Sins of Empire

Chapter 27

Michel stood outside a printshop in Middle Heights, a large, upper-class borough right in the center of the Landfall Plateau. He ran his eyes over the file in his hand – a comprehensive list of every single printer, both independent and government owned, in the entire city. “Huffin and Sons, Huffin and Sons,” he murmured, running his finger along the edge to try to keep the letters from going in and out of focus. “Ah. Huffin and Sons.” He put a mark through the center of the name and let his hand drop, looking up at the sun in the eastern sky.

He checked his pocket watch to find that it was well past nine in the morning and tried to remember if he’d slept. “No,” he said quietly, “I definitely haven’t slept for at least forty-eight hours now.”

“You caught a few winks in that cab this morning,” he reminded himself.

“Oh, right.”

“And another cab last night.”

“Okay. So I’ve gotten a good two and a half hours of sleep in the last forty-eight. Fantastic. That’ll keep me on my feet all week.”

He ran a hand through his hair and noticed a nearby shopkeep staring at him. “Probably shouldn’t talk to yourself in public, either, Michel.”

“Oh, shut up.”

He flipped the shopkeep a wave and headed into the boulevard to catch a hackney cab and was soon heading back to his office at the Millinery. He checked his list again once he was inside. Two hundred and eighteen printers in the greater Landfall area. He’d covered roughly half in just twenty-four hours, which he found pretty damn impressive. But he hoped that Fidelis Jes didn’t call him in anytime soon to discuss his use of time, because he was most definitely grasping at straws.

This Tampo fellow was no fool, Michel reasoned, looking out the hackney cab window at the passing faces going about their daily lives. He printed all those pamphlets and then went into hiding. He won’t resurface now that he knows we’re looking for him. No way he’s stupid enough to keep printing Sins of Empire.

“But,” Michel muttered to himself, “maybe he made a mistake. Or maybe he figures we’re so wrapped up keeping the lid on the boiling kettle that is this city, we won’t have the resources to check every single printshop.”

Which they didn’t, Michel reflected. Fidelis Jes had everyone looking for Ben Styke, a name out of Michel’s childhood – Mad Ben Styke, hero of the revolution! Fancy that. That tough old bastard still alive after so many years.

Michel was drifting again. “Focus!” he said, looking down at the list. A little over a hundred printers to check. He could do that in another twenty-four hours or so – maybe forty-eight, if he took it a little easier. Some of these were way on the outskirts of town. Once he had that done he could get back to some real work, whatever the pit that meant, and maybe get some sleep.

“I thought this damn job was going to make my career. Now it’s looking like it’ll tank it.”

The cab arrived at the Millinery, and Michel wondered if he shouldn’t have just gone straight home. He was wobbly on his feet, and needed to get some sleep. Maybe he’d plant his face on his desk for a couple of hours, then get a cup of coffee and head back out.

Michel paid his driver and stepped outside, watching as three prison carriages pulled out of the street, followed by at least two dozen Iron Roses, all armed to the teeth. He blinked, wondering if he was seeing double, and wandered over to the old gatekeeper sitting on his chair just inside the double doors of the Millinery. “Hey, Keln, what’s going on over there?”

Keln chewed slowly for a moment, then turned and spat a wad of tobacco into the street. “Six Iron Rose medallions just showed up on the grand master’s desk.”

Michel raised both eyebrows. That was news. “Shit. Where’d they come from?”

“Greenfire Depths,” Keln said. “We’re trying to keep it quiet, but…” Keln leaned over conspiratorially. “Word has it they came from the Ben Styke fellow that Fidelis Jes has everyone looking for. You didn’t hear it from me, though.”

“Cross my heart.”

“Yeah, the boys are heading down to Greenfire Depths to try to recover the bodies.”

“Any chance of that happening?”

“They sent word ahead to our Palo contacts. If the bodies are still in the Depths, the Palo will hand ’em over. They don’t want no trouble.”

And, Michel thought, we’ll make a public show of force and quietly pay them a few thousand krana per corpse. “Best of luck to them.”

“Yeah. The Depths are really causing us a headache lately, aren’t they?”

Michel hoped his expression wasn’t too clueless. He tried to run through all the problems originating from Greenfire Depths – aside from the usual Palo protests and riots – and came up short. “Eh?”

“Lady Flint,” Keln prompted.

Pit. Michel had completely forgotten about Flint. He hadn’t heard a word from her in days. Knowing his luck she was lying facedown in a gutter somewhere. “Right,” he said. “Lady Flint.” He paused, trying to come up with a not-so-obvious way to get the information out of Keln and gave up. “What happened with Lady Flint?”

Keln’s eyebrows rose. “Aren’t you her Blackhat contact?”

“What happened with Lady Flint?” Michel asked again, forcefully.

“A bunch of Palo punks tried to kill her.”

Michel stared at Keln for a few moments while his tired brain tried to catch up with that information. “Well, shit,” he said, and set off running for another cab.

Michel had the presence of mind to head back and get all the information he could about the attack – which wasn’t much – before heading out to Loel’s Fort. He arrived just an hour later and was surprised to find Lady Flint standing a few blocks down the street from the fort, overlooking a construction site while hundreds of her men cleared away rubble from a demolished tenement.

Michel leapt from his cab, heading over to stand beside Lady Flint, hoping he didn’t look too panicked. An assassination attack on one of his wards and he didn’t even find out for two days? He would have castigated anyone beneath him for such an oversight.

At first glance, he wondered whether Keln had been pulling his leg. Flint looked unharmed. There wasn’t a scratch on her or her uniform, and she seemed to be in a pleasant mood while she discussed something quietly with another uniformed mercenary – an engineer, if Michel had to guess – who then went and began giving orders to the men down in the rubble of the tenement.

Michel watched for a few minutes, noting the way Flint’s eyes roamed the surrounding streets in a constant, watchful vigil, and the way her hand rested on the hilt of her sword. He wouldn’t say she was on edge, necessarily – her body language was fairly relaxed – but she was keeping an eye out.

Michel cleared his throat.

“Yes, Agent Bravis?” Flint asked without looking. “I was wondering how long you were going to stand there.”

“Just taking in the scene, ma’am,” Michel said jovially. “Looks like you’re making great progress on these tenements.”

“We are, thank you. We should begin construction of the replacement building within a day or so, and my engineers expect to have one finished by the end of the month.”

“That’s, ah, impressive.” Michel had no idea how long it took to build a tenement, but that sounded awfully fast.

“It’s a wonder what you can do with five thousand sets of hands and a few dozen competent engineers,” Flint said. “My men build a palisade every night when we’re on the march in enemy territory. Gives them a lot of experience with this kind of thing, and keeps them in shape.”

Michel vaguely remembered reading something about the ancient Deliv legions doing the same. “Very good, ma’am. Has everything been going well on your” – Michel paused, glancing around to be sure they wouldn’t be overheard – “other task?”

“Not as quickly as I’d like,” Flint said. “But I believe I’ve made progress.”

Flint had yet to actually look his direction, and Michel had the feeling she’d rather not give him the report he definitely needed to make to Fidelis Jes. Pit. He didn’t have the time or energy for this. Perhaps it was best to just be direct. “I heard there was an attack.”

“There was.”

“What happened?”

Flint finally glanced in his direction. The look she gave him was somewhere between bemused and annoyed. “I thought you Blackhats knew everything that happened in the city.”

“We have our… limitations. To be honest, all anyone at the Millinery knows is that a group of Palo attacked you. We don’t know who, or why, or where the information even came from. It seems everyone’s talking about it but no one has any better details. I was hoping I could get your side of the story and offer any assistance you might need in tracking down your attackers.”

“The attackers are dead,” Flint said bluntly.

“Ah.” And not a damn scratch on her. Did she defend herself, or had she bodyguards?

“They ambushed me outside a gala I was attending at the Yellow Hall. I have not yet figured out who ordered the attack, or why, but I’m working on it. Does that satisfy, Agent Bravis?”

Michel grimaced. Flint was definitely annoyed – rightfully so. She was a general, after all, and it had taken her government contact two days just to check in on her after an attempt on her life. He decided to move past that as quickly as possible. “I haven’t heard anyone mention the Yellow Hall for a long time. I understand that’s the center of Mama Palo’s power. And you were just invited in?”

“Vallencian got me an invitation.”

Michel couldn’t help but smile. In a city full of despicable, scheming, thieving people, the Ice Baron was one of the few he found truly pleasant. “I’ll make a note of that, thank you. Were you able to meet with Mama Palo?”

“No. Seems no outsiders do. But the pretense of building these new tenements has given me an in among the upper crust of Palo society. I’ve talked with someone named Meln-Dun about beginning work like this” – she gestured to the construction site – “in the Depths itself. A community outreach program directly toward the Palo, if you will. I sent you information on the project just after the assassination attempt. Didn’t you get my report?”

Michel considered the stack of unread folders on his desk at the Millinery. “My apologies, Lady Flint, but I’m handling a hundred cases right now. Refresh my memory.” He had to pay better attention. Maybe he could assign Agent Warsim to Flint indefinitely – though a Bronze Rose didn’t befit a general.

Flint made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat and Michel decided to ignore it. “You’re using this construction project as a way to get closer to Mama Palo?” he asked. He found the prospect fascinating. The Blackhats had a heavy-handed approach to just about every facet of their involvement with Fatrastan society. He doubted it had ever even occurred to any of the Gold Roses that reaching out to the Palo – instead of beating them down – might actually gain them the cooperation they so bitterly sought.

“That’s the idea,” Flint answered. “I think it’ll work, but I need your approval. And any information you have about Meln-Dun. Vallencian seems to trust him, but Vallencian seems to trust everyone.”

Michel tried to remember what he could. “Meln-Dun is part owner of one of the few remaining quarries down there. I believe he’s been cooperative with us in the past. One of the ‘good ones,’ I think my colleagues in the Millinery would call him.”

“So I can trust him?”

“It’s Blackhat policy not to trust any Palo.”

“Your tone,” Flint observed, “tells me you don’t agree with that policy.”

Michel cursed himself for being careless. He really did need some damned sleep. It was a small slipup, but if he accidentally criticized the Blackhats to anyone who actually cared, he might find himself on the wrong end of a long discussion with one of the less friendly occupants of the Millinery. “I should rather say, Meln-Dun can be trusted as far as any Palo. In my opinion, Palo are people the same as any other, so…” He let the implication hang in the air.

“Double-speak for ‘it’s up to you,’ eh?” Flint asked.

Michel gave her what he hoped was a charming smile. Maybe he should just go home. A few hours in his own bed would do wonders more than the same time spent snoring into a file on his desk. “Meln-Dun is a respectable businessman,” he said. “You should feel safe working with him. But he’s also highly placed in Palo society, and we have no idea how close he is to Mama Palo.”

“Too close,” Flint said, nodding, “and I risk him getting wind of our plot on Mama Palo. Too far, and he’s no good at all to me.”

“Exactly.” Michel couldn’t help but wish there were more people like Flint in Landfall. Pit, in the Blackhats themselves. People who understood nuance, and were willing to take an unorthodox tactic to root out their enemies, were sorely lacking on the plateau. And the ones who did have that ability, like Captain Blasdell, were relegated to desk work. If he earned his Gold Rose, maybe he could change that.

If.

“I’ll get you access to Greenfire Depths,” Michel said, “and the supplies and money you’ll need to begin a construction project down there. But you may have to convince Fidelis Jes you’re making progress toward your real goal.”

Flint waved the thought off, as if it were no real concern. “If Jes has any doubts he shouldn’t have hired me. If he wants to question my tactics he can come down here and do so to my face.”

Michel had to suppress a laugh. That’s why people like Flint never rose to the top here in Landfall. If you want to be a Gold Rose or one of Lady Chancellor’s inner circle, you had to be competent and subservient. Lots of smiling, nodding, and ass-kissing. He wondered if Lady Flint was capable of any of those.

His eyes fell to her sword, and he briefly wondered if she’d be able to out-duel Fidelis Jes. He was said to be the deadliest man in Landfall, but he made it a point never to fight anyone with sorcery. The fact that Lady Flint had walked away from a Palo ambush in the Depths told Michel a lot about her combat prowess. But she was a powder mage. Without her powder, was she any good?

“One other question,” Flint said, bringing Michel out of his thoughts. “Are you familiar with someone named Gregious Tampo?”

All trace of exhaustion left Michel as quickly as if he’d been dunked in the bay. “Where’d you hear that name?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

Flint must have heard some excitement in his voice, because she turned to him with a frown, looking him up and down. “You seem distracted today,” she said.

“Never mind that. Tampo. Where did you hear the name?” Gregious. Michel had a first name now, and that could mean a lot.

“I met him,” Flint said.

“Where?”

“The Yellow Hall. He was at the gala the other night.”

“You’re sure? Describe him to me!”

Flint hesitated. “He was tall and thin. He had black hair. A bit of a hawkish face. Seemed a bit off to me, like someone you wouldn’t want to meet in a back alley, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. He was incredibly rude to me at the gala, and I was wondering if he was someone I need to look out for.”

Michel licked his lips, half-tempted to tell Flint about his alternate mission. But no, he needed to keep that information close. “What did he say? Did he tell you who he was, or where he lives?”

“He didn’t offer a lot of information.” Flint dug through her pocket and then handed Michel a card. All it said was “The Palo Herald” and “Gregious Tampo” in smaller letters underneath. Michel checked the back for an address, but there was nothing.

“Did he say where it was?”

“Not that I recall. He said it was a small newspaper that catered to the Palo. But when I asked Vallencian, he’d never heard of it.”

“Can I keep this?” Michel didn’t wait for an answer, but shoved the card in his pocket. He raised his hand toward the nearest cab. This was big. Huge, possibly. A small newspaper required a printing press, and printing presses could be traced. For the first time since he’d lost Tampo at his offices, Michel had another lead. “Thank you, Lady Flint. I’ll get the permissions you require.”

“Wait,” Flint said. “What’s going on with Tampo?”

A cab pulled away from the curb and headed toward Michel. “Tampo is an enemy of the state,” he told Lady Flint. “If you see him again, you must arrest him and send for me – and only me – immediately. I must go. The Millinery,” he ordered the cabdriver, leaping onto the running board.

Michel was going to find this Palo Herald, and this time he wasn’t going to let Tampo get away.