Sins of Empire

Chapter 50

First thing in the morning, Michel left his small apartment in Fallen End and went to the local bank a few blocks over. He was on edge as he walked inside, his nerves still frayed from the visit to the monolith the day before, and was functioning on just a couple of hours of restless sleep. Whispers had filled his night, and none of them had been pleasant. He wondered how those researchers managed to stay near the godstone – and that more of them didn’t go mad from exposure.

The bank was small, sleepy, with just two clerks, a single vault, and a row of lockboxes along the back wall behind the clerks. Michel hadn’t been inside it in four years, and hoped he remembered the right number. He took bank stationery, wrote down the lot number of the monolith dig site – and specific directions that it was two miles south of Landfall – along with the word “CAUTION.”

“Number 132,” he said, handing the note along with a single krana over to the teller. Michel tapped the brim of his hat and left.

He had, no doubt, several folders on his desk with reports about how much nothing his new underlings had found in their search for Styke. He’d have to attend to those at some point. He should have done it last night, but the monolith had unnerved him enough to send him straight to home, a warm bath, and bed. Though none of that had helped him sleep.

Instead, he’d spent the disquieting hours putting his marble back together. His self – his real self – was safely stored away. With that note dispatched to Taniel, Michel could go back to being the good little Blackhat, heart and soul. He’d be a model Gold Rose, rooting out Fatrasta’s enemies from a new place of privilege, worming his way up the ladder. Pit, in a few years maybe he’d be one of Fidelis Jes’s confidants.

The higher he climbed, the easier it would be to help Taniel burn the whole thing down.

“No,” he said to himself sternly as he walked, hands in his pockets, along the morning streets of Landfall. “You’re Agent Bravis now. Not a whisper – not even a thought – of the man you were.”

“Taniel,” he answered in agreement, “is on his own with that… thing.”

“And I’m going to forget it ever existed.”

“Right.”

Michel stopped by an early market, collecting several canvas bags of food, even stopping by a discount bookseller to grab a few penny novels at random. He found himself whistling, walking slow, ignoring the urgency he knew he should be feeling to get back to the Millinery and help find Styke. For the first time in a long time, he actually wanted to get to Mother’s home after she returned from her usual perusal of the local bookstores.

He walked all the way to Proctor, a full forty minutes. He paused by the back alley to his mother’s home and, still whistling, went around to the front, knocking once and letting himself inside. For once he was going to weather her lectures with a smile. For once he’d allow himself the small fantasy of telling her who he really was – though it would, of course, remain just a fantasy.

He immediately went to her small table, clearing away books and old canvas totes to set her food down, then turning toward her chair by the window. He froze, the whistled tune dying on his lips as he realized that the figure he’d spotted out of the corner of his eye in his mother’s rocker was not, in fact, his mother.

It was Fidelis Jes.

Michel straightened, clasping his hands behind his back to hide their sudden tremble, and tried to act casual as he knocked a whole box of books off Mother’s table. “Sir!”

Fidelis Jes rocked softly in her chair. He seemed back to his old self – hair slicked back, shirt pressed, face immaculately stoic. He gazed out the window down the street, a contemplative look on his face. His sword was unbuckled but still sheathed, lying across his knees, one hand resting on the hilt. Why the pit was he here? A thousand possibilities went through Michel’s head, none of them good, but the grand master remained silent.

“Sir,” Michel managed again, hoping he didn’t stutter, “this is an unexpected honor. Is there something wrong? Has something happened with the Styke business?” He grimaced, telling himself to shut up. People went to Fidelis Jes. He did not come to them. This was unprecedented.

And the fact it was his mother’s house was more than a little terrifying.

Michel took a step back and craned his head to look up into the loft. His mother wasn’t there. Had she been taken away? Was she out running errands? Just as Michel’s nerves were about to get the best of him, Fidelis Jes finally spoke.

“The Styke business has been called off. For now. The Dynize have our attention.” Jes turned his gaze on Michel – stony, penetrating. There was no anger or pleasure in the grand master’s eyes. Michel could not read him in the slightest. “Tell me, Agent Bravis, how has your own search gone?”

“Ah, not well, I’m afraid,” Michel said, speaking too loudly. “You see, there are a lot of reports on my desk I need to go through but Warsim will let me know as soon as we find anything and again let me tell you what an honor it is to have this…” Michel trailed off, licking his lips. Fidelis Jes remained expressionless.

“I’m not talking about that search,” Jes said. “I meant the other one. The one you are conducting that gave you the strongest urge to search the upper archives within hours of receiving your Gold Rose.”

Oh. Oh shit.

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir. Dellina didn’t give me any instructions regarding the upper archives.”

“No,” Jes said. “She did not. But the man who was clever enough to work his way up to Gold Rose, even during a time of crisis, could figure out how to enter the archives. It’s not difficult – which is why the archives are heavily warded. We keep records of when someone enters, and one of the archivists noted a man of your description fleeing just an hour after you entered.”

Michel swallowed. Okay, this wasn’t so bad. He could manage this. A plausible excuse was all he needed – information he craved, something that might get him into trouble, but not too much trouble. His mind raced, looking for the proper story to spin while keeping his face carefully neutral.

“Tell me, Agent Bravis. Why were you in the upper archives when we so dearly need everyone searching for Styke?”

“I thought…”

“You might find information there to help you track down Styke?” Jes finished, a slight smile touching his lips.

“… Yes, sir.”

“A likely excuse, certainly. Then why did you visit Professor Cressel at the monolith dig yesterday afternoon? Was that some kind of wrong turn? A mistake? Or did you think you’d find Styke there, too?” Jes’s tone turned mocking, and he suddenly slid to his feet, taking his sheathed sword in hand like a truncheon and doing a quick circuit around Michel the same way he’d done the first time Michel was called into his office. It reminded Michel exactly what he was to the grand master: a piece of meat.

“Think fast, Agent Bravis,” Jes whispered into his ear. “I’m very interested in your excuses.”

Michel tilted his head back slightly, Jes’s whisper raising his hackles like nails on a chalkboard. It said, very clearly, that there weren’t any excuses. Nothing would get him out of this. He tried to focus on something – anything – to get his mind around what was happening. He scrabbled mentally for some sort of bedrock.

“Where’s my mother?” he croaked.

“Hm,” Jes said, doing another circuit and stopping just behind Michel’s left shoulder. Michel cringed inwardly, waiting for a blade or a fist or just about any kind of violence. “Tell me, Agent Bravis, why are you looking for the godstones?”

Michel cleared his throat. “Where’s my mother?” he asked again.

“That’s not important,” Jes responded. “Who do you really work for, Bravis? Is it Brudania? The Deliv royal cabal? Adro? Well?” The last word came out a shout, and Michel finally flinched. Jes continued the circuit, coming back into Michel’s frame of vision and stopping in front of him. He took the end of his sword, tapping Michel on the shoulder, then the elbow, then the side of his knee. They were the taps of a butcher checking for the tenderest spots of meat.

“You know this isn’t going to go well for you, Agent Bravis. If you tell us everything it will… well, it’ll still be very painful. But much, much shorter. I can assure you of that.” Jes laughed to himself, as if this whole thing was really quite funny. “I’m genuinely impressed. You worked your way up to a Gold Rose only to betray yourself the very first day. I can’t imagine how impatient you must have been to slip up so quickly. It’s a combination of skill and stupidity that I haven’t seen for a very, very long time.”

Michel felt a tear roll down his left cheek. His fists were balled so tightly that his fingernails drew blood. He took several deep breaths, trying to come to some sort of acceptance that his life was over, but all he could think about were the books on the table behind him, and the fact that Fidelis Jes had sat in his mother’s rocker. It was that unspoken threat that got to him worse than anything Jes was saying now, and it made his stomach twist into a knot.

“Where,” he demanded, “is my mother?”

Jes turned around, stepping toward the door. “You should have worried for her health before you did all this, Agent Bravis. And to think, you were so promising…”

Michel dug into his coat pocket, fingers wrapping around the familiar brass of his knuckledusters. He took a quick step forward, drawing back with all his might and swinging his fist. His best bet was to make Jes kill him right now – end it quick, with the least amount of pain and maybe, just maybe, Jes would have no use for his mother.

But Jes didn’t step out of the way, draw his sword, and run Michel through.

Michel’s knuckledusters connected with the base of Jes’s neck and the grand master dropped like a sack of potatoes. In half a breath, Michel found himself staring down at the unmoving form, mouth agape, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Then he did the only thing that came to mind:

He fled.

He was less than a block from the house when he rounded a corner and ran headlong into his mother. She screamed, books scattering in the street as the two of them went down in a heap. Michel regained his feet while his mother crawled around, swearing and grumbling, trying to stuff penny novels back into her satchels. He grabbed her under the arm, trying to help her up.

“You pillok!” she said, jerking her arm away. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

“Damn it, Mother, we don’t have time for this.” He scooped her up bodily, depositing her on her feet. She squinted at him. “Michel? What are you doing here?”

“Saving your life,” he said, dragging her along behind him.

“Wait, my books!”

“I’ll buy you more!” He pulled her along until they were both running down the street, huffing and puffing. They made it less than a block before his mother stopped him, gasping for breath.

“What is going on?” she demanded. “And what is that?”

Michel looked down to see the Gold Rose had fallen out of his shirt. He stuffed it back, shaking his head. “Ignore that, I…” He paused. “Damn it! I should have damn well made sure he was dead.” He took two steps back toward her house, stopped himself, then waved toward a nearby hackney cab. “Never mind. It’s too late. Shit, shit, shit.”

His mother slapped him on the shoulder. “Why are you cursing? And what’s the meaning of this? I was going to spend the afternoon reading.”

“You spend every afternoon reading!”

Her eyes suddenly widened as she caught up to what he’d said a moment ago. “And what do you mean, you should have made sure he was dead? Who?”

Michel leapt into the hackney cab as it pulled up beside the curb and shouted for the driver to head to Greenfire Depths. Once they were seated he let himself take a deep breath, wishing he had something to drink. He looked out the window, waiting for someone to come running after the cab, or a squad of Blackhats to burst from an alley. That arrogant bastard had come after Michel alone. There was no one to chase him down.

But there would be.

“Fidelis Jes,” he said finally. “I left him lying on your floor. I might have killed him.”

The Riflejack cavalry were having breakfast in their camp outside of Jedwar when Styke, Ibana, and Jackal rode through their tents and corrals, accompanied by one of their outriders.

Styke fell into old habits, glancing around at the equipment and state of the horses and men. Saddles were oiled, swords sharpened, and the carbines looked well cared for. The men lounged beside their morning cook fires, stirring pots and playing cards, their uniforms well worn but clean. He used the examination to focus on something other than how much his ass hurt.

“The corrals are sturdy,” Ibana said approvingly.

“You bet they are,” a man said, standing up beside Styke’s horse. He was tall and lean, with the strong shoulders and bowed legs of someone who spent a lot of time in the saddle – and swinging a sword from one. He had light brown hair and mutton chops, and a clean-shaven face. He fetched his jacket from a nearby post and slid it on over his shoulders. “We’re Adran cavalry. We don’t screw around.” He eyed the lancers’ jackets, and the banner waving over Jackal’s head. “You’re Fatrastan military?” he asked.

“Who’s in command?” Styke asked.

The soldier considered the question for a moment. “Colonel Olem. If you want to talk to him, you’ll have to head to Landfall.”

“Just came from there,” Ibana responded. She leaned over in her saddle, handing the man a sealed letter. “Who’s second in command?”

“I’m Major Gustar, so I guess that would be me,” the man responded, taking the letter and frowning at the seal, which was stamped with the crossed rifles and shako of the Riflejacks. “What’s this here?”

“New orders,” Styke said. “My name’s Colonel Ben Styke, and I’ve been ordered to take command of your cavalry.” He bit his cheek, waiting for a fight. No one liked their command taken from them.

Major Gustar cast him a long, cool glance. Several of his men bristled openly, but Gustar simply said, “Sorry, Colonel, but we’re Riflejacks. We don’t take commands from foreign officers. Not unless Lady Flint tells us to directly.”

“You might want to give those orders a read,” Ibana suggested.

Gustar broke the seal and read through the letter, his eyes widening as he went. When he next looked up, his mouth was slightly agape. “You’re that Ben Styke?”

“In the flesh,” Styke replied. For the first time in a while, that little bit of awe in someone’s voice didn’t feel like a slap in the face for what he used to be. It felt good.

“And you’re a Riflejack now?”

“We all are; we just don’t have uniforms yet, so this old Fatrastan getup will have to do. This is Major Ibana ja Fles. She has direct command of the Mad Lancers. I’ll leave you in charge of the Riflejack dragoons and cuirassiers. You both report to me.”

Gustar snapped a salute. “Sir. Yes, sir. It’ll be a pleasure serving under you.”

“Say that again after I’ve ordered you to charge a pike line,” Styke said. “We’re needed in Landfall. Ibana will catch you up on the way. I want everyone ready to ride within a half hour.”

“They’ll be ready in fifteen minutes,” Gustar said. “Up and at ’em, boys, we’ve got work to do!”

Styke took a deep breath, taking in the smoke of the cook fires, the smell of the horses, the sickly sweet scent of manure heaps, and the sour stench of unwashed soldiers at camp. His lungs yearned for all of it and more – for the corpses on the field and the fresh scent of crushed grass and powder smoke after a skirmish.

He pointed down at Gustar. “You. I think I’m going to like you.”