Sins of Empire

Chapter 35

Styke entered the front gate of the Millinery, unopposed. A guard, slack-jawed, watched him limp through the archway, then yelled something unintelligible over his shoulder as Styke approached the old man sitting watch behind a counter just outside the gate. The old Blackhat snoozed quietly, slumped sideways in his chair, notebook slipping from his fingers.

“I understand Fidelis Jes takes appointments for fights,” Styke said.

The old Blackhat snorted, rubbed his nose, and pushed himself upright in his chair while stifling a yawn. “Right, right,” he said. “I’ll take your name. Wait is a couple weeks. You can back out anytime before then if your blood cools.”

“I’m going to fight him today.”

The old Blackhat’s eyelids fluttered and he scowled down at his notebook. “Don’t you read the papers? The grand master only duels during the mornings, and he’s all booked up. No exceptions.”

“He’ll make an exception for me.” Styke picked at the dried blood on his arms, watching it flake off and fall to the cobbles. He wondered if Old Man Fles would make it to the morning, and if it was cruel of him to allow the Old Man to die alone. But he wouldn’t be alone, Styke reasoned with himself. Fles would die surrounded by friends. Unlike Styke, who wondered briefly if he’d always been destined to die surrounded by enemies.

“Hilarious,” the old Blackhat said. “I’ll take your name and address and we’ll let you know when to keep your appointment.”

“Benjamin Styke. Colonel. First Division, Third Cavalry, Mad Lancers.”

“A soldier, eh? Usually you guys are smarter than…” The old Blackhat trailed off, his mouth working silently. From somewhere inside the Millinery came the sound of shouting, and the watchman finally looked up, mouth hanging open at Styke’s appearance. “Oh,” he said breathlessly. “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Styke confirmed. “Tell Fidelis Jes I’m going to make a hand puppet out of his worthless corpse. I’ve told a dozen newspapers I’m on my way here, so if he tries to make me disappear the whole city will know him for a bloody coward.” A lie, but a plausible one.

The guard lurched from his chair and backed away from Styke. “I’ll, uh, give him the message. Give me just a few… moments.” He bolted into the Millinery. The shouting got closer, and Styke was soon aware of the heavy tromp of feet. The narrow gate filled with faces as Blackhats crowded just inside, bristling with weapons from blunderbusses to cudgels. Feet shuffled and men jostled for position as they tried to look intimidating – while they stayed well out of arm’s reach.

Styke leaned against the watchman’s post, cleaning his nails and contemplating his mortality.

He did not expect to leave the Millinery alive. He didn’t feel any real fear – he’d never desired death, but the prospect had never particularly phased him, either. He was here to die, and he suspected it would be by the hands of the very mob gathered just inside. He’d take a few of them with him, if he could, but his only real goal was to go down with bits of Fidelis Jes’s brains on his shirt.

He pictured Fidelis Jes as he last saw him – thin, muscular, his neck a little too thick and his head a little too narrow, making him look like a nub of pencil stuck on a body, looking smug as he watched Styke’s firing squad take aim. Styke froze that smile in his mind’s eye and wondered what it would look like when he popped Jes’s head between his palms like a ripe melon. The Blackhats would gun him down as soon as their leader expired, but Styke would die with a grin.

He had a few regrets. He wished he hadn’t been forced to double-time Lady Flint. He regretted not saying he was sorry to Ibana. He wanted to know what Tampo’s real plans were for Landfall.

He wished he could have watched Celine grow up.

“Colonel Styke?” a voice asked.

Styke came out of his reverie to find a woman of about thirty standing between him and the mob of Blackhats. “Who are you?”

“My name is Dellina. I’m the grand master’s secretary. I understand you’re here about personal combat with the grand master.”

“I have no interest in waiting.”

“Of course,” Dellina said, smiling professionally. If she was put off by his bloody state, she didn’t show it. “And we have no intention of keeping you waiting. The grand master is in a meeting right now but he left strict instructions to be summoned when you arrived. He should be here anytime.”

Styke felt a knot form in his stomach. “He was expecting me.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Styke felt the sudden kick to the ribs that accompanied the realization that he’d been manipulated. Of course. He’d played right into Jes’s hands. Instead of forcing Jes to chase him around Landfall, Styke strode straight into the Millinery and offered himself up like a damned dunce.

That was the foolish thing Old Man Fles had been referring to.

No backing out now. Styke felt a little bit stupid, but he was not afraid. He was going to die, and Jes would die along with him. The feeling gave him some comfort, but he nonetheless kept his knife hand ready as Dellina parted the mob of Blackhats and led him through the Millinery. The mob dogged their heels, then disappeared as he was led into a small, nondescript courtyard toward the back of the building. The Blackhats reappeared a few moments later, gathered around the catwalk above the courtyard, watching him like so many vultures.

“May I offer you any fruit or wine?” Dellina asked politely.

“No.” Styke shrugged out of his old cavalry jacket and handed it to Dellina, who took it without comment.

“And what weapons shall you be fighting with today?”

Styke looked around the courtyard. The cobbles showed regular scrubbing, but only in particular splotches, likely from cleaning up blood. He caught the glint of metal down one arched hallway, and spied a weapon rack with dozens of swords, knives, pistols, and muskets, all polished and on display. Styke tapped his knife.

“Knives it is,” Dellina said.

This was where Fidelis Jes did his killing, and if the newspapers were any indication, he’d become damned good at it. Styke wondered if he should be feeling fear right about now, but dismissed the thought. He’d not felt it when he charged fifteen thousand infantry in the Battle of Landfall, nor when he charged a full brigade at Planth, backed only by Two-shot’s irregulars and a small-town garrison. He’d not felt fear once during the war, and he refused to surrender to it now.

“Benjamin Styke,” a voice called.

Styke felt his heart soar as Fidelis Jes strolled down a short run of steps at the far end of the courtyard. Seeing him approach was like witnessing the arrival of an old friend – if you planned on murdering him painfully – and Styke drummed the fingers of his good hand on the hilt of his knife, humming to himself.

This was it. A moment he’d dreamed about for ten years.

“Been a long time,” Fidelis Jes said, falling into a soldier’s stance about ten feet away.

“Too long,” Styke said quietly. “And not long enough.”

If Styke was a wreck of a human being, just a shadow of his former self, Fidelis Jes had done nothing but grow stronger and better-looking. His shoulders were wider than Styke remembered, his arms and thighs more massive, his skin pleasantly tanned. He still had that ridiculously thick neck and stupidly thin head, but they seemed less important when the rest of his body was a godlike specimen. Jes had not allowed himself to grow fat or lazy in his position. Styke hated him a little for that, but as far as hate went it was like throwing a glass of water into the ocean.

Jes grinned like he was about to carve up a particularly succulent turkey. “Pit, you’re uglier than I remember. Bullet didn’t help your face, did it? Or your back or knee.” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “The years have not been kind to you, my friend.”

“Were we ever friends?” Styke asked. For a moment, he genuinely couldn’t remember.

“Allies.”

“Not the same thing.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Jes admitted. He squinted at Styke. “Decided you were ready to die, did you?”

Styke tapped on the hilt of his knife. “Everyone dies sooner or later.” He studied Jes, searching his eyes and face. They had witnesses – dozens of Blackhats gathered on the catwalks above them – and Jes looked nothing but the confident blowhard that he’d always been. But Styke could see a crack in the armor; Jes’s eyes were too inviting, his smile a little too wide. He bounced on his heels a little too eagerly.

He was nervous. As he should be.

“Knives, is it?” Jes asked. His voice cracked slightly, but he cleared his throat and repeated the question.

“Yes, sir,” Dellina responded. She hurried down the side hall where Styke had spotted the weapon rack and returned with a fixed-blade knife just as big and heavy as Styke’s. She offered it to Jes handle-first and he drew it with one swift motion. Styke expected him to look ridiculous with such a big knife, but Jes gave it a few comfortable, expert flourishes and then began to stretch his arms and legs, like a gymnast readying for a performance.

“I feel like there’s so much to say,” Jes said.

Styke jerked his knife from its scabbard and held it loosely in his good hand. “Not really.”

“You don’t want to ask about what I’ve accomplished while you were locked up? You don’t want to hear about Fatrasta’s wealth? Her glory? You don’t want to ask after Lindet?”

“I see a rotten city with a fresh coat of paint,” Styke said, considering his words carefully. “Lindet was always better at gaining power than she was at actually doing anything decent with it.”

“Ripe words coming from you, Benjamin.”

Styke shrugged. “I never claimed to do anything but destroy. You and Lindet talked the talk.”

“Maybe if you’d given talk a chance you’d be something grand. Not a burned-out old cripple.” The words were spoken in a gentle tone, but Styke could hear the dagger behind them. Jes’s face smiled, but his eyes had begun to smolder, and Styke wondered if this performance was for the Blackhats watching them, or for Jes himself.

“You wanted me to kill kids,” Styke said, loud enough the Blackhats could hear it.

“Everyone has to die,” Jes responded without the slightest bit of remorse. “You just said so yourself. You made sure everyone knew that you were the monster Fatrasta needed, until it was inconvenient to you.”

“Slaughtering children is inconvenient.”

“Not to a real soldier,” Jes shot back. “A real soldier follows orders.”

“Like you? You’ve never been a soldier. Just Lindet’s shadow, with no real substance of your own, wielding a stiletto in the darkness and killing fools every morning to try to convince yourself you’re good enough. You’re not. You never have been. One day your seams will loosen and the stink will escape and Lindet will toss you on the midden pile the same way she did me.”

Jes’s head snapped back, the smiling calm replaced by bared teeth. He swished his knife through the air in a figure eight and began to pace back and forth. The secretary made herself scarce, withdrawing to the edge of the courtyard.

“Benjamin Styke,” Jes spat. “So clever. So strong. But you can’t even protect your friends. Tell me, what drove you here? Burning down Gamble’s bar? Smashing up Fles Blades? Wrecking Sunin’s livery? Killing that old buzzard Hovenson? I wasn’t sure what would get your attention, so I decided to do it all at once.”

Styke forced his face to remain stony but felt a catch in his throat. Jes listed off a dozen more names and the ills his Blackhats had done to them, presumably that very morning. They were all old friends and officers, people who might have shown him succor in time of need. Styke’s stomach tied itself in knots and he could only think of a handful of names that weren’t on the list, Jackal among them. He hadn’t even made contact with any of these people aside from Fles, to try to protect them from possible reprisal, but even that hadn’t been enough.

All his lancers had suffered because of him.

“So,” Jes asked, continuing to pace, “which was it?”

Styke rolled his wrist, loosening his knife hand. “Honestly, I didn’t even know about any of that. I just woke up this morning and decided I’d turn your rib cage into a hat.”

Jes did a little skip and jump. He wasn’t playing anymore. His eyes had grown focused, studious, and they darted from Styke’s face, to his bad hand, to his crippled leg. “Whose blood are you wearing?” he demanded.

Styke gave him a toothy grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“No matter. I’ll find out after I’ve cleaned this up.”

Jes surged forward without warning, dropping into a knife fighter’s stance and slashing at Styke’s face. Styke heard the clang of their blades and felt the impact all the way up his arm. He stepped sideways, swiping with his left hand only to receive a shallow cut on his forearm for his efforts. They separated, clashed again, separated, then circled each other warily, Jes’s eyes narrowed with concentration.

The dragonman had been furiously strong and fast, but he’d made one mistake: He’d let Styke grapple with him. Jes remained out of arm’s reach, leading with his blade. He was cautious and measured, somehow seeming to watch Styke’s legwork, knife hand, and eyes all at once. Jes’s movements had the finesse of someone who killed for art, rather than survival, and he could read Styke’s movements like a book.

They continued to circle for several moments. Styke sliced the air in figure eights in front of Jes’s face, while Jes did the same to him, both attempting to convince the other of a feint. Styke managed to nick Jes’s arm. Jes cut Styke’s middle knuckle. The blades crashed and clanged off each other, and Styke noted the deep gouges forming in the blade of Jes’s knife – and the lack of the same in his own.

Should have bought a Fles blade.

The errant thought cost Styke his focus, then his footing. He stumbled back to regain it, swiping erratically to keep Jes at bay. Jes followed closely, his knife taking a gouge out of Styke’s left thigh before Styke could readjust himself and lash back, drawing a long, deep cut down Jes’s arm.

To his surprise, Jes leaned into the cut and, unbelievably, dropped his knife. He caught it with the other hand, out of sight below Styke’s own arm, and then slashed upward, catching Styke’s chest with the hooked tip of his knife and then bringing it across below Styke’s good hand. Styke felt his fingers go suddenly numb, the hilt slipping from his grip. He tried to catch it, leaning forward, only to feel a hard pinch on his thigh.

He looked down as Jes jerked the thick blade out of Styke’s leg. Styke lost his footing, holding his wrist, and collapsed backward.

The whole sequence had taken just a few heartbeats. Styke felt tears in his eyes and his brain trying to catch up. He was on his back, the tendon of his good hand slit, his right leg on fire.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He was supposed to grab Jes, even if he took a knife to the gut to do it, and then choke the life out of him in a few moments. They were going to die together, and Styke was going to be happy to go out that way. Instead, he heard the clatter of his knife being kicked across the cobbles and then saw Jes’s face hovering above him.

Styke snatched upward with his crippled hand. Jes batted it away brutally with the blade, nearly severing a finger, then reversed his grip and slammed his knife down into Styke’s shoulder.

“Scream,” Jes said quietly.

Styke grunted. He couldn’t find any words, not now. He swallowed a sob, wishing Jes would lean over closely so he could bite his nose off. But Jes just lowered himself to one knee beside him, slowly twisting the knife deeper and deeper.

“I said scream!”

Every breath was ragged now. Styke could feel every little cut needle sharp, and his leg and arm refused to respond to any commands. He remembered the dying dragonman, and bit his own lip hard and spat the blood into Jes’s face. Jes jerked the knife out of Styke’s shoulder and pressed the pitted blade against his throat.

Styke felt the raw edge and silently urged Jes to slice deep.

“You gonna finish it?” he hissed.

And just like that, the blade was withdrawn. Jes stood up and left Styke’s field of vision. Styke closed his eyes, forcing himself to swallow. This is how it’ll be, then? Jes is going to let me bleed out on the Blackhat cobbles? Styke wrestled with the thought, trying to give his death some sort of value. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

But, he supposed, this was a soldier’s death. Slowly, painfully, drop by drop on the battlefield.

A bad way to go. Somehow, though, a proper one.

“Pick him up,” Jes suddenly ordered.

Styke’s eyes shot open. Jes stood above him again, this time surrounded by his Blackhats. Hands reached down and grasped Styke, forcing him up to his feet, half-carrying, half-dragging him toward the edge of the courtyard before dumping him unceremoniously facedown in a wheelbarrow. He could smell rust, old blood, and rotten flesh.

There was a sudden silence, and then he heard Jes’s voice right beside his ear.

“You once terrified me,” Jes whispered. “But now that seems like a bad dream. I can’t kill you. She won’t allow it. But I can make sure that your legend dies before you do.” Jes’s presence withdrew, and Styke heard him say in a loud voice, “Take this piece of trash back to Sweetwallow Labor Camp. And make sure he stays there.”