Sins of Empire

Chapter 18

“The Lady Vlora Flint,” Devin-Tallis announced loudly, as if he were a herald at a king’s ball. He gave a half bow and withdrew, leaving Vlora at the top step, looking out over the array of faces that turned to look at her.

The normal conversation stopped, and the quiet buzz of whispered gossip replaced it. She could make out any of them if she focused, thanks to her powder trance, but she decided she’d rather not know what they had to say. Some faces seemed welcoming, others openly hostile, while even more were perplexed. Vlora resisted the urge to check the cuffs of her uniform and polish the crossed muskets of her brass Riflejack pin.

“Ah!” a voice boomed from nearby. “Lady Flint, my friend.” Vallencian moved through the crowd like a bull through a herd of sheep, coming over and taking her by the arm and leading her down into the mingling guests, and to her relief the regular conversation immediately resumed. “I am so glad you took me up on the invitation,” Vallencian said. “I know you military types. Don’t like a place without a clear exit. But I tell you, it’s worth it!”

“Thank you for arranging an invitation for me,” Vlora said, ignoring the irony as she checked for exits and reached out with her senses to spot the guards. She passed familiar faces, though none with names she could remember, and caught more than one Palo staring at her. “I’m wondering,” she confessed, “if this was such a good idea.”

“It’s fine,” Vallencian declared. “Lady Flint has no need of an honor guard. You are an honor guard.”

“I’m not sure what that means, but I’m beginning to think the biography you read of me may have greatly exaggerated my accomplishments,” Vlora said. “I’m just a soldier.” Which seemed an understatement right now. She had never liked this sort of crowd. Politicians always rubbed her the wrong way – one of the reasons she’d left Adro despite being a decorated general – and places like this were breeding grounds for the worst kind of petty politics. This had been a very bad idea indeed. “What is this place?”

“The Yellow Hall. Built by the quarry foreman back when the quarries here provided all the wealth in Landfall.”

“It looks old.”

“A hundred and fifteen years, I think. It’s held up remarkably well for being buried underneath a dozen tenements. The yellow limestone is no facade – solid blocks.” He led them near one of the walls and slapped it with one hand as if to demonstrate.

A whole villa, buried down here in the center of the Depths, long forgotten by the rest of Landfall. Surely the Blackhats must know about this place? “I thought there would be more Palo.”

Vallencian led her through the press, past a table where he nabbed a glass of iced coffee and pushed it into her hands, and then toward the far corner. “Yes, yes. Usually more Palo, but it’s a public celebration – as public as the Palo get – so they’ve invited everyone who does business down here.” He pointed to a young woman in a sheer dress. “That is Lady Enna, she owns the biggest quarry in Greenfire Depths along with the Palo next to her, Meln-Dun. That old man with the glasses, that is Rider Hofflast. Owns ten thousand acres of sugarcane on an island off the coast, employs mostly Palo. There is a man who sells the lumber, a woman who trades furs. Everyone here does business with the Palo.”

She wondered how so many Kressians could be down here, doing open business, while the Blackhats feared stepping foot in the Depths. It seemed preposterous and she wanted to ask Vallencian but it was a question she didn’t want overheard. “I thought Lindet owned most of the businesses in Landfall.”

Vallencian snorted. “She likes to think she does and,” he said with a shrug, “she has a piece of every company in Fatrasta. It’s the cost of doing business. Don’t get me wrong, I respect Lindet. She’s a smart, driven woman, even if she’s as savage as a high-mountain bear. But she’s overextended, and just one woman.”

“You respect her?” Vlora echoed, looking around to see who might have overheard. This seemed poor company for such an utterance.

“Of course,” Vallencian responded. “I never said I liked her. But she’s a powerful, driven woman. There is a lot to admire.”

Vlora glanced up at Vallencian. She found she was growing to like him more and more. “Even after the way she treats your… business partners?”

“I see the good in people,” Vallencian said, matter-of-factly. “Even when it’s hard to find.”

“You see too much of the good in people,” a voice suddenly said sharply. Vlora turned to find the woman in the diaphanous dress, Lady Enna, standing at her shoulder. Enna seemed just a little younger than she, well-endowed with long, brown hair and lips that most courtesans would kill for. She took Vlora’s other arm, unasked, and leaned in conspiratorially. “Lady Flint, I am Lady Enna and I am absolutely honored to meet you.”

“Thank you,” Vlora said, giving her a tight smile. Enna’s eyes were just a little too big, her expression just a little too forward, in a way that struck Vlora as artificial. Vlora opened her mouth to ask Vallencian a question, but the Ice Baron suddenly disengaged with an apology and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Vlora alone with Lady Enna.

The bastard.

Before Vlora could say a word, Enna leaned even closer. “Don’t think I’m being too hard on Vallencian. We all love him to death, but he is a big stuffed bear, the mighty fool. He’s too soft on Lindet and her blasted Blackhats. She is a terror and she must be stopped.”

Vlora raised her eyebrows, startled to hear such a declaration. Was it that kind of party, full of dogmatic liberals? Or had Lady Enna had too much to drink? Vlora could smell the wine on her breath. She was tempted to say, You know I work for her, right? But she managed to keep her lips sealed. “I, uh… Do many other people feel the same way?”

“There are thousands of us,” Enna assured. “Have you heard of the New Fatrasta movement?”

“I’m sure I have,” Vlora said, though she definitely hadn’t.

“Well, let me tell you, the New Fatrasta movement aims to put Lindet out of power, and to disband her group of legalized thugs.” She leaned so close her head was practically on Vlora’s shoulder. “Did you see the pamphlet that came out last week? Sins of Empire? Well, I have it on good authority that it was a high-ranking member of the New Fatrasta movement. There’s whispers it was even the Red Hand. Wouldn’t that be exciting?”

Vlora had dealt with agents of the Red Hand out on the frontier. “Exciting” was one word for it, but not one she would have chosen. He was one of the more effective Palo revolutionaries operating out of the wilds, and rumor had it his small guerrilla army drove Lindet to distraction. “This New Fatrasta, is it an organized thing?” she asked.

“Oh, no. We’re not organized.”

Doubtlessly.

“I’m sure you have a copy, but here, take this,” Enna said. She paused to search her handbag until she found the pamphlet, thrusting it in Vlora’s hands. It wasn’t large, maybe ten or twelve pages, and when she turned it over the title Sins of Empire was printed on the front. “If you have not read it, you must immediately. It is an exposé on everything Lindet has done to this poor, helpless country. It tells us how her greedy, landgrabbing ways have destroyed the Palo people and raped Fatrasta’s heritage. It speaks of the revolutions in Fatrasta and Adro and the changes that came from the Kez Civil War as a starting point to a whole new world that is led by the common people, for the common people.”

Vlora opened her mouth several times through the tirade, but couldn’t get a word in edgewise. She’d heard of this pamphlet – copies were given out all over Landfall the last couple of days, despite the Blackhats’ efforts to censure them. It was a fascinating read with a few radical, naive ideas but a central premise that she basically agreed with. But as a necessity she kept her politics quiet, and out of her business. Politics had been the forte of Field Marshal Tamas, her mentor, a skill that had not rubbed off on her. Besides, mercenary generals didn’t always get to choose who they worked for when their men had to be paid.

Which meant that, as a point, she refused to get pulled into political discussions. Especially with inebriated, well-meaning acolytes. “It sounds… interesting,” she said, handing the pamphlet back.

“Keep it,” Enna declared. “It will open your mind in ways you Will. Not. Believe. Say the word and I can get you more literature. As I said there are thousands of us, and though Lindet thinks she has the upper hand, the writers in this beleaguered city continue to work, churning out new manifestos every day that make me wonder why the world has not risen up to throw off their shackles.”

Definitely drunk, Vlora decided. No one in their right mind shared this much politics in a city where such a thing could get you hanged, or worse. “You know,” Vlora said, “it has been done.”

Enna’s eyes grew somehow larger. “It has?”

“Yes. That revolution in Adro. I was in it. We killed several hundred noble families and the king, sparking a war that ended over a million lives.” And wound up with more than one dead god.

“That’s right! It must have been glorious,” Enna breathed.

“The Adran Coup was the most well-organized revolution in history, and even that turned into a shit show,” Vlora said bluntly, immediately frustrated that she’d allowed her anger to seep through. Her involvement in the Adran Coup and the Kez Civil War had, she’d found, made her a bit of a celebrity among radical leftists. Which made her more than a little uncomfortable. “You don’t want to live through a revolution,” she added. “If you do survive to the end, half the people you’ve ever loved will be dead.”

“Well,” Enna said, her demeanor turning prickly, “you must break your omelet to use your eggs.”

Vlora squinted at her. “What?”

“I think,” a man said, slipping up beside Enna, “that she means you must break some eggs to make an omelet.”

“Yes!” Enna exclaimed. “That’s it!”

“Lady Enna, I think you should sit down,” the stranger said. “Here, give me your arm, and come over here and speak with Vallencian. He has so missed your company.” The man took Enna by the hand, leading her away, and returned a moment later with a rueful smile. He was tall, around Vallencian’s height, but with the lean body of a duelist. He wore an expensive black suit, silver-headed cane under his arm, and had blue eyes that seemed to smile about something only he knew. He had no trace of an accent, suggesting he had grown up in Adro. He offered his hand. “Gregious Tampo,” he said. “Esquire. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Flint.”

Vlora immediately felt something off about the man. A sixth sense made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, and she half-expected his hands to be clammy and cold. She shook his hand. “You look familiar.”

“We’ve never met,” Tampo assured. “Though I’m told I have a soldier’s face.”

“You’re a lawyer?” She studied his face. She’d seen it before, she was certain, and her first instinct was to try to remember any wanted posters she’d seen in local police stations. She opened her third eye, looking for any sign of sorcery about the man, but found nothing.

“I was a soldier, actually. Served in the dragoons during the Fatrastan Revolution. Lawyer now, though, that’s true.”

Vlora tried to ignore her initial misgivings. He seemed polite enough. And a fellow soldier, too. “Vallencian told me all the Kressians down here have business in the Depths. I assume yours is law?”

“I dabble in some politics. Try to protect the local Palo from time to time. But mostly I own a small newspaper that’s printed in Palo. The only one in Landfall, in fact.” He handed her a card. It said “The Palo Herald” on the front. There was no name or address printed on the back. “It’s nothing too active. Just something to give the Palo people to help them keep up on news that matters to them.”

Vlora froze, feeling as if she’d just been caught in some sort of trap. “What kind of news?” Tampo seemed just a little too comfortable; a little too pleased with himself.

“Oh,” Tampo said pleasantly. “Everything we get our hands on. Intertribal politics, government policy, that sort of thing.” He readjusted his cane, snatching a glass of iced tea from a passing servant and downing half of it in one go. “Sometimes we run stories about mercenary companies that have been putting down Palo revolts.”

Vlora considered her words carefully, but all she could come up with was a high-pitched “hmm,” followed by taking a sip from her own glass. She cleared her throat. “Are you a reporter, too, Mr. Tampo?”

“I am not,” he said with a condescending smile. “Though my reporters have written several very detailed articles about you.”

“And you wanted to meet me why?”

“Because the articles they write are fascinating. Something about you has the attention of my reporters. You’ve become a character study.”

“I can’t imagine you know enough about me to create a character study,” Vlora said. She glanced around for Vallencian, hoping to make a polite escape from this conversation, but could not spot him.

“You’d be surprised,” Tampo said. “Reporters dig up an awful lot. And they like to use it to paint a story. Tell me, were you really engaged to Taniel Two-shot?”

Vlora’s stomach clenched. That was ancient history, more than a decade old and across the ocean. Yet it always seemed to rear its ugly head. “I was,” she said coldly.

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but he broke off the engagement, did he not? Because he found you in the bed of another man?”

Vlora’s fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword without having commanded her hand to move there, and she had to fight down the urge to run Tampo through without warning. She’d expected a conflict of some kind tonight – perhaps a confrontation with a Palo who knew someone her men had killed – but certainly not with a fellow Adran. “That one, childish decision ruined my life,” Vlora said softly, “and I have spent the last decade putting it together. If you would like to step outside, I will kill you.”

“No dueling, I’m afraid,” Tampo said with a smug smile. “Mama Palo frowns upon it, and this is her residence. But you mistake my meaning. I’m not trying to twist the knife. I’m trying to help you understand something.”

“What, exactly, is that?”

Tampo pointed at her chest. “Taniel Two-shot was a war hero in Fatrasta even before he became a war hero in his native Adro. He helped us win our War for Independence and he was a friend to the Palo. And now the woman who spurned him less than a year before his heroic death is here in Fatrasta putting down Palo revolts in the very location he tried to help both Fatrastans and Palo alike earn their freedom from the Kez. That, Lady Flint, makes you an absolutely perfect villain to my reporters.”

“You think I’m a villain?” Vlora asked flatly. She’d been called far worse, but for some reason the accusation stung. She, a veteran fighter, a revolutionary by most standards, was an enemy? The very idea made her sick to her stomach.

“I don’t write the narratives,” Tampo said. “I just print them. I thought you should know how you stand in the consciousness of the Palo people.”

“Then why am I here?” Vlora demanded loudly. More than one face turned toward her at the outburst. “Why was I invited to this gala if I’m nothing but a figurehead for what these people see as evil?” She’d had nothing to drink, yet her head felt foggy, her vision swimming.

“I don’t know,” Tampo said quietly. He seemed pleased by her reaction, and it made her bristle. “Perhaps not everyone here thinks you are a villain. But how can I know? Anyway, Lady Flint, it’s been lovely meeting you. Have a wonderful evening and, if I may give you some advice, beware the Depths. They aren’t kind to strangers.”

Tampo disappeared into the crowd before Vlora could come up with a retort, leaving her to fume silently. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to kill something, and the little voice in the back of her head – which sounded suspiciously like Olem – told her to remove herself from a room full of civilians before someone said something stupid to her.

She managed to find a promising wing off the main hall with no occupants. It was dimly lit, and she could sense no patrolling guards as she slapped one hand against the yellow limestone and gave out an angry groan. Taniel bloody Two-shot. Eleven years since he severed their engagement – deservedly so – and destroyed her professional and personal reputation. Her life might have been over had not the Adran-Kez War started immediately, and Vlora’s skills were needed so badly it gave her the opportunity to win back some friends.

Taniel had forgiven her – or so he said – before his death. But even after all this time it hung over her head, a specter of bad choices that haunted her bed, driving her to Olem, a man who never judged her even though she refused to marry him or have his children. She thought all the self-loathing of that choice was locked away in a cabinet at the back of her head, only visible to her, but now it was back to affect her professional life.

A villain.

She was half-tempted to head back inside and call Tampo out, Mama Palo’s rules be damned. She slapped the rough stone wall again and again, until her hand ached and her palm bled. She was here with a job to do, people to charm, and now she didn’t think she’d be able to focus again at all tonight. What a damned waste.

“Lady Flint?”

Vlora ran fingers through her hair, collecting herself, and hid her bleeding hand behind her back as she turned to find a Palo man standing behind her. He was only a little taller than she, with graying red hair and freckles so thick that his face might as well have been ash. He wore a fine tan suit that wouldn’t be out of place in Adran high society, the collar flipped up. He must have been around fifty, and she recognized him as one of the men Vallencian had pointed out. Vlora cleared her throat. “Meln-Dun?”

“That’s right,” he said in slightly accented Kez. “I don’t speak Adran. Is Kez all right?”

“Kez is fine,” Vlora answered.

“Have we met?”

“No, I’m sorry. The Ice Baron pointed you out to me.”

“As he did you to me just a few moments ago. I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

Vlora could feel the limestone grit still stuck in her hand, her fingers slick with blood. “No, not at all. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Vallencian mentioned we might be able to help each other. It seems you’re worried about the safety of your troops.”

Vallencian has a damned big mouth. Vlora chose her words carefully. “That is true,” she admitted. “But I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. The Riflejack Mercenary Company is a stranger to Landfall and we’ve been placed here rather suddenly to act as a garrison. I’ve been told that Greenfire Depths, and the Palo who occupy it, have an understandable distaste for anyone who works for the Lady Chancellor. I’d hoped to figure out a way around that. It’s why I’m here, actually, though I’m not doing a very good job at it.” She looked at her bloody palm, certain Meln-Dun couldn’t see it in the dim light. “You’re the first Palo I’ve spoken to tonight.”

“But not the last, I think,” Meln-Dun said.

“Oh?”

Meln-Dun came up beside her, frowning down at her hand, which she hid once more behind her back. “We’re all a little curious why you were invited here, Lady Flint. Mama Palo hasn’t shared her reason with us, but we suspect that she wishes to have the same thing you do – a truce.”

Vlora almost let out a sigh of relief, muscles relaxing throughout her body. “Is it possible?” she asked.

“Your reputation works against you down here,” Meln-Dun said. “Some think of you as a butcher. But it also works for you, and even more of us consider you an honorable person with a dishonorable master. Vallencian has been telling anyone who will listen that you’re here on a mission of peace – that you want to work with us, rather than kill us.”

Interesting interpretation. “I would prefer that, yes.”

“I read in the newspapers that your men will begin a new public works project. Vallencian claims the same thing. Is this true?”

“What? Oh, yes. It is. We’re going to tear down some of the tenements up on the Rim and rebuild them with newer, safer materials and standards. We’ve already moved the occupants of two tenements to temporary lodgings.”

“That’s wonderful,” Meln-Dun said warmly. “And this is where I think we can help each other. The Lady Chancellor has public works projects all over the city, but never in Greenfire Depths. I believe the tension between the Palo and the Blackhats has prevented this. But you could work as a bridge between us, and if you could change your project so that your men come down here and begin the monumental task of cleaning up the tenements in the Depths… well, I believe I could help you strike that deal, and grant you the protection you’re after.”

Vlora licked her lips. This was it. This was her way into the Depths, and it was being offered to her on a golden platter. There must be a catch – there was always a catch – but it seemed very straightforward. She had wanted to focus on the Rim, where she could keep her men safer, but if she could convince the Blackhats to give them the resources to begin a teardown in one corner of the Depths she could learn more about the people who live down here, meet their leadership – perhaps even find Mama Palo.

“That would be fantastic,” Vlora said, trying not to sound too excited, “but I’m not sure I could convince the Blackhats to let me go through with it.”

“I understand,” Meln-Dun said. “The Blackhats and their bureaucracy are enemies even to their allies. But if you’re willing to try, this would make great strides in mending the rift between our people.”

Pit, Vlora realized, if this worked she might not even have to take down Mama Palo. This could end peacefully, without her having to betray Vallencian’s trust or kill anyone. It seemed like the light at the end of the tunnel and she ran toward it full tilt. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you, Lady Flint. Now, if you’d like to accompany me back inside, I’ll introduce you to some of the people who could help you make this happen.”

Vlora took out a handkerchief and cleaned her hand, then took Meln-Dun’s offered arm. She was no longer that scared, foolish girl she once was. She was Lady Flint, a decorated general, and she could not afford to feel sorry for herself.

She had work to do.