Wrath of Empire

Chapter 30

Styke was greeted by the mayor of Belltower as he entered the old city gates the day after the Mad Lancers relieved the city. The mayor was an older gentleman with the dark skin of a Deliv, distinguished in tails and hat, with spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He wore a red sash proclaiming his title, and he was on foot surrounded by a small entourage of dignitaries dressed in their churchgoing best. As Styke rode through the gates, the mayor swept off his hat and bowed.

There was a part of Styke that reveled in his fame, that enjoyed the women, booze, and money his reputation had gotten him in his youth. But being thanked had always felt strained and awkward. He tipped his hat in return and gave a small wave to the dignitaries.

“You’re Colonel Styke,” the mayor said.

Styke glanced over his shoulder, hoping that Ibana would arrive with some kind of emergency that needed his attention. Ka-poel lurked on horseback a few dozen feet behind him. Other than her and Celine, there were only a few of his lancers riding in to see the city, and they slunk off quickly without making eye contact.

The cowards.

Styke lowered Celine to the ground and dismounted, handing her Amrec’s reins. He shook the mayor’s hand, hoping his discomfort was obvious enough that the group would bugger off.

“My name’s Witbee,” the mayor introduced himself. “Mayor Witbee. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Colonel Styke, and I must immediately apologize that the city is in no shape to give you the reception you deserve.” He gestured to his entourage. “These are all we could spare to come out and meet you. Everyone else is tending the wounded and putting out fires.”

“No offense taken,” Styke replied. “I’m not really one for receptions, to be honest.”

The mayor charged ahead anyway. “You arrived in the nick of time, Colonel. We sent for help weeks ago and only just received word that the Third Army was on its way to relieve us. But they won’t be here for days and …” His expression grew strained. “Well, we wouldn’t have lasted much longer. The bastards were lined up for a charge when you arrived.”

Styke resisted the urge to reply with I noticed and instead tried for a gracious smile, noting that Witbee had mentioned the Third Army.

“You charged a Privileged,” Witbee continued. “Without any of your own, if I’m not mistaken. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Privileged die like anyone else,” Styke replied. “It’s just a matter of getting close enough to put a lance through their eye.”

The mayor tugged at his collar, his eyes fluttering as if he were unused to such bold discussion of violence. He stuttered for a moment, then said, “I’m sorry you and your men camped out on the plain last night. I sent someone to invite you in, but they returned without an answer.”

“I sent them away. We had bodies to strip and wounded to tend to. Look, Mayor, I appreciate you coming out to greet me, but it’s clear that you’ve got a lot of problems to deal with. I’m going to be blunt with you: Everything that I’ve heard says that you’re one of the only cities on the west coast to survive the Dynize landing.”

Witbee took a shaky breath. “I’ve heard similar reports. We’ve been discussing the possibility of abandoning the city and sending the people inland.”

“With all due respect, that’s a terrible idea,” Styke said. “The Dynize are spread out, and Lindet’s field armies are finally engaging the enemy. If the Third Army is already on their way, they’ll need Bellport as a foothold in Dynize territory.”

“This … this is Dynize territory now, isn’t it?” Witbee asked, his expression fraught.

Styke pointed at the ground at their feet. “This is not Dynize territory, not yet. And I suggest you not abandon it. You’ve got what, a hundred thousand souls in Bellport?”

“About that, yes.”

“Comb the city for fighting men, engineers, and labor. Conscript everyone you have to. Rebuild your gun platforms, even if you’ve got nothing to put on them – the Third Army will have extras.” Styke wracked his brain for more advice, trying to remember the very same conversations he’d had with politicians during the Fatrastan War for Independence. The situation had been remarkably similar, except the Dynize had a lot more soldiers on the continent than the Kez did back then. He took the mayor by the elbow and pulled him aside, lowering his voice.

“A word of warning: The field armies are stripping the countryside for everything they can get their hands on – weapons, food, practical goods. If they arrive here and find Bellport in chaos, they’re going to steal everything you have to survive the winter and leave you to rot.”

“No!” Witbee protested. “The Lady Chancellor would never allow such a thing.”

“The Lady Chancellor is leaving that up to the discretion of her generals, and I know the general of the Third Army personally. He’ll strip you of everything he can.”

“What can we do?”

“Organize the city. Rebuild those gun platforms, reinforce the walls, and dig trenches. Get every craftsman in the city working toward the war effort and when General Dvory arrives, he’ll see a useful war asset rather than dead weight for him to strip of resources.”

Witbee drew himself up. “I will do exactly as you say. I’ve served the good people of Bellport faithfully for eight years. I will rally them for all we have.”

“And don’t let General Dvory push you around. Tell him that Ben Styke is your friend and a city protector and that I won’t stand for any mistreatment of Fatrastan citizens.”

“Do you think it’ll come to that?” Witbee asked incredulously.

“I hope not.” Styke chuckled inwardly. If it did come to that, it would piss off Dvory something fierce. “If he continues to press, tell him that Lindet herself has guaranteed the city’s safety.”

“But she has done no such thing!”

“Consider me a mouthpiece of the Lady Chancellor herself,” Styke lied. He clapped the mayor on the shoulder and turned to the retinue, raising his voice so that everyone nearby could hear him. “The Mad Lancers came to resupply in Bellport. We’ll pay fair prices for what we need and won’t take what you can’t afford to spare. I’ll allow my men a night’s leave here before we move on tomorrow. If any of them refuse to pay for services or start fights, they will answer to me personally.”

He continued. “We lost about two hundred men in that fight.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “We’ll lose more to wounds. Anyone with courage and the ability to ride is welcome to join us when we leave tomorrow. If you don’t know how to fight, we’ll teach you how, and if you’re looking to punch the Dynize in the teeth for what they’ve done to your families and homes, I guarantee you the chance.” He nodded to himself. “That’s all. Thanks, Mayor.”

He returned to Amrec without another word, taking the reins from Celine and continuing on foot into the city. People stopped and stared as he passed by. He kept his head down and was left unmolested, but he could feel those eyes on his shoulders.

“How did I do?” he asked Celine.

“It was a good speech,” she said, nodding in approval.

“I’ve never got on with politicians. Don’t have the patience or the knack for obedience.”

“My da used to say that a politician is just a money-grubbing whore who won’t stoop to –”

“That’s enough of that,” Styke cut her off. “One of these days you’re going to run out of things your da used to say.”

Celine tilted her head to one side and reached up, taking Styke’s hand. “He did talk a lot.”

Styke spotted the lancers who had abandoned him to the mayor, as well as Ibana. The lot stood outside a gunsmith’s, talking among themselves. “For all their need for circumspection, I’ve never met a thief who could shut up. Here.” Styke gave the reins back to Celine and crossed the street.

Ibana greeted him with a nod, smirking. “How’s the mayor?”

“I think I put him off with talk of violence,” Styke replied. “But I prepped him for dealing with Dvory.”

Ibana’s eyebrows rose. “Dvory’s coming here?”

“The mayor says the Third Army is a few days away.”

“Do you want to wait for them?” Ibana had a glint in her eye, and Styke suspected that if he didn’t kill Dvory fast enough for her, she’d do the job herself.

Styke shook his head. “He’s in command of a whole field army. I’m not bringing that down on our heads right now. There will be plenty of time for gutting him when the fighting is done. What’s going on here?”

Ibana gestured to the gunsmith. “We’ve got everything we need except replacement carbines. We’re seeing if anyone has stock in the city.”

“How bad is it?”

“We need a hundred. I’ll settle for twenty-five. Smiths don’t normally make carbines without an order, so we’ll have to scrounge.”

“Do what you can,” Styke said, glancing over his shoulder. Ka-poel was still shadowing him, waiting in the street astride her horse. Seeing her, he was struck by a tale from his childhood – a Palo legend that spoke of a woman on horseback who rode into battle behind those who were fated to die a violent death. He thought of the stories he’d been told of Ka-poel and god killing. She would make a good angel of death.

“Are you going somewhere?” Ibana asked.

Styke pointed to a nearby barbershop window, filled to the brim with playbills announcing various shows, poetry readings, cockfights, and other bits of entertainment going on around the city. One of them said, in bold letters, VALYAINE SORIS: FIGHTER EXTRAORDINAIRE. Beneath the words was the address for a boxing arena and a stylized, printed portrait of a man Styke recognized well.

“I’m going to go put a knife in another old friend.”