Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

“So much for talking my way out of this,” Michel muttered to himself. He crawled quickly along the floor, around the orchestra pit, and up onto the stage.

“He’s down here,” he heard Aethel call. A moment later there was a second silhouette briefly outlined by the light from the lobby. Hendres.

“Geddi,” Hendres shouted, “see if you can find the gas line for the main theater. Turn on the lights, and he’s ours.”

Aethel responded with something that Michel could not understand, but he used it to pinpoint her position about halfway up the theater seating. Quietly, he slipped his shoes off and soft-footed his way across the stage and into the wings. He tried to see something – anything – in the inky darkness behind the curtains. His memory of a brief tour of the backstage was fuzzy, and he followed it haphazardly into the darkness, barking his shins on crates and running into stage props.

Michel finally found an empty hall and followed it down a flight of stairs and through two curtains before emerging into the storage area beneath the stage. A dim light coming from street-level windows at the far end of the long room allowed him to pick out the dressing areas and the enormous set pieces. Everything was set up as if for a performance – likely forgotten when news came of the invasion.

Michel paused long enough to put his shoes back on, then began to head to the far side of the room, where he thought he remembered an exit that came out on the other side of the street behind the theater.

The figure that emerged from the next stairwell took him entirely by surprise. He only got a quick glance – enough to see the stocky figure of Geddi coming out of the shadows – before he was grabbed by the shoulders and thrown through an enormous canvas painting of a wooded countryside.

Michel stumbled and fell on the other side, crashing into an array of pulleys with enough force to rattle his teeth. He pulled himself up, only in time to catch Geddi’s fist in his kidneys.

He’d seen Geddi work before. Geddi was considered, even among Iron Roses, to be the go-to man for roughing up an enemy of the Chancellor’s office. The blow doubled Michel over and sent him reeling into a wooden set piece, gasping for breath and holding up one hand in the vain hope of stalling Geddi’s approach.

“He’s down here!” Geddi shouted. He reached out and snagged Michel by the arm.

To Michel’s surprise, he managed to slip right out of Geddi’s grip, allowing him a precious few seconds to backpedal. He snatched his knuckle-dusters from his pocket and forced himself into a boxer’s stance, only then noticing that his left arm was coated with blood. Michel didn’t have time to consider it. Geddi came on quickly, fists swinging.

Michel stepped to one side, taking a glancing blow to the shoulder, and slammed his fist into Geddi’s temple as hard as he could. Geddi took two wobbly steps to one side, touching his cheek, fingers coming away bloody. Michel didn’t give him the time to focus. He grabbed one of Geddi’s thick forearms and smashed his knuckle-dusters into Geddi’s elbow until Geddi began to scream. He pulled back, punched him one more time in the side of the head, and turned and ran.

Michel backtracked, past the stairway he’d descended from and all the way to the wall of the under-stage, where he found a narrow corridor leading into the darkness. Hoping he knew what he was doing, he placed his palms on both walls of the corridor to keep his balance and hurried down it.

He emerged a short time later through a trapdoor into the lobby. The door boomed against the floor as Michel came through it, and he didn’t bother to pause as he scrambled out the front door and into the street.

In the light of day, he found his left arm deeply gouged by the glass of the window he’d broken. There was blood on his face from hitting the pulleys, and a deep pain in his side from Geddi’s punches. The self-examination took him just a few seconds. He spotted a curious Palo looking out from his tent on the front steps of the theater. “You,” Michel said, searching his pockets. He came up with a booklet of meal vouchers for the Dynize market out by the docks. He shoved it into the Palo’s hands. “Sell me your jacket. Quickly! And if someone comes out that door, tell them I went that way.”

Michel practically pulled the jacket off the poor Palo and hurried across the street and down an alley. He zigzagged through afternoon traffic, hoping his bloody face and arm didn’t attract too much attention. He was half a dozen blocks from the theater before he finally allowed himself to rest in a dirty alleyway outside a baker’s shop. He stared at the blood dripping from his fingers and the knuckle-dusters still on his other hand, and felt true despair for the first time since the Dynize had invaded.

Hendres knew who he really was. The Blackhats left in the city would come for him.

Michel was now truly alone.

“The Fatrastans and Dynize have engaged.”

Vlora knelt by a creek and splashed water on her face, cleaning off the grime of the road. She relished the shock of the cold water coming out of the foothills, scrubbing her cheeks, enjoying the moment of respite. She climbed to her feet and dried off with a handkerchief, turning to find the scout standing a few feet behind her. It was late in the afternoon and she knew she would have to give the order to make camp soon, but she wanted her infantry to eke out another mile or two before nightfall.

“What happened?” she asked the scout.

“The Dynize turned to follow us when we left,” the scout reported. “They sent a brigade in our tracks, but the Fatrastans engaged around noon and the brigade was forced to pull back.”

“Full engagement?” Vlora asked hopefully. “Did you see the battle?”

“No, ma’am. Just skirmishing. Last I saw before coming to report was the Dynize consolidating.”

“Very good.” Vlora wiped her hands on her handkerchief and returned it to her pocket, dismissing the scout. She turned her face toward the sun and closed her eyes, listening to the tramp of marching soldiers making their way along the winding road of the foothills just a few hundred yards down the creek. A pair of swallows chased each other overhead.

“That was a clever bit of maneuvering.”

Vlora jumped, her pistol halfway out of her belt before she spotted Taniel sitting just above her on the hillside. He wore his buckskins, matching satchels hanging from his shoulders, and leaned on his Hrusch rifle with a casual air as if he’d been there for an hour. She felt a spike of annoyance, and couldn’t help but think that she wouldn’t be in this mess if not for him. “Don’t sneak up on me.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t do it.” Vlora returned to her horse for her canteens and filled them at the creek. She was suddenly self-conscious, aware of Taniel’s gaze following her. “Did Ka-poel get away fine with the Mad Lancers?”

Taniel spread his legs, laying his rifle across them and checking the flint and pan. “She did. They’re southwest of us right now and riding hard. As far as we know, they’re not being followed.”

This information surprised Vlora. “You can speak with her at a distance?”

“Not exactly.” Taniel looked suddenly uncomfortable. “We can sense each other – feel each other’s pains and attitudes. It’s very rudimentary, but it’s a sort of communication.”

“That sounds convenient.”

“It’s a pain in the ass, actually. If she feels pain a hundred miles from me, there’s nothing I can do about it, and vice versa. It can be comforting, but it can also make me anxious as pit.”