Sins of Empire

Chapter 26

The Fles family home in Greenfire Depths had not changed much since Styke’s last visit. It was located at the bottom of the quarry near the Greenfire Inlet, where the Hadshaw River Gorge and the Depths connected in a narrow corridor that allowed immense blocks of limestone to be floated up or down the Hadshaw River by barge. The house was an old stone manor, one of the few single homes left in the Depths, facing the inlet in such a way that it actually received a bit of sunlight every day. When Styke approached that time was well past, and the manor was cloaked in shadow.

Styke had expected the Fles family home to be a ruin by now, what with the current reputation of the Depths, but the street outside was devoid of the usual quarry grime, the stone facade of the house scrubbed clean. The big wooden sign that used to hang over the door declaring it FLES FINE BLADES had been replaced with a small bronze placard that said:

FLES FAMILY HOME

FOR BLADES SEE FLES AND FLES

AT HADSHAW MARKET

Styke watched the house for a few minutes while Celine did a circuit of the neighborhood to see if the Blackhats had managed to beat him here. He noted that the inlet was busy with Palo workers loading stone on barges, and there were truncheon-wielding Palo in pale green uniforms at regular intervals up and down the street. A Palo police force. He snorted. They really had taken charge of the Depths.

Celine returned, shaking her head. The Blackhats hadn’t left anyone to watch the Fles home – at least anyone obvious – and Styke took that as a good sign. He went around to the side door, finding the spare key in the false knot halfway up the frame, and let himself and Celine into the old workshop.

Most of the manor had long ago been converted into a smithy for Fles’s business, and then allowed to gather dust when the smithy moved to Hadshaw Market. The forge was now dark, the rooms quiet. Styke guided Celine through the dim light of the old smithy by memory until he reached the heavy oak door that separated the Fles home from the workshop. The door stuck, forcing him to put his shoulder against it, and he pushed his way inside.

The “home” portion of the manor contained several large rooms that all seemed to lead into one another, from the foyer, to the great hall, to the kitchen and larder. The mix of smells hit him first – the smoky scent left in clothes after all day at the forge, the corn oil and lime mix they used to rub the blades. Styke felt himself transported back twenty years, to a time when he was young and stupid, and without direction, hanging around the forge all day to flirt with Ibana while Fles worked his blades in the next room. There was still the old ironwood chair by the front door, atop the striped hide of a swamp-cat rug now worn thin.

Styke thrust aside all his old memories and stalked through the great room to the kitchen, following the smell of a woodstove and the whistle of a teakettle. He found Old Man Fles leaning against the counter beside the stove, snoring quietly, asleep on his feet.

Celine poked him gently. Fles stirred, swatting at an invisible fly, but continued to snore. “Why do old people sleep so much?” she asked.

“Fles has always been a napper,” Styke said, taking the teakettle off the stove. “Fles. Fles!”

Old Man Fles jerked awake, nearly falling over. “I’m up! I…” He blinked and seemed to remember where he was before glancing from Styke to Celine. “What are you two doing here?”

“You said you didn’t want me coming by the market,” Styke answered.

Fles rubbed his eyes, stretched, then snatched the teakettle out of Styke’s hand and poured himself a cup. He didn’t offer any to Styke or Celine. “Right, right,” he said, sniffing. “Surprised you’re still alive. Thought the new city would eat you up by now.”

“I’m a cripple, not an invalid,” Styke said, growling. Bloody old man always liked to bait him.

“I hear you messed up a bar full of Palo kids up on the Rim.”

First Olem, now Old Man Fles. “Word’s getting around, huh?”

“Sure is.” Fles poked Styke in the stomach with one bony finger.

“Ow.”

“Ow, nothing. You need to harden up, boy. The Blackhats are looking for you.”

“I know.”

Fles raised his eyebrows. “You know? Well look at you, getting your information before Old Man Fles. I just found out half an hour ago.”

“They come by the market?” Styke asked, unable to keep the worry from his voice.

Fles waved him off. “Nah.”

“Here?”

“Not yet. I fired up some of my old contacts this week. Turns out the Blackhats are quietly asking around about you. Nothing overt – nothing that gives away your name. Just telling people to be on the lookout for a scarred giant.”

Styke nodded, feeling more than a little relieved. Maybe the Blackhats had forgotten about Styke’s relationship with the Fles family. Not likely, but he could always hope. They hadn’t started roughing up his old friends yet, at least.

“Don’t touch that!” Fles said, swatting Celine’s hand away from a knife on the counter. “You’ll cut your damn fingers off.”

“I can handle a knife,” Celine said, sticking her bottom lip out at Fles.

“I keep mine sharp enough to shave with.” Fles turned his attention back to Styke. “Boy, what happened with those Palo kids up at Mama Sender’s? That’s the place you had me setting up the meeting, isn’t it? You really had to kill ’em?”

“Didn’t want to,” Styke replied. His initial feeling of joy at being back in the Fles home had soured, and he found himself scowling back at Fles. Everyone, even his friends, always assumed he enjoyed killing. Which he did, sometimes. But the assumption still hurt a little. “Damned kids came looking for a fight.”

“Well, did you at least get the information you wanted? You find yourself a dragonman?”

“I did, actually.”

“No kidding. What did he look like?”

“Like a Palo, but with black tattoos on his neck and arms.” Styke reached to the sheath on the back of his belt and took out the dragonman’s knife. “What do you think of this?”

Fles gave a low whistle and set down his tea to take up the blade. He handled it gingerly, turning it over and over again in his hands before taking it by the grip and giving a few experimental stabs. “Haven’t seen one of these since I was a kid. Damn, would you look at that workmanship?” He held the blade up in front of his eyes, squinting at it for several moments. “Sharp as steel. There’s sorcery in this knife. Lots of blood on it, too.”

Styke didn’t think there was any sorcery in the knife – his Knack would have sensed it – but one didn’t argue with Fles when it came to blades.

Reluctantly, Fles handed the knife back to Styke. “Lots of stories around those weapons. Lots of history.”

“Like?”

“Well, a dragonman’s weapons are all made out of the bones of the swamp dragons they killed. That knife is from a back leg, I’d wager, but the axes they carry are the real prizes – carved from the jawbones, one from the top, one from the bottom. They say that each weapon is sanctified by a bone-eye, enchanted by a Privileged, and bathed in the blood of an innocent. It’s probably all hogwash – Palo are a lot more civilized than we’ve ever given them credit for, and they haven’t had their own Privileged for hundreds of years. Even their bone-eyes are pretty rare.”

Styke sheathed the blade. “This one is a Dynize, not a Palo.”

“That’s preposterous. No one from the Empire has been seen here for over a hundred years.”

“He was,” Styke insisted. “And someone I trust told me the Dynize have been spotted in Landfall.” He wondered if he actually did trust Tampo. He didn’t have a lot of choice, he decided.

Fles rubbed his chin, scowling. “I would have heard about Dynize in town.”

“So you don’t know anything about it?”

“Not me.”

“My source said that they were infiltrating Greenfire Depths, mixing in with the Palo.”

“No, no. Can’t be right.” The Old Man sipped his tea, then topped it off and added a lump of sugar. “If it’s true, and I’m not saying it is, the Palo might know more. But you’ll need to ask one of them directly.”

“That’s what I’ve got you for.”

Fles held up his hands. “My contacts got you a meeting with the dragonman. You missed your chance, and I have to live here. Palo favors are like gold, and you won’t be using another of mine. Besides, asking after the Dynize could stir up a world of trouble.”

Styke wondered if the Old Man was slipping. He’d already agreed to dig up information on the Blackhat grand master, but he wouldn’t chase a rumor down here with the Palo? Strange. “All right. Then I’ll ask. Who do I go to?”

“I think… no, not him. Not her.” Fles went through an invisible checklist, talking to himself. “Definitely not her. Ah, got it. I’ll send you over to Henrick Jackal. Old friend of yours.”

Styke’s mind was elsewhere, considering how he was going to approach the Palo directly. He’d always been evenhanded in his dealing with the Palo, and they’d always seemed to respect him for it, but it had been a long time. Those Palo kids and their dragonman overlord had proved that. He brought his thoughts back to the present. “Wait. Did you say Henrick Jackal?”

“That’s what I said. I know you’re a cripple, but I didn’t think you were deaf, too.”

Styke held a hand up to his eyes. “About yay high. Missing an ear and a pinkie?”

“Yeah, that’s him. He’s some kind of Palo spiritualist now.”

“No,” Styke said, snorting. “Not Mean Jackal.”

“One and the same.”

Celine tugged on Styke’s sleeve. “Who is Mean Jackal?”

“Used to be one of my captains,” Styke answered thoughtfully. “He was a founding member of the Mad Lancers, but was always a little crazy. Disemboweled the mayor of Little Starland for spitting on his shoe.” Celine’s eyes widened, and Styke frowned at the Old Man. “You’re sure Henrick Jackal is a spiritualist now? Is it some kind of a con?”

Fles shrugged. “Beats me. Heard he was the real deal. Teaches runaways to talk to river spirits or some such shit. Even the other Palo think he’s a kook, but he’s the only person who pays attention to the teenage castoffs so he’s got his ear to the ground better than most.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Styke said, searching his pocket for a bit of horngum and tucking it into his cheek. “Never would have pegged Jackal for getting religion.” Styke’s last memory of Jackal was watching him and Ibana attempt to fight their way, bare-handed, through a line of military police as their fellows led Styke up to the firing squad. He always figured Ibana got away with it – she had a family name, after all. But Jackal was a violent Palo, and Styke was surprised to hear he’d come out of that fight alive.

Old Man Fles wrote down the address – or a list of directions, which was as close to an address as one could get in the Depths – and handed it over. Styke tucked it in his pocket, gesturing to Celine toward the door. “When does Ibana get back?”

“A week,” Fles answered. “Maybe two? Maybe less? Pit if you think I keep track of that girl. She’s always off making new deals, bringing on new apprentices. Business head on her she got from her mother, but damn if I can keep up with it. Why? You hoping for some warning before she comes back and pincushions you?”

“Maybe,” Styke replied. He wasn’t quite sure himself. As much as he wanted to see Ibana, he knew it was going to hurt bad – both emotionally and physically.

“Right, right. Don’t let the door hit you on the ass, et cetera,” Old Man Fles said, waving them toward the foyer. “And go out the front. That damned workshop door keeps sticking and I don’t want to deal with it tonight.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Fles,” Celine said.

“Bah!”

Styke and Celine headed toward the front door. Styke paused for a moment to look back at the great room, filled with a lifetime of knickknacks and furniture, a smile tugging at his ruined face. He opened the door behind him and turned toward the street.

Only to come face-to-face with a man in a black uniform, shirt buttoned up the left breast, truncheon and pistol at his belt. There were five more dressed identically just behind him, and the man in front had his hand raised as if he was just about to knock on the door. “Shit,” the Blackhat managed, right before Styke buried his knife in his chest.

Styke shoved Celine back into the Fles house with one hand and twisted his knife with the other. He lifted, charging forward, using the Blackhat’s body as a shield as his companions drew their pistols. The crack of gunfire erupted around him and Styke felt the bullets thump into his unfortunate Blackhat battering ram. He pulled his knife out and threw the body, cutting sideways with a wide arc to open the throat of the woman on his left.

A truncheon slammed across Styke’s left shoulder. He took a second blow, ignoring the pain that erupted from his arm, and punched the Blackhat holding the truncheon hard enough to lift him off his feet. Styke grabbed the falling truncheon of another and brought his knife down hard, severing the man’s hand at the wrist. He flipped the truncheon around, bloody hand and all, and slammed it across the face of its former owner, then let go to draw the bone knife from his belt and bury it in the eye of the last Blackhat.

The whole fight lasted less than twenty seconds. Styke’s chest rose and fell from the effort, and he bent to finish off two survivors before they had a chance to start screaming. He glanced up, noting the Palo policemen still overseeing the quarry down the street. The Palo stared at him, unmoving, and the street was silent.

“By Kresimir, you made a damned bloody mess,” Fles said, sipping his tea in the doorway, holding a kitchen knife in one hand. Celine hid behind him.

Styke looked down at the bodies and the growing pool of blood on the stone floor of the quarry. Some of the Palo down the street continued to stare, while others turned away. They saw the black uniforms and decided this wasn’t their problem.

“Quit your bellyaching,” Styke said, “and help me with these bodies. Celine, go get a bucket of water to clean up this blood. There should be some lye above the stove.”

Fles sighed, downing his tea. “Friend with a pig farm owes me a favor,” he muttered, “but we better move quick.”

Two hours later, Styke had changed his bloody clothes and disposed of the six corpses. He walked into the only public post office remaining in Greenfire Depths and waited in line until he got to the front. A half-Palo, half-Rosvelean woman with brown, freckled skin greeted him. “Package or letter?” she asked.

“Package,” Styke said. He opened his fist above the woman’s desk, letting six Iron Roses clatter onto the wood. “I need the mailing address for the office of the grand master of the secret police.”