Sins of Empire

Chapter 29

Vlora stared at a smudge of blood on the slimy, limestone floor of Greenfire Depths and struggled to keep her anger in check. She could feel it at the edges of her awareness shoving and pushing like a creature trapped in a bubble of her mental making; a bubble that threatened to burst at any moment. She fought to keep her face stoic, her demeanor professional, even while a part of her reached out with her sorcerous senses to feel the black powder on the soldiers around her. Like standing on the edge of a cliff with the unnatural impulse to jump, she felt the urge to detonate every ounce of powder within the radius of her sorcery, killing her, her men, and no doubt hundreds of innocent Palo.

Perhaps some guilty ones, too.

“Please tell me,” she said calmly, “that we know something.”

Olem’s Knack prevented him from needing sleep, but the redness in his eyes told her that he’d been pushing himself too far, not getting enough rest as he sought to gather all the information she needed from this city. He was frayed at the edges, smoking like a chimney, and the glint in his eye said he knew exactly what sort of self-destructive beast was rampaging through her head.

“All we know is this is the last place they were seen,” Olem said. They stood about fifty yards into Greenfire Depths from the bottom of the Rim. The only light came from strategically placed reflective mirrors, and the dirty street – more like a corridor – was empty of Palo and eerily silent. Vlora had twenty soldiers with her and not a single one so much as muttered as they stared somberly at her and Olem.

They’d been with her long enough to know her moods.

The subject of their discussion, a single engineer and a squad of bodyguards that had come down here this morning to survey the destruction of a block of these spiderweb-like tenements, was missing. They’d been three hours late in reporting in when Vlora decided to lead an expedition to look for them, and in another three hours all she’d managed to find was this smudge of blood and a trail that went completely cold.

“This is where they were last seen?” Vlora echoed. “What were they last seen doing? Was there gunfire? Shouting? Screams? Damn it, Olem, I need answers.”

Olem stared back at her, eyes narrowing slightly, and she immediately regretted raising her voice. “We’ve combed every tenement within a hundred yards. Not a single person reports anything out of the ordinary. That some of them mentioned our boys passing through at all is a miracle. We’re not wanted here.”

That’s just too bad for them, isn’t it? “Palo silence, huh?” Vlora remembered her talk with Gregious Tampo, along with the warning about her status among the Palo. She was their villain, and to think she could change that with a few handshakes and a now-well-publicized desire to rebuild a block of tenements was folly.

“Palo silence,” Olem agreed.

“Expand our search area to two hundred yards. Bring more men down. I want our boys found.” The orders were barely above a whisper, and Vlora could immediately see that Olem didn’t like them.

“We shouldn’t risk more men,” Olem said reasonably.

“I won’t abandon them.”

“Every minute we’re down here is another minute our enemies have to plan another attack.”

“If this was an attack.”

Olem looked pointedly at the smear of blood. “If we go kicking down doors, we’ll be working against ourselves. We have to return to the fort and regroup.”

Vlora closed her eyes. She knew Olem was right. She had a responsibility toward more than just the nine men who’d gone missing. The engineer, Petaer, was a particularly talented young man and his loss would be palpable, but the others were infantry. Her infantry, but infantry nonetheless. She needed to attend to the brigade. Not a single squad. But if she abandoned a squad, at what point would the men begin to wonder if they, too, would be abandoned?

“The order stands,” she said, opening her eyes and locking them with Olem. His lip curled in a brief show of defiance, then he looked away, ashing his cigarette.

“All right,” he said quietly.

“Two hundred yards. If they find anything, let me know immediately. No violence. Our men are to travel in groups of no fewer than twenty at any time. And tell them to begin mapping this area of the Depths in three dimensions. I want to know what this warren looks like. Search until eight, then call it off.”

Olem perked up. “A map will be useful.”

“That’s why they pay me so well.” Vlora slapped him on the shoulder with enthusiasm she didn’t feel and turned back toward the entrance to the Depths that she could see through the dim light behind them. “Get me Meln-Dun. If I’m going to play his petty politics, I want him to protect my men.”

Meln-Dun entered Vlora’s office in Loel’s Fort with hat in hand, a measured, sympathetic smile on his face. Vlora shook his hand and offered him a seat, and he spoke before she could begin.

“I’m very sorry to hear about the loss of your men,” he said.

Vlora had to consciously keep her eyes from narrowing. How could he possibly know about the attack? “You know about that, eh?”

“Word spreads quickly in the Depths, and your men have been searching for hours.”

Of course. A few hundred mercenary soldiers knocking on doors in one corner of the Depths surely would have attracted attention. This whole situation had her squinting at shadows, and Meln-Dun had done nothing to earn her distrust. “I’m sure it does. Which is why I was hoping for your help in finding my men.”

Meln-Dun seemed to have expected the request, nodding before her sentence was even finished. “I already have my contacts looking into it, Lady Flint, and I’m honored that you’d ask my help.” He hesitated a moment, then continued: “You have a reputation for respecting honesty, correct?”

“I do.” Vlora didn’t like the sound of that.

“Then, out of respect for that, I will not lie. I don’t expect to find your men alive. Nine soldiers disappearing in the Depths suggests they did not simply get lost.”

“I’m not a fool,” Vlora responded, hoping it didn’t come off too forcefully. “I’m aware they may already be long dead. But if there is a slight chance they’re still alive, or of recovering their bodies, I’d like to do it as quickly as possible.”

“Understood.”

Meln-Dun studied Vlora’s face, and not for the first time she found herself questioning his motives. She was so used to operating in the larger sphere of influence – with governors, generals, Privileged, and even kings – that she had to adjust her thinking to really understand the machinations of a local slumlord. Perhaps he was trying to improve his standing in the Depths, or perhaps he simply wanted to help usher in an era of reconstruction. She wondered if it was of any real importance. Once she found Mama Palo, her job here would be done and she could forget about the petty local politics.

Even as the thoughts went through her head, she mentally mocked her own arrogance. Did she really care so little for the people of Landfall? Would she be able to abandon these plans for new tenements and march off on the next mission? Her work here could inspire a new generation – perhaps a young politician or future general. It would be shortsighted of her to simply walk away from it.

What had Tamas always said? The minutiae of the common man is the grease that slicks the gears of civilization.

She wasn’t a good enough thespian to act the part of a concerned foreign national. She had to care, and she did. Perhaps that’s what Meln-Dun had sensed upon their first meeting. She pulled herself back to the present and smiled at Meln-Dun.

He smiled back and said, “Your concern for your men does you credit. The Blackhats simply write off their missing with barely more than a wave – their primary concern is getting back the Roses they wear around their necks.”

“Does this happen often?” Vlora shifted sideways in her chair. “The disappearing?”

Meln-Dun hesitated. “Since Mama Palo came to power, it’s become increasingly common. People go missing in the Depths, sometimes civilians, but mostly Blackhats. It’s become a fact of life, and makes it very difficult for men like me to do business.”

Vlora was surprised at the honesty of the answer. She’d assumed that the Palo were united in their hate of the current government, but Meln-Dun sounded almost regretful. There was something here. Something she could use. “Don’t you hate the Blackhats?”

“Ah-hah, Lady Flint, you will not catch me so easily,” Meln-Dun said, half-seriously. “I would never speak ill of the Lady Chancellor or her chosen servants.”

Spoken like a true politician. A nonanswer was often more an answer than a definitive one. Meln-Dun didn’t trust the Blackhats, but then Vlora hadn’t expected him to. “And Mama Palo’s policies? You don’t agree with them?”

“I wouldn’t say that, either,” Meln-Dun said carefully. “I’ve just noted that the disappearances and the violence have increased since Mama Palo came into power. She supports violent revolutionaries like the Red Hand and offers succor to his agents. It’s bad for business.”

Vlora was beginning to see a picture of a man caught between two powers – the Blackhats who ran Landfall, and Mama Palo’s goons who ran the Depths. She had wondered if his motives had extended beyond money and perhaps here they were – giving the people of the Depths a third choice for their loyalty. It took a brash, ballsy character to play both sides of the game like this. She needed to probe further.

Vlora said, “Forgive me if this comes across as rude, but do you consider yourself a businessman above a Palo?”

Meln-Dun raised his chin. “I am both, Lady Flint, and proud of it.”

“Of course.”

“That’s like asking you if you consider yourself an Adran or a general first. It’s a ridiculous notion.”

Vlora noted the tightening of his eyes when he spoke, and the way he hunched his shoulders inwardly, like a cat wondering if it had been backed into a corner. He was playing both sides. She’d bet her sword on it. Vlora made a calming gesture. “My apologies. You’re right, it is ridiculous.”

Slowly, his shoulders relaxed and he leaned back in his chair. “I hope,” he said, “that this partnership between us – building these new tenements in Greenfire Depths – will be the first step in something larger. I would like, in my own small way, to decrease the tensions between Palo and Fatrastans.”

“Constructing new buildings would do that?” Vlora asked. She watched Meln-Dun’s eyes, looking for any additional hint as to what he was thinking. This new realization – that he was making his own bid for power – could be very useful. But she would have to be careful.

“I believe it is a start.”

“What’s the end?”

“The end is obvious. Palo and Fatrastans working together to create a better world.”

“That sounds like a laudable goal. What other steps do you foresee along the way?”

Meln-Dun leaned forward, as if surprised that Vlora was even interested. “Extending Lindet’s modernization to the Depths, to start. More business between the Depths and the rest of Landfall. Perhaps over time, convincing Lindet to allow Palo to settle in some of the nicer areas of the city. The more Fatrastans are exposed to us, and us to them, the less we will have to fear each other.”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you as an idealist,” Vlora said.

“I am not,” Meln-Dun retorted. “I am pragmatic, and I pretend to be nothing more. Good relations create better business opportunities.”

Vlora had to laugh at that. “You remind me of a friend of mine,” she said. “Ricard Tumblar.”

“I know that name,” Meln-Dun said. “A prominent Adran, correct?”

“Very prominent. He’s a businessman, and was the very first First Minister of Adro, elected by the people.”

“Ah, yes,” Meln-Dun said. “After your field marshal sent your king to the guillotine.”

Meln-Dun butchered the pronunciation of “guillotine” and Vlora might have laughed had her memories not instantly gone back to the coup, and the Adran-Kez War that followed it. Those years, more than any others, had influenced who she was today. She had some fondness for them, but far more regret. So many unnecessary deaths, so many betrayals big and small. “That’s right,” she said. “And a whole different discussion. I’m glad that you’re able to put your pragmatism to good use. So often pragmatics are tinged with cynicism.”

“I think,” Meln-Dun answered, “that is how I would describe Mama Palo. Cynical. An idealistic cynic, and…” He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder as if Mama Palo were right behind him.

Vlora gestured to the empty office. “Feel free to speak your mind. If you know anything about me, it’s that I’m not a gossip.”

“I really shouldn’t,” Meln-Dun said warily.

You really should. Vlora could feel her heart beating faster. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t want, but know you’re among friends.” There were several moments of silence before Vlora changed tactics. She quietly said, “Do you suspect that Mama Palo is behind the disappearance of my men?”

“I did not say that.”

“You implied it.” She leaned forward. “This is something I need to know, Meln-Dun. I do not like petty politics. If Mama Palo is behind the disappearance of my men, I need to know why. Was she behind the attempt on my life the other night? Was I invited to the gala only to be a target? Are you one of her agents? Is all of this” – she gestured at Meln-Dun – “just a way of getting me to lower my guard?”

Meln-Dun swallowed, beads of sweat appearing on his balding head.

“In my world,” Vlora said, “wars are declared.”

“Not in mine,” Meln-Dun responded. “I am not your enemy. I am not one of Mama Palo’s agents, and I know nothing about the disappearance of your men.”

Vlora watched his eyes for any sign of a lie. He met her gaze, unwavering.

Meln-Dun continued: “Mama Palo is crafty, striking from the shadows. She is an old woman, embittered toward the Kressian settlers who killed her husband, and the Blackhats who killed her son.”

Vlora opened her mouth, surprised. “I did not know that.”

“It’s common knowledge in the Depths. We all have our own reasons for fighting our private wars. Mama Palo has taken hers public. As I said, she is an old woman, and old women are seldom direct. They achieved their age by being crafty, circumspect. Those Palo that attacked you outside the Yellow Hall may very well have been her men. They botched the job and now are trying to make up for it by whittling away at your forces.”

“Inviting me to the party was a way to get me out on my own?”

“It could have been.” Even now, Meln-Dun seemed loath to accept the idea as fact. “There are a thousand factions within the Depths, intertwined in ways that reflect your own political courts. It may have been someone else entirely, but know this: Few people act in the Depths without Mama Palo’s say-so.”

“Do you?” Vlora asked bluntly.

“I will not lie to you. Most of my business is approved – or not – by Mama Palo.”

Another interesting bit of information. Mama Palo was bad for business in her encouragement of violence, and she could stifle Meln-Dun’s entrepreneurship? Another reason for Meln-Dun to want her out of the way.

“And this thing that we’re planning?” Vlora asked. “Beginning a modernization of the Greenfire Depths tenements?”

“She knows about our partnership.”

Vlora wasn’t surprised – they’d spent the last two days attempting to publicize her mercenaries’ good intentions. No doubt Meln-Dun had been involved in a similar propaganda campaign on the Palo side of things. The interesting part was that Mama Palo had approved of this whole endeavor. Perhaps the crafty old Palo was trying to draw Vlora out again, waiting for Vlora to make a mistake?

It was a game in which she couldn’t see her opponent’s face, or most of the pieces. Petty politics. I’ve fought much worse, she reminded herself.

Vlora wondered how much she truly trusted Meln-Dun. He was, after all, a Palo. Vlora tried to recognize that their reputation belonged mostly to a smear campaign by Lindet, but the Palo had also been her enemy in the swamps for over a year. She couldn’t just ignore that because Meln-Dun was friendly. But she had to trust someone, and Meln-Dun seemed to be trustworthy as far as his own interests were concerned.

There was a knock on the door, and a messenger appeared with a note for Meln-Dun. The businessman looked it over with a scowl, then nodded to himself. “I must go, Lady Flint, but I will do what I can to stop these disappearances and find your missing men. The sooner things calm down, the easier it will be to begin to modernize the Depths.”

He needs me more than I need him, Vlora realized suddenly. Or at least, he thinks that’s the case. It was best to let him keep thinking that. She shook his hand and watched him go, called for Olem, and sat down to meditate on the conversation. She drew her sword, checking the balance, deep in thought.

Of all the people Vlora had met in Landfall so far, Meln-Dun was in the best position to comment on Palo politics. Until she learned otherwise, his guess was as good as a declaration: Mama Palo was waging a war on Vlora and the Riflejacks. Vlora couldn’t be sure why: a grudge, tactical maneuvering, or even inside knowledge of Vlora’s real task. But it meant that Vlora had lost the element of surprise.

She couldn’t sit around waiting for Mama Palo to fall into her lap. She’d have to move quickly, or risk the disappearance of more of her men.

An attack on an enemy she knew so little about could very well get her and her men killed. It was risky. But Meln-Dun was Vlora’s wild card, and she thought she already had a way to use him.