Sins of Empire

Chapter 33

Styke followed the Fles apprentice down into the Depths and through the warrenlike streets of the slum, straight toward the Fles family home. People stopped and stared, then headed in the other direction or slammed front doors shut as Styke passed, vacating the streets ahead of him like waves rushing before the prow of a ship. The dragonman’s blood – and probably more than a little of his own – dripped from Styke’s fingertips, leaving a steady trail, and he absently wiped his hand on his shirt from time to time.

The apprentice refused to say a word all the way to the Fles family home, and when they reached the front door he could only point in mute horror. The big oak door had been battered off its hinges and hung from a single hinge just inside the foyer. The house inside was dark, and Styke half-expected the apprentice to turn and flee, leaving Styke alone in some kind of a trap.

The apprentice remained close, as if loath to be alone, even if his only companion was a crippled, blood-covered giant.

Styke drew his knife and crept inside.

The destruction did not stop at the front door. Every scrap of furniture – every knickknack collected over a long life serving kings and commoners – had been reduced to scraps. A priceless grandfather clock lay on its side, broken apart by an ax; the collection of Brudanian porcelain on the mantelpiece had been smashed; Gurlish rugs were shredded and Kez vases crushed.

Styke squinted through the low light, taking in the wreckage. He knew immediately who had done it – the Blackhats – and he saw that they had been thorough. Even the walls had been attacked, hundreds of holes punched through the plaster in a hurried fury. The destruction could only have been more thorough if they’d set fire to the house, and only the fear of burning down the whole of the Depths would have stopped them. Somewhere within the house he could hear the sound of weeping, and that sound more than the ruin caused his heart to crack.

He felt his chest tighten, making it hard to breathe, and he croaked, “Where is the Old Man?”

“In the workshop,” the apprentice said.

Fles’s workshop had received the brunt of the damage. Workbenches were split, tools scattered, swords and knives bent and broken. In the center of it all huddled a small group – three apprentices, all of them gathered around a still form on the floor. The youngest of the boys, no older than Celine, wept openly while the other two had red eyes and trembling chins. Styke pushed them gently out of the way and knelt by the Old Man.

Old Man Fles was as beat up as his home. His face was a mess of blood and bruises, and one arm was bent at an odd angle under him. His shirt was soaked with as much blood as Styke’s, and he clutched a broken sword in one hand. He lay where he’d fallen, the boys not daring to move him.

Styke’s chest tightened further. He tried to speak, but satisfied himself with a gesture and a grunt. “Water,” he ordered. He laid two fingers on the Old Man’s neck, then put his ear next to his mouth. He could feel the faint pulse of the vein, the gentle touch of breath on his cheek. Old Man Fles was still alive.

Relief won out among all the other emotions swirling through Styke’s chest. He forced them all down, clearing his throat, then clearing it again, when he noticed that the Old Man’s eyes were open.

“Big, bloody idiot,” the Old Man whispered.

“Shut up,” Styke said. “Save your strength.”

The Old Man tried to roll off his bent arm. He let out a high-pitched moan, then ceased his struggles. He managed to turn his head slightly, looking away from Styke, eyes searching the workshop. “A lifetime’s work,” he muttered.

“Because of me,” Styke said. It was the only reason, of course. The Old Man paid his bribes, kept his nose clean. The Blackhats had no reason to attack such a highly regarded craftsman. Not unless they were trying to get to Styke. They must have found out the Old Man was passing him information somehow. Maybe one of the apprentices. Maybe a spy watching the house. Maybe the Old Man himself had slipped up.

“Of course it was cuz of you,” the Old Man hissed. “Always knew you were bad luck.” He tried to move his arm again, unsuccessfully.

Styke rolled the Old Man on his side gently, ignoring the protesting squeal, and pulled the arm around and laid it on his chest. It was definitely broken, and would probably need to be set. Styke could do it, but he had no idea if the shock of it would kill the Old Man. “You summon a doctor?” he asked the oldest of the apprentices.

“Just you,” the apprentice responded. “He said no doctors.”

“Well, he’s an idiot. Go get the best surgeon in this half of the city, now.”

“No doctors,” the Old Man grunted.

“Shut your flapper,” Styke snapped. The apprentice hesitated, looking from Styke to the Old Man and back. Styke bared his teeth. “Whatever you think he’ll do to you if he gets better, I’ll do worse right now. Surgeon. Go.”

The apprentice fled, and Styke had the others light the lanterns and gather what was left of the Old Man’s bed before carrying him to it. The Old Man cursed Styke’s face and parentage throughout the whole process, then passed out once he’d been laid still again. Styke sat on the floor by the bed, back against the cold manor wall, while the remaining apprentices busied themselves cleaning up the workshop.

Styke stared at the ceiling, trying to remember the last time he had cried. Decades, probably, and the tears weren’t coming now even if he wished they would. The Old Man had been the closest thing he ever had to a mentor. He was a national treasure, a craftsman on par with the gunmaker Hrusch, and he’d always been inviolate. No one touched him, because everyone wanted his blades.

“Right,” Styke said to himself, the corner of his mouth lifting in a rueful smile. “Last time I cried was when I killed that old bastard who called himself my father.”

“What are you going on about?”

“Awake?” Styke asked.

The Old Man groaned. “Barely.” His voice was stronger now. “Thanks to you and your damned eyes. Things were going well, you know. Ibana been running the business for the last few years. Raking in the money. I was going to die a rich man. Now they’ve wrecked it all.”

“Not all of it,” Styke said.

“The shop at the market, too. They wrecked that last night. Found it a mess this morning, rushed home to find them tossing the house. There were thirty of the bastards, and they just kept asking where you were. Bastards. All of you.”

“Them,” Styke corrected absently. In his head, he was doing calculations, figuring out who he’d have to ask to track down thirty Blackhats, and how hard it would be to get rid of all those bodies. Jackal would probably help.

“All of you,” the Old Man insisted, glaring at Styke. “I knew I should have told you to go stuff it the moment you walked through my door. You were always bad luck.”

“Where’s Ibana?” Styke asked.

“Still on her trip. She’ll be back in a few… few days.” The Old Man closed his eyes. He was fading, and Styke hoped he was going to pass out, and not away. “God, she’ll be pissed. Gonna skin you alive.”

“You already said that.”

“Well, now I mean it. Pit. Have one of the boys wait on the edge of town to warn her. Don’t want her messing with the Blackhats. I…” Fles trailed off, then sullenly said, “They took my sword. The latest I was working on. Didn’t even have the dignity to smash it. Stole the bloody thing straight off.” The flatness in his voice alarmed Styke more than any emotion, but the Old Man’s eyes were closed against Styke’s worrying glance.

“Rest,” Styke said, climbing to his feet.

“Don’t do it,” Fles responded.

“Eh?”

“Don’t do that fool thing you’re thinking about doing.”

“I’m not thinking about doing anything,” Styke said. “Gotta make sure you’re okay.”

“Take me for a fool?”

In truth, Styke hadn’t been considering much of anything. He wondered where the Blackhats would head next, and hoped Jackal was able to lie low. He considered sending one of the apprentices to Lady Flint to ask her to hide Celine, but he didn’t want to get her involved in this. Whatever “this” was. Styke wasn’t entirely sure, though a thought had crept into his head – the very one Fles was telling him not to consider – and he decided immediately on his course of action.

“No,” he said quietly. “I never took you for a fool.” When there was no answer he looked down to find Fles had passed out again. He checked to make certain the Old Man’s heart was still beating, then headed toward the workshop, only to stop in the great room, hand on the handle of his knife. A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the lamplit street.

The figure turned his face toward the light. It was Colonel Olem, wearing plain frontiersman’s clothes and a felt half hat. His usual cigarette was gone, replaced by a twig. He squinted through the dim light at Styke, then stepped outside and took a long, hard look at the placard beside the door.

“Friend of yours?” he asked.

Styke grunted an affirmative.

Olem chewed aggressively on the twig. “Blackhats do this?” he asked.

Styke felt his heart skip a beat. “How’d you know?”

“Gang of ’em showed up at Loel’s Fort right after you left.”

“Looking for me?”

“Looking for you,” Olem echoed.

So much for not dragging Lady Flint into this. When it rained, his sister used to say, it poured. And shit was falling from the sky right now. “So she knows.”

“Knows that you’re a war criminal?” Olem said.

Styke took two strides forward, reaching for his knife, before he realized that Olem had staged it as a question, not a statement. Styke growled in the back of his throat. “I’m no war criminal. Not by any court in this land. Convicted of ignoring orders, yes. But any crime I’ve committed was for this country, and I’ll ask you not to repeat that accusation.”

Olem considered him, unflinching, looking him up and down. Styke thought of the Palo clearing the streets and slamming their doors as he passed and considered what he must have looked like – a giant, caked in blood, covered in a dozen nicks and cuts, his shirt sliced open. It all hurt; a fresh, wakeful pain that he’d ignored since the moment the apprentice had urgently called his name. Olem seemed suitably impressed, but unafraid, and Styke was struck by a random thought – the former bodyguard of the legendary Field Marshal Tamas was probably a son of a bitch to play against in cards.

“That seems fair,” Olem said. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Read a few books. Talked to your old friends. You don’t strike me as a war criminal.”

“Then why are you here?” Styke asked. Olem wasn’t stupid. If he was here to express Flint’s displeasure, or to arrest Styke in the name of the Lady Chancellor, he would be in uniform, and probably backed by a whole regiment.

Olem held out his hand. “To give you this.”

Styke took a stack of krana notes, rolling it between his fingers, inadvertently smearing them in blood. He handed them back. “I don’t want it.”

“Five thousand krana. It’s your pay for two weeks’ work.”

“I didn’t earn five thousand krana.”

“And a little extra on the side,” Olem admitted.

Styke swallowed a lump in his throat. Never mind that his purpose had been to infiltrate the Riflejacks. He was beginning to like them, and their commanding officer. He’d been beginning to fit in, feel like a real soldier again. “Flint is cutting me loose?”

“Sorry,” Olem said, and sounded like he meant it. He held out the money again.

“Give it to Celine when she’s old enough,” Styke said, pushing past Olem. “Take care of her for me. Keep her out of the Blackhats’ hands.” It was a lot to ask, and he expected Olem to shake his head.

Instead, Olem said softly, “You’re not taking her with you?”

“Not where I’m going.” The Old Man was right. Styke was going to be an idiot. But it was the only route he could foresee, the only stratagem that didn’t end with everyone he’d ever known tortured by the Blackhats. He paused in the street just outside the Fles manor and turned back to Olem. “I didn’t escape from the labor camp,” he said. “I only tried once, and halfheartedly at that.”

“Why not?” Olem asked. “I saw what you did to that dragonman.”

Styke looked at the blood on his fingers, remembering all the beatings he’d endured silently at the hands of the labor camp guards. He remembered every sleepless night from the ache of his old wounds, every day in the sun pulling sledges or mucking out trenches in the marshes. “Because I didn’t want my life to end up like this. I’m a wolf, not a cur, and I won’t flee for the rest of my life. Better to serve my sentence and be released on my own free will than to escape. Whatever they’ve done to me, I’m still Ben Styke, and I’ve got my pride.

“I didn’t escape,” he continued. “I was released. I thought maybe I was really free. That I could create a new life. But the Lady Chancellor only fears what she can’t control, and so…” He shrugged, then began to trudge down the street. “I like Lady Flint. When you see her next time, tell her to be wary of a man named Gregious Tampo.”

“You know Tampo?” Olem asked sharply.

“Not really,” Styke said without turning around. “But he’s the one who released me from the camps.”

“Where are you going? What are you going to do?” Olem called after him.

“I’m going to make an appointment to kill a man.”