Sins of Empire

Chapter 23

Michel struggled through the early hours of the morning, unable to sleep and unable to work, trying to come up with some kind of plan for capturing the two enemies of the state that Fidelis Jes so desperately wanted brought in.

His first major decision was to discard his search for Styke. Half the Millinery was already looking for the old veteran, and Michel adding himself to that list would do little good. No, he needed to focus on his current goal, that of capturing Tampo. Tampo, if he could track the bastard down, would almost certainly lead him to Styke.

And if all the other sods searching for Styke managed to bring him in, Michel might be able to use that to find Tampo.

It was sound logic, but it didn’t help him sleep.

He tossed and turned in his small attic apartment on the southern edge of the plateau before finally crawling out of bed and pulling on some clothes, heading unshaven into the first splash of morning light and taking a hackney cab a mile across town to the Proctor market, where he stopped to fill a crate with breads and fruit before heading on foot through the still-sleepy streets.

Proctor was the kind of town in which, in those few moments he allowed himself to wonder what it would be like to settle down and have a family, he imagined himself living. It wasn’t too clean, or too dirty, or too rich or poor. It was absolutely average in every way, and Michel loved that in a place like this he could be as friendly or anonymous as he liked.

In some ways he lived vicariously through his mother – idle days, reading books and chatting with neighbors, staying out of the sun.

The thought brought him up short next to a bookstore, and he stared through the front window as sellers carried crates of penny novels out onto the sidewalk to entice passersby. He chewed on his lip, trying not to think of everything he should be doing right now.

“Don’t encourage her,” he said softly to himself. “It only makes things worse.”

“Oh, come on. I can be a good son once in a while.”

“You can either be a good son by taking care of her, or you can be a good son by exacerbating her bad habits. You can’t be both.”

He rolled his eyes at himself. “Why not?”

“Because you don’t get to be everything, Michel. You have to choose.”

Michel ignored the raised eyebrows of one of the booksellers and told himself to shut the pit up before stepping inside and looking around for the more expensive, leather-bound novels in the back. He flipped through a few at random, remembering a time when he used to read almost as much as his mother, and then selected three adventurous-sounding titles and raised a hand for one of the clerks.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I’ll take these,” Michel said.

“Thank you, sir,” the clerk said. “We’ll take care of the bill.”

Michel blinked at the clerk for several seconds before realizing he was wearing his Blackhat uniform. Even though he kept his Silver Rose hidden on a necklace, it wasn’t hard to tell what he was. He dug into his pocket for a wad of krana. “I don’t mind paying,” he said.

“It’s all right, sir,” the clerk said. “Thank you for your patronage.”

Michel was rarely bothered by the perks that came along with his job. Free stuff was, after all, one of the best and he took advantage of it when he could. But the idea of buying books for his mother on Blackhat goodwill felt a little… off.

“Speaking of which,” he muttered to himself, looking out the window at the crates of penny novels sitting on a table on the sidewalk. A familiar figure was already perusing the selection, even though the store had only been open for minutes. Michel sighed to himself, looking instinctively for the back exit, before turning back to the clerk. “Could you wrap these up for me, please? Also, I’d like to pay for anything that woman out there wants to buy.” He thrust a ten-krana note into the clerk’s hands before he could object, then stepped outside.

His mother stood by the penny novels, flipping through them thoughtfully, humming to herself and dancing slightly to the tune.

“Morning, Mother.”

She jumped, turning to Michel with a look of surprise. “Michel! What are you doing here?”

Michel put on his most charming smile. “Just stopped in to pick something up for my mother,” he said. “Was going to drop some food by your house on my way into work.”

A torrent of emotions crossed his mother’s face as he spoke. First she was surprised, then pleased, then her face fell to frustration and anger, all in the space of a few seconds. By the time he said the word “work” she looked downright furious.

She snatched him by the arm, pulling him around the corner of the bookshop and into the closest alley and then turning on him with a finger thrust up under his nose.

“What do you think you’re doing, Michel?” she demanded.

Michel braced himself, his heart falling. “Shouldn’t have bothered,” he muttered to himself.

“What do you mean? Speak up, child!” She glared at his uniform, looking him up and down with the kind of disgust most mothers would upon finding their children naked in the streets. “Wearing that uniform? Coming around my neighborhood? What are the neighbors going to think? What are the bookshop owners going to think? I’m respected and liked around here!”

“I didn’t even look to see what I was wearing,” Michel said with a calming gesture, hoping that the shouting wouldn’t attract attention. He didn’t need this, not today.

“Hm!” his mother said, turning away from him. She fumed at the wall of the alley, looking at him sidelong.

“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry. I know you don’t like what I do for a living. I try not to complicate your life with it. But I was just trying to do something nice.”

“Don’t like what you…?” his mother sputtered. “It’s not that I don’t like it, Michel. It’s that you’re a Blackhat! My pappy – your grandpappy – was a full-blood Palo. Your father died fighting for our freedom against the Kez. What would they think to see you in that getup? Can’t you see what you are, Michel? You’re a thug! Every day you work for Lindet is another day you grind your birthright into the mud.”

“Now wait just a minute,” Michel said, feeling his own blood begin to rise. “That’s going too far. I’m not a thug. I don’t beat people up. I do some training, some liaison work. I’m respected doing what I do.”

“It’s not respect if it depends on fear.”

“I meant to the people I work with.”

“And I’m talking about the people you Blackhats tramp into the dust. I’m not a fool. I read the papers and listen to the gossip. Not even Lindet can keep a lid on all the news in this city. Did you know that just two streets down from my house a young woman was murdered by Blackhats for handing out flyers? Flyers, Michel!”

Michel glanced over his shoulder. “Please keep your voice down, Mother.”

“Or what? You’re going to drag me to the Millinery dungeons? Your own mother? I think Lindet’s a downright bitch, and I don’t mind who hears it. She’s a tyrant, and you Blackhats are her bullies, and I don’t want my son associated with them. Is that too much?” Her voice continued to rise in pitch till Michel was certain that people out on the street could hear her clearly.

“I’m not a… It’s not… Mother, it’s more complicated than that.”

His mother took several deep breaths, her jaw quivering. He hadn’t seen her worked up like this for years, and he wondered if it was the murder of the girl she mentioned. That kind of thing might be commonplace in Michel’s world, but it would have shaken his mother deeply.

“You’re a good boy,” she said quietly. “And every time I see you in that outfit I’m reminded what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “It’s just…”

His mother suddenly lifted her handbag, rifling around inside it for a few moments and then thrusting something in Michel’s face. He took it from her absently, trying to finish his sentence, but when his eyes focused on the pamphlet he felt his heart fall. The now-familiar words Sins of Empire were printed on the front.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded.

“A nice young man was handing it out yesterday,” she said. “You need to read it, Michel. It’s the kind of truth you need to hear.”

“Who?” he asked angrily. “What young man?”

His mother took half a step back, staring at him in shock, then raising her chin. “Don’t think I’m going to tell you. I’m trying to help you now, and you need to listen to me for once. This pamphlet –”

“I know all about this pamphlet,” Michel said, shoving it in his pocket and pushing her farther into the alley. He whispered urgently. “Mother, you can’t be seen with one of these. They’re cracking down on this very thing right now, and if they find one on you, they might…”

“They might what? Throw an old woman in prison?”

“They might!”

“Let them,” she snapped. “I’m not the bumbling old fool you take me for. Your father and I protested the Kez in Little Starland. I loaded muskets for the Thirteenth during the war. I can handle prison.”

“It’s not just that, it’s –”

She cut him off again. “Worried about your career? Worried that your old mom might ruin your chance of advancement?”

“Yes!” Michel hissed.

“Good! I don’t want you advancing through that damned viper’s nest anyway.”

Michel gave an exasperated sigh and paced to the mouth of the alley and then back again. They’d had this same fight a dozen times, and it always came back to this. He’d try to keep her quiet, she’d threaten to purposefully tank his career, and then he’d avoid her for a couple of months and she’d go back to her reading.

“Did the handyman come around?” he asked gently.

“Hmph,” she replied. “He did. I don’t want you using Blackhat money to fix up my house.”

Michel stopped, staring at her. “Your roof was leaking.”

“I can handle a leak.”

“It was destroying your books,” he tried.

“I’ll get more.”

“You’re being obstinate, Mother.”

“I don’t care. Blackhat money is soaked with the blood of my people. Our people.”

“You’re only half-Palo, Mother.”

“And I’m proud of that half!”

Michel paced back and forth, starting half a dozen sentences in his head and stopping each one before he said something hurtful. He finally took Sins of Empire out of his pocket and showed it to her. “Please, Mother, just do me a favor and avoid this particular pamphlet. It’s not going to do anyone any good if the Iron Roses pick you up in a sweep.” She harrumphed again, which was about as good an answer as he was going to get. Michel opened his mouth when he caught sight of the clerk from the bookstore peering around the corner. “What is it?”

“Sir,” the clerk said, “your books are ready.” He handed Michel a neatly wrapped package. Michel looked at the package in his hands, then at his mother.

“These are for you,” he said softly.

His mother took the package. She could feel the weight of them, and he could tell by her face that she knew instantly what they were. He wondered when the last time she’d been able to afford leather-bound books was. She handed them back.

“I won’t take books bought with Blackhat money,” she said.

Michel wanted to shake her. “Just take them, Mother.”

“No!”

The clerk gave a little cough, clearly embarrassed, and Michel turned on the poor man instead. “You,” he said. “I want you to make sure she never pays for another book here. Understand? I’m going to check, and if I find out you’ve been charging her for even a single penny novel, I’ll burn this damned place down.”

The clerk’s eyes grew wide, and Michel heard his mother’s gasp as he strode from the alley. He tossed the package of leather-bound books onto a table and strode down the street, looking for the closest hackney cab. He was two blocks away before he found one and was soon inside, riding in welcome silence toward the Millinery.

“She doesn’t understand,” he said to himself angrily.

“You knew she wouldn’t.”

“I’ve always hoped she would. Someday.”

“Does that make you a fool or an optimist?”

“Both.”

It took him half the ride before he calmed down and realized he’d left her food sitting on a table in the bookstore. With the money she spent on penny novels, it was likely all she would have to eat for the next few days. He swore at himself and almost yelled for the driver to turn around.

One thought stayed him.

She’d gotten a copy of Sins of Empire. Not a week ago, but yesterday. The Iron Roses were meant to have rounded most of them up. Even if this was one young revolutionary who’d managed to hide a few stacks of the pamphlet, the fact that they were still being handed out could mean something. It could mean that they were still being printed.

But by whom? And where?

Michel climbed out of the cab at the Millinery and paid the driver extra to go pick up a basket of bread and deliver it to his mother’s address. Inside, he found Agent Warsim at his desk in the corner, and tapped him on the shoulder.

“You busy?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. I need you to make me a list of every printer in the city. Be thorough.”

“Yes, sir. May I ask why?”

“Because I have just one idea, and I’m going to search every printing press from here to Redstone until I have a better one.”