Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

Olem fixed her with a long, steady gaze. “And sending me with a squad isn’t an option?”

“Even in plain clothes, you’ll stand out,” Vlora replied. “A squad of soldiers always looks like a squad of soldiers, even when dressing down.”

Taniel suddenly put away his charcoal, flipping the leather cover over his sketchbook before she could see what he’d been drawing. He looked from Vlora to Olem, then said, “There isn’t anything in Yellow Creek that Vlora and I can’t handle.”

“I don’t remember inviting you,” Vlora said, turning to Taniel.

“Do you know what we’re looking for?” Taniel asked.

“An obelisk seeped in sorcery and covered in Dynize writing.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean, maybe ?”

“We have no idea if the godstones all look the same,” Taniel said. “Until Michel told me about the one outside Landfall, I thought I was looking for an artifact the size of a pair of saddlebags. We still might be. Besides, my senses are more highly tuned than yours. If we get within a hundred yards or so of the godstone, I should be able to find it.”

Vlora and Olem exchanged a glance. “Give us a minute,” she told Taniel. She pulled gently on her reins, coming to a stop while Olem did the same. They waited for almost a minute as the column marched on, until they wouldn’t be overheard even by Taniel’s powder-mage senses.

“Do you trust him?” Olem asked.

It was a question Vlora had been mulling over for weeks. “I trust him to not get me killed.”

“And beyond that?”

“I have no idea,” she confessed. “I’m still not even sure what he is. Bo told me he’s become something more than just a powder mage – he’s transcended into something new.” She considered Borbador – her and Taniel’s mutual adopted brother – wishing briefly that he was riding alongside her. He would know what to make of Taniel.

Olem took a drag on his cigarette. “That doesn’t give me a lot of confidence. You should at least take our mages with you.”

“And leave the army undefended against Privileged or bone-eyes?” Vlora shook her head. “Not a chance.”

“Just one,” Olem pressed. “Take Norrine. She’s known Taniel for longer than you have. She’ll watch both of your backs, and can pull you out of trouble if Taniel gets himself into something only he can handle.”

“No. You need her here. Look, I can handle Taniel. I can handle a gold-rush town. You’ve got to trust me on this. I’m going to leave you in command and I need to know that you’re focused on that and not spending all your energy worrying about me.”

Olem looked at her glumly. He spat into the weeds and let out a sigh. “Fine.”

“Good. As long as no one is on our tail, you can let the army take it easy from here to Yellow Creek. Find somewhere a dozen miles outside the city to camp and send someone in to find us. With any luck we’ll have already destroyed the godstone and be ready to leave.”

“You don’t have that much luck.”

“No,” Vlora agreed. “I don’t.” She paused, thinking about Bo again. “Do me another favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Dispatch a letter to Adopest. Send three copies with three different couriers so you know it gets there.”

“From here? It’ll be six weeks on the fastest ship.”

“Send it anyway. I want Bo to know what’s going on here. Tell him about the godstones, and that both Lindet and the Dynize want to use them.”

Olem barked a laugh. “That sounds like a trail of catnip for a kitten. Do you really want Bo to come here? I’m not entirely certain he won’t throw his own hat in the ring to become a god.”

“Bo is a lot of things, but power hungry is not one of them. He may show up with the intent to study the damn things, but …” She trailed off.

“But what?”

“But I think having him here would do more good than harm. If only slightly.” She paused. “Oh, and tell him to bring his better half. I wouldn’t mind having the strongest Privileged in the Nine standing over my shoulder.”

“I know they’re your friends,” Olem said softly, “but involving them could be dangerous.”

“Then I better hurry,” Vlora replied. “So that this whole business is finished before Bo can even set sail.” She flipped her reins, riding to catch up with the army and calling over her shoulder, “I leave first thing in the morning. I expect to see you in my tent at sundown, Colonel.”

After twenty-four hours, Michel still couldn’t stop the bleeding.

There were three long slices down his left arm, all from the glass at the theater. One was manageable, but the other two were far worse than he’d first expected. His one-handed stitch job was sloppy at best – constantly pulling out – and it seemed as if the cuts began to bleed again every time he moved.

He stayed in Taniel’s hovel of a safe house for the entire morning, trying to fix the stitches while he considered his next course of action. He started by cursing himself for allowing Hendres to follow him that afternoon he met with Taniel. He hadn’t even considered that she might, and the oversight had cost him both her friendship and whatever resources were still left to the Blackhats in Landfall. Manpower, food, and safe houses were all compromised.

He wondered if, perhaps, he could still use Blackhat resources sparingly. Hendres couldn’t spread the word that far, not with the Dynize hunting down any Blackhat left in the city. He might be able to get to some of his contacts first, throwing suspicion on Hendres. If he found the Gold Roses that Taniel said had stayed behind … well, that would be something.

Michel made a list of the contacts he knew had remained in the city. It was pitifully short, and even shorter when he crossed off the ones that Hendres knew about. Despair began to set in – quietly at first, nagging at the back of his mind, then slowly growing. The pain from his arm made it difficult to think straight.

The more he considered that he was in an occupied city, cut off from Taniel and now friendless, the more he considered abandoning Taniel’s mission and fleeing Landfall. Was this Dynize informant really important enough to face these odds?

He forced himself to breathe deeply, drinking straight from a bottle of whiskey to dull the pain.

He wasn’t completely friendless. Taniel had left him with a number of contacts. They were only to be used in an emergency, but this was beginning to feel as if it qualified. Michel needed information, resources, and best of all – someone who could stitch up his arm. He picked a name from his mental list of Taniel’s contacts. It had been marked specifically as someone Michel could trust to speak freely around, which sounded like a damned good start.

Michel wrapped his left arm tightly and put on a shirt and jacket, then headed out into the street. He wore a flatcap and a high-collared style of jacket he had not worn around Hendres. The journey was uneventful, and he soon found himself entering a small building on the northern side of the Hadshaw Gorge, marked with the single word MORGUE.

“This isn’t a good idea,” he whispered to himself.

“Taniel said he could be trusted.”

Michel licked his lips. “I’m not talking about that. The morgue is underground. I don’t know all the exits.”

“Don’t be a baby,” he responded to himself. “It’s not a doctor, but a mortician is going to be able to stitch you up better than you can yourself. Get in there.”

Reluctantly, he obeyed his own promptings. There was an empty reception desk and little else but a stairway that led down into the plateau, so Michel followed it down, thankful for the gas lamps that lit every landing. The air grew cool, and he soon picked up the butcher-like smell of corpses and the harsh, chemical scent of embalming fluid. The staircase finally ended, leaving him in a long, wide hallway cut into the rock. Open doors led off either side of the hall, and as he passed them, he saw dozens of bodies in various states of undress and of obviously diverse deaths laid out on marble slabs.