sat back with his feet up on a chair. There was a report on the front page about the Riflejack Mercenary Company taking residence in the old Loel’s Fort and getting to work rebuilding a few nearby tenements. It would be the closest rebuilding project to Greenfire Depths in years and was stirring up a decent amount of support from the locals. Styke wondered what Flint was really there for – he hadn’t been allowed that far into her good graces – but figured the positive press was some kind of red herring. It usually was in Landfall.

There was another story about a massive dig site south of the city. Thousands of laborers had been transported there to help excavate an old monolith. The site was closed to the public but rumor had it scholars were being brought in from the Nine. No one really seemed to know what for, though. Seemed like a lot of effort for an old stone.

Styke flipped through the stories, still pleased by the concept of getting a newspaper the day it came out instead of waiting weeks or months for it to be smuggled into the labor camps. It was all drivel, of course, but it was drivel about his city.

His head came up at the sound of a clink against the high window on the other side of the room. There was another clink. Then another. And another. Styke drew his knife and laid it on the table, casually setting the newspaper down on top of it, and spread his arms across the back of the bench.

The door opened. Even through the dim haze Styke could make out the pale, freckled skin of a young Palo man, followed by several companions. There were four of them all told, dressed in wool suits like any other city folk, no doubt trying to blend in as well as they could. Even during the war most Palo had stopped wearing their buckskins in the city limits. Too much bad blood between them and everybody else.

The four Palo fanned out just inside the door. One carried a pistol proudly on his hip, two others heavy boz knives like Styke’s – though much smaller – while the fourth was already wearing a pair of iron knuckledusters. Came looking for a bit more than talk, it seems. Styke labeled the four of them in his head: Cheeks, Freckles, Soot, and Happy. Happy was the one with the pistol on his hip, wearing a big grin and looking around the pub like he planned on owning it by the end of the night.

“What do you four want?” Grandma Sender demanded. “Ain’t got no time for the likes of you, not if you ain’t drinkin’.”

Happy gestured rudely. “Shut up, Grandma. Spoke when spoken to, or you’ll get the back of my hand.”

“Try it, you little runt,” Grandma said, slamming the cup she’d been polishing down on the bar. “I’ll…”

“Grandma,” Styke called gently. “They’re here to see me. Don’t worry about them.” With one foot he pushed the chair across from him out from the table and switched from Adran to Palo. “Sit down and leave the old lady alone. We have talking to do.”

“No fighting!” Grandma Sender warned.

Happy narrowed his eyes at Styke and swaggered across the room, followed by the rest. He ignored the offered chair and stood across from Styke, arms folded. He wasn’t a small man, as far as most were concerned. Lean, muscular, taller than average. Like most Palo he had bright green eyes and a bit of a squint that came from a thousand generations under the Fatrastan sun. He had the type of face and bearing that would put most women on their backs. If only, Styke mused, he had the charm to go with it.

“You the one who wanted to meet a dragonman?” Happy asked.

“I am,” Styke said.

“You don’t look like a historian.”

“Funny. You don’t look like a dragonman.”

Happy spat on the floor. “As if a dragonman would bother with the likes of you. We’re here to tell you to mind your own damned business. Nobody – scholars, historians, or whatever the pit you are – better come looking around for a dragonman unless you want your head staved in.”

“Says who?” Styke asked.

Happy puffed out his chest. “Says me.”

Styke eyed Happy’s three companions. They weren’t professionals, but they weren’t fools, either. One of them examined the room, making sure Styke didn’t have any backup, while the other two kept their eyes fixed firmly on Styke, their hands ready to move toward weapons. They expected to be meeting with some spectacled pipsqueak, but they had come ready for anything.

“Is there a dragonman in Landfall?” Styke asked, trying to sound only mildly curious.

“None of your damned business, you ugly bastard.”

“Now, now. No need for name calling. I’m just asking questions. Asking questions never hurt nobody.”

“It’ll get you hurt real quick,” Happy replied. He drew his pistol. “We’re here to give you a message and it was supposed to be all gentle-like, but if you’re gonna insist on being inquisitive I can give you a message you’ll remember.”

Styke sighed. Stupid kids. Too high on their own sense of… something… to look around them. There wasn’t anyone to impress in this little place. It was neutral territory where they could have a frank discussion in private. Instead of taking a moment to wonder why a single old cripple seemed completely at ease being outnumbered four to one, Happy was posturing like an idiot.

In a slow, deliberate movement, Styke reached into his pocket and drew out a roll of krana notes. He peeled off a handful and laid them down on the table. “I’m just curious. Tell me a little bit about this dragonman and you can walk out of here with a pocket full of cash. I’ll go on my merry way and nobody gets hurt.”

Happy glanced over his shoulder at Soot incredulously, then toward a dark stall in the opposite corner of the room and back at Styke. “Who the pit do you think you are?”

“I’m just looking for a little information. Who’s this dragonman? Why’s he in Landfall now, when they haven’t been seen for decades?” Styke spoke quickly to keep Happy on his toes. Five minutes ago he wouldn’t have believed there was a dragonman in Landfall. But someone had sent these four.

Happy put one hand on the table and leaned forward, his pistol inches from Styke’s cheek. “You don’t get to ask questions, ugly. In fact, I think I’m going to ask them myself. Why do you want to know? Why do you care about the dragonmen? You better spit it out quick, because I’m losing my patience.”

“You hear what I said?” Grandma Sender demanded from behind the bar. “I speak enough of your bullshit language to know you’re getting your spirits up. No fighting in here! You five have trouble, take it out to the street.”

“Shut up!” Happy yelled. His voice cracked. Something was off here and he knew it. Styke wasn’t intimidated by four thugs or a pistol in the face, and that just didn’t mesh with Happy’s normal experience.

“Mind your manners,” Styke snapped. “Answer my questions and you can walk out of here with two hundred krana and all your limbs.”

Happy’s finger twitched to the trigger of his pistol. “I will take that money and I’ll shove this pistol up your –”

Styke snatched up his knife and bolted Happy’s wrist to the table with the blade. “Never reach for the money first,” he said, jerking the pistol out of Happy’s hand.

Happy and his cohorts stared at the blade sticking out of Happy’s wrist for several long seconds, then Happy began to scream. There was a mad scramble as the other three went for their weapons, and above it all Styke could hear Grandma Sender yelling, “No fighting, no fighting!”

Styke threw the table – and Happy along with it – at Soot. They both went down in a pile of limbs while the other two Palo leapt for Styke. He came off his bench and sidestepped a knife thrust from Cheeks, dropping the Palo with a punch to the temple.

Freckles managed to coldcock Styke in the jaw with the knuckledusters. Styke shook off the pain and leaned into another punch to his stomach. He grunted, then caught Freckles’s arm and twisted hard. The sound of snapping bone was followed by Freckles’s scream.

Cheeks recovered from Styke’s punch and barreled back into the fight knife-first. Styke sidestepped the thrust and wrapped one arm around Cheeks’s waist, pulling him close like a woman at a dance, and slammed his forehead against Cheeks’s nose. The Palo slumped to the ground.

Styke strode over to where Soot and Happy were still caught under the heavy table. He righted it, then jerked his knife out of Happy’s wrist. Soot scrambled toward his own knife, but Styke stepped on his arm. He leaned over Soot, taking him by the throat, and squeezed till he felt blood. Soot twitched several times and then was still, and Styke had to wipe the blood off his ring so it wouldn’t slip from his finger.

The whole fight had taken less than twenty seconds, and Happy’s face was frozen in terror as he crawled through a smear of his own blood, cradling his wrist, trying to reach the pistol Styke had taken from him. Behind them, Grandma Sender screamed obscenities at them all. Styke picked the pistol up and checked the pan. “It’s not even loaded, you asshole.” He raised his knife.

Happy rolled over. “By Kresimir, don’t do it! I’m not the one you want. He is!” He thrust his finger toward a dark corner of the room. Styke hesitated, suspecting a trick. There was nobody in that corner.

The hairs on the back of Styke’s neck suddenly stood on end as the very shadows themselves seemed to move. A man stood up, appearing as if he had emerged from nothing, adjusting the cuffs of his fine black suit. He was squat and muscular, with short, fire-red hair and a tuft of beard on his chin. Black tattoos snaked onto his wrists and neck but otherwise he might have been mistaken for a Palo businessman having a drink in the pub.

Grandma Sender, her arms thrown up over the mess of bodies on her floor, paused mid-tirade. “Where the pit did you come from?”

The stranger ignored her. “Why do you want a dragonman?” he asked. The words were strangely thick, like he had a mouth full of molasses, and it took several moments for Styke to realize why. He wasn’t speaking Palo.

He was speaking a sister language, one so close they could be mistaken for the same; Dynize.

Styke forgot Happy on the floor beneath him. A killer knew a killer at first glance, and this one had a lot of blood on his hands. He held himself confidently, head slightly cocked, his body relaxed but his attitude screaming imminent violence. Styke turned toward this stranger – a dragonman – and held his knife out to his side.

“Just looking for answers.”

“Well,” the dragonman said. “You won’t find them. Not here.”

Styke had always been good at assessing a threat. He knew when to push and when to retreat and it had made him an unbeatable cavalry commander. But he couldn’t read the dragonman at all, and that was disconcerting. “I think I will. Might have to pry them out of you, though.” He gestured to the bodies of the Palo kids he’d just torn through. “These are yours, aren’t they? Didn’t even step in to give them a hand.”

The dragonman’s eyebrow twitched slightly, an arrogant tic that said it didn’t matter much.

Styke felt a little bile in the back of his throat. These poor Palo kids were probably acolytes of some kind. In Styke’s mind, that made the dragonman responsible, just like Colonel Styke had been responsible for every lancer under his command. “I don’t like you,” Styke said. “And I think I’m going to enjoy killing you.”

The dragonman took a step forward, then stopped. His face reminded Styke of a cat, completely unreadable, eyes searching Styke for strengths and weaknesses. He seemed to hesitate and then, without warning, he suddenly went for the door, as quick and casual as a panther who’d decided not to fight a bear for its kill. He was out and gone in a flash, and Styke swore, limping after him. By the time he reached the street, the dragonman was already disappearing into the late afternoon crowd.

“Celine!” Styke jammed a new piece of horngum in his mouth, chewing violently to numb the spasm in his leg.

She joined him quickly, and Styke pointed after the dragonman. “Did you just see the Palo that came out of the door? The one in the black suit?”

“Yes.”

“Follow him. Don’t let him see you, but don’t lose him. I’ll be right behind you.”

Celine took off into the crowd and Styke fell back, following at a leisurely pace. He wiped blood off his sleeve and face, grumbling under his breath. He didn’t like being duped, or given the slip like that. He also didn’t like getting answers that raised more questions.

Like what the pit a legend like a Dynize dragonman was doing alive and walking around in Landfall.