Sins of Empire

Chapter 19

Styke and the dragonman faced each other for an impossibly long moment as the world around them seemed to slow to a crawl. As far as Styke was concerned, there were only three people left in Landfall: the dragonman, Celine, and him. Celine fell quiet, continuing to wriggle helplessly in the dragonman’s grip. Styke felt the handle of his knife slippery against the sweat on his palm. This was not a good situation. The dragonman had the upper hand, and Styke had always done his best not to fight when he wasn’t confident of a win.

It would be better to retreat, let the dragonman slip away, and live to fight another day. That’s what Colonel Ben Styke would have done, regardless of his reckless reputation. But the dragonman had Celine, and he didn’t look like he wanted to “just slip away.”

“Why are you following me?” the dragonman demanded. Styke remained silent, and the dragonman twisted his fingers. Celine let out a cry. Styke took half a step forward, but the dragonman twisted harder and Celine’s eyes brimmed with tears.

“Orders,” Styke said.

“From who?”

“Your mother.”

“Funny. From who, big man? Who’s asking questions about the dragonmen?”

“You think I care about the girl?”

“Of course you do. I can see it in your eyes.”

“Do you know what will happen if you hurt her?”

The dragonman’s eyes dropped to the knife in Styke’s hand. He snorted, as if finding such a large weapon preposterous. Styke was easily a foot and a half taller than the dragonman and yet he seemed completely uncowed by Styke’s height. It was annoying. “You’re a cripple,” the dragonman said. “You’re fast. You’re strong. But I saw all your tricks back at the pub. I’ll slit the girl’s throat and then I’ll kill you, too. It won’t be hard.”

“Is that what they teach you in the Dynize army? To kill children?”

The dragonman’s eyes tightened. “Children bleed as easy as anyone else, don’t they? Why would they be spared? A child is nothing but a future enemy.”

“Why are the Dynize in Landfall?” Styke demanded. “Why were they in the Tristan Basin? What do you want with Fatrasta?” He was getting angry, and fighting angry wasn’t going to help him.

The dragonman allowed a small frown to cross his face. “You act as if you have the power here. Is this common among you Kressians? To make demands from a weaker bargaining position? Because it is foolish. Only the strong receive answers.” As if to make his point he tightened his grip, and Celine let out a whimper.

“Ben…”

Styke ignored her. She wasn’t part of this. She couldn’t be part of this. Her survival did not matter right now. He had to focus all his energy on the dragonman, or he would lose the coming fight. Everything about the dragonman was getting on his nerves, from his acid calm to the way he didn’t even sweat in the summer heat. He focused on that, allowing annoyance, instead of anger, to prepare him for a scuffle.

Styke put Celine out of his mind and looked the dragonman in the face. “Lady Flint. Her men killed one of you people up in the Tristan Basin. It was a rough fight, and she wanted to know if there were any more of you around.” He felt a stab of satisfaction as the dragonman’s mouth opened slightly, real surprise registering in his eyes.

“Sebbith is dead?”

“Yeah. Sebbith is dead. He died squealing like a helpless little girl. Begged for his mother like a green recruit, and shit himself as he bled out.”

The dragonman stiffened. “That is a lie!”

Styke locked eyes with Celine in the moment the dragonman lost his calm. He made a chomping motion with his jaw, and Celine immediately twisted around, biting down hard on the dragonman’s wrist. By the time her teeth closed on the dragonman’s skin, Styke was already running, whipping his knife overhand as hard as he could.

Two things happened at once. The dragonman tossed Celine aside as easily as a doll, and he stepped to one side, snagging the knife out of midair as easily as if it were a ball. Styke slammed into him a moment later, not bothering with finesse, throwing all his weight at the dragonman’s chest.

Both his knife and the dragonman’s went flying. They crashed to the boardwalk, and Styke felt pricks like adder bites as the dragonman struck him flat-handed below the ribs. Styke ignored the punches and snatched the dragonman by the throat with his bad hand, drawing back his good into a fist. His heavy lancer’s ring connected with the dragonman’s nose, which broke beneath the blow, showering them both with blood.

They rolled through the alley trash, punching and kicking. Styke took two quick blows to the head that left him seeing stars, and another to the jaw. He tried to get a solid grip on the dragonman but every time he did, the slippery bastard managed to get loose. They locked hands, and to his surprise the dragonman slowly forced Styke’s arm away, then punched him twice below the arm. Styke tasted blood in his mouth, and spit it into the face of his opponent.

The dragonman managed to slip out of his grip again and was suddenly on his feet. Styke was too slow, coming up behind him and receiving a boot to his face for his troubles. The dragonman turned on Styke, seemingly to attack, before he looked up and suddenly fled, disappearing down the alley and into a nearby warehouse.

Styke remained on his hands and knees, blood dripping from his nose onto the boardwalk, and only looked up at the murmur of voices. A crowd had gathered, at least two dozen people, and someone was calling for the city police. The dragonman, it seemed, did not want to be seen by the public. Styke filed that bit of information away before getting to his feet.

Celine hid behind a nearby crate, sniffling and nursing an arm. Styke retrieved his knife, saw that the dragonman had dropped his own, and picked up that, too, before lifting Celine in one arm and pushing his way through the crowd. He was followed for about a block before people seemed to lose interest and he was able to disappear into the evening traffic.

He remained on the larger streets, ignoring the people who stared at his bloody clothes, until he was sure the dragonman hadn’t doubled around to follow him. He found a quiet pub at the base of the plateau and ordered himself a beer and washbasin, then carefully checked Celine. She had bruises on the back of her neck, and when he touched her arm she did not cry out.

“Is it broken?” she asked.

“No,” Styke replied. “Can you bend it?”

She bent it several times for him. Bruising, then. She probably caught herself on it when the dragonman threw her. She stared at her feet.

“Anything else hurt?” Styke asked.

“My neck.”

“It’ll heal.”

“I know.”

“You did good back there. Sorry I didn’t find you sooner.”

Celine sniffled, rubbing her nose on her sleeve. “I’m mad he caught me. Shouldn’t have happened. Dad would have been furious.”

“Shit happens,” Styke said, finally allowing himself to sit down. He took a deep breath and drank his beer the moment the barmaid brought it over, then cleaned his face and hands in the washbasin they brought him next. When he finished he put one finger under Celine’s chin, lifting her face so they looked each other in the eye, and he considered her for several moments. What a funny kid. She was a knife’s stroke away from being a goner, yet she was disappointed in herself for getting caught in the first place. She probably didn’t even know how close she’d come to dying.

Styke wasn’t about to tell her.

“You did well,” he repeated. He put one arm around her, pulling her against his chest. He considered the anger that had almost overtaken him when she was in danger, and wondered if this was what it was like having a flesh-and-blood kid. He’d been furious, protective. Like he was when one of his men had been in danger back in the war, but… more.

“I didn’t do good. I lost him,” Celine said, frowning.

Styke patted her on the cheek and drew the bone knife from his pocket. He held it up to the oil lamps of the pub. Swamp dragon bone, if the stories were true. Guess they had swamp dragons over in Dynize, too. The damned thing was bloody sharp. “Oh,” he said, “I wouldn’t say we lost him for good. I’ve got a feeling he’ll come looking for this.”

It took only a glance for Michel to realize that the secretary wouldn’t be much help. Within minutes of arrival at Tampo’s office building – probably about the time she figured out she was in Blackhat custody – she was a nervous wreck, and no one had so much as laid a hand on her. Michel sat on Tampo’s desk, staring sullenly at the crates of Sins of Empire, wishing that he had it in him to beat on a helpless person.

He needed something to punch.

He got up and paced the room. Warsim had already confirmed with the landlord that the false Tampo was, indeed, the janitor, and it was agreed that the two had the same general hair color and build. Michel had the Iron Roses take all the hapless man’s information and sent him home. The secretary they kept, sitting behind her own desk. She tried to put on a brave face in what she probably thought was her last night of freedom before a long stint in the labor camps.

Michel crossed to her desk. “What’s your name?”

“Glenna.”

“Glenna what?”

“Just Glenna. I don’t have a family name.”

“Right. Now, Glenna, tell me exactly what you do here.”

Glenna’s eyes were wide, her whole body trembling. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were a Blackhat. I didn’t mean to do any –”

“Just,” Michel cut her off, “tell me what you do.”

“I’m Mr. Tampo’s secretary. I don’t really have a lot of work, but he employs me for sixty hours a week and pays quite well. I remain here and keep the office tidy, handle his mail, and deal with any visitors that might come by.”

“Are there many?”

“No! There’s an occasional workman, sometimes another attorney. I was ordered never to take any names – just introduce them if Mr. Tampo is in and take a brief message if he is out.”

“How does Tampo know who the messages are from?”

“I give a brief description of the caller. Tall, fair-haired, smokes a pipe. That kind of thing. Mr. Tampo has always taken that as sufficient. He told me that no one will ever have this address that doesn’t know his particular method of communication. That’s why I was so suspicious when you came by today.”

“What about the mail?” Michel asked, feeling his frustration deepen. Tampo was careful. Damned careful.

“Always outgoing,” Glenna said. “Sometimes to Adro or Novi. Maybe Brudania. Redstone and Little Starland. I never see the letters themselves. I just drop them in the post.”

“How does he pay you?”

“Cash. Every two weeks. Same time he has me pay the rent.”

“When’s the last time you saw him? Today?”

“No. Four days ago. He worked late one evening and told me he might come in tonight.”

“But you didn’t see him at all today?” Michel growled. This was getting him absolutely nowhere. Tampo had to have slipped up. No one was this thorough.

“After your visit this afternoon I sent him a message at our usual place – he keeps a box at the bank in Lindshire he checks every afternoon so I can contact him in an emergency – and told him that a strange man stopped by demanding to see him. I got a response by courier telling me to head home early and come in late tomorrow morning.”

“Is Tampo always this cautious?”

“I never thought of it that way, but now that you mention it, yes.”

“And you never considered it suspicious?”

“I thought he was an eccentric.”

“Of course you did.” Michel continued to pepper Glenna with questions for another half hour while Agent Warsim wrote down her answers. Michel’s frustration only continued to increase as it became clear that Tampo didn’t make the kind of mistakes that most people did. He didn’t even make uncommon mistakes. His planning was damned perfect.

“What about the crates?” Michel asked. He reached down, picked up one of the copies of Sins of Empire that he’d knocked over earlier, and waved it under Glenna’s nose. “Did you know what was in them?”

Glenna recoiled. “They were delivered just yesterday. I’m not a revolutionary! I’m a secretary and a good Fatrastan. If I’d known what was in them I would have reported it to the police immediately.”

“You were never curious?”

Glenna lifted her chin. “Of course I was curious. Mr. Tampo left a message telling me not to look, so I didn’t. I wouldn’t jeopardize a good job like this, not in the current economy!”

Michel sighed, eyeing her for a few moments while he slapped Sins of Empire against one palm. “All right,” he said. “You’re free to go.”

“Excuse me?”

Michel made a shooing motion. “Go on. Get out of here before I change my mind. If Mr. Tampo contacts you, you’re to let us know immediately.”

Glenna fled the room, a look of relief on her face. Michel waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps before he nodded to Warsim. “Have someone follow her. Watch her. Four men at all times. I want to know her every move.” Warsim nodded and left the room, and Michel waved to the other two remaining Iron Roses. “Outside. I need a moment to think.”

The room was soon empty, leaving Michel alone with all the crates of pamphlets. He pinched the bridge of his nose, staring at the floor, furious with himself. “You were sloppy.”

“I did everything I could,” he snapped back.

“You were sloppy, and you’ve lost your chance at a Gold Rose.”

“I’m a spy, not an investigator. I shouldn’t even be on this case.”

“You’re the one who offered to take it further. You’ve got two failures in a row to explain to Fidelis Jes.”

Michel paced the room. This Tampo wasn’t some careful academic. He knew how to hide, and how to protect himself from being discovered. He’d had experience in counterespionage, maybe back during the war or in the Nine. Pit, for all Michel knew he could be a rogue or retired spy from one of the cabals of the Nine. How perfect would that be?

There was a knock on the door and Warsim poked his head inside. Michel opened his mouth to snap at him but managed to rein in his temper. “What is it?” he said.

“I thought you’d want to know the grand master is on his way over here.”

Michel felt a knot tighten in the pit of his stomach. Shit.