Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

“Probably,” Emerald said. “The Dynize have managed to capture or turn a few Bronze Roses, which compromises safe houses. They’ve also increased their patrols and random searches since the bombing.”

“So, who is responsible for the bombings?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t found out yet. There was another this morning – a café was destroyed when someone lit a fused artillery shell and rolled it among a group of Dynize officers. Managed to kill about half of them, along with nine civilians.”

Michel swore. It was probably some misguided Blackhat cell, attempting to use force to scare the Dynize out. It was also stupid; random killings would turn the population against the Blackhats and only serve to increase Dynize aggression. That wasn’t his problem anymore, though. His mind raced as he moved on, mentally writing off the Blackhats and trying to shift his way of thinking. He had to focus on staying alive while he found this Mara woman whom Taniel needed moved. “Do you have any resources you can lend me?”

Emerald finished the stitches on one of the cuts. He dabbed away the blood gently with a wet cloth and smiled at his handiwork. “I will give you whatever information I can, but I’m afraid information is all I can give you. I will not risk allowing you access to anything that will jeopardize my position here.”

“Understood,” Michel said tightly. He swore on the inside. Emerald likely had contacts, escape routes, supplies, safe houses. All of that was closed to Michel, and it annoyed the pit out of him. But he understood why. “How the pit are you able to run Taniel’s spy ring from a public morgue?”

Emerald gave him a coy smile. “I’ve run the Landfall City Morgue for over twenty years, under three governments. The occupying administration did the exact same thing Lindet did when she took over the country a decade ago: They saw that I was running a tight ship and left me to my own devices.”

“That’s it?”

“Public morgues aren’t so different from sewage systems. People only notice them when they’re run badly. Besides, I’m a widely published physician who’s never had a drop of politics in his writing. I take care of the messy business of bodies and in exchange, the government leaves me to my work. Why should any administration look closer than that?”

Michel decided not to ask what, exactly, his work entailed. “Hiding in plain sight. Intriguing. What can you tell me about the Dynize?”

“What do you want to know?” Emerald started on the next cut.

“Who is in charge? Wait, no. Who is in charge of their counterespionage? Who is the one giving out rewards for any Blackhat who comes over to their side?”

Emerald gave Michel a considering glance, his lips pursed. “You’re not thinking about doing something stupid, are you? If the bone-eyes get ahold of you …”

“I know the risks. Right now, I just need to know what I’m up against.”

Emerald clearly didn’t believe him. “His name is Meln-Yaret. His title translates to something roughly akin to ‘minister of scrolls.’ ”

“Scrolls?”

“The connotation is probably closer to ‘minister of information.’ I haven’t been able to find out much about him beyond the fact that he exists. I have no idea how much power his title actually holds, or where he stands in the Dynize hierarchy. He is, apparently, well liked by his underlings. Other than that …?” Emerald shrugged.

“Right.” Michel thought over the archaic-sounding title and tried to picture the man who would hold it. In his mind’s eye, this Meln-Yaret looked like a stern librarian or the headmaster of a religious school. Tall, with graying hair and angular features. He realized after a moment that he was picturing a redhead Fidelis Jes. “Anything else you can tell me about the Dynize?”

Emerald didn’t answer until he’d finished up the next set of stitches. “They are very efficient. They are preparing a census of the city to find out how many people remain and who they are. Their finest minds are studying Kressian technology. They want to upgrade their gunsmithing and metallurgy to compete with ours, and I suspect that they’ll begin retooling Landfall’s factories by the end of summer to upgrade their armies.”

Michel reeled. “They’re really moving that quickly?”

“They’ve planned for this,” Emerald said. “I don’t know for how long, but it may be decades. They prepared for Fatrasta’s armies and sorcery and even for Lindet. One of the few things they underestimated was the military-technology gap. They assumed that rifling and sword bayonets wouldn’t play as big of a part as it did. If they eliminate that gap, they believe the war will be won by the end of next year.”

“Pit,” Michel breathed.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Emerald continued. “They’re also almost stupidly cocky. Most of their generals believe this war will be over by winter, and then they can take their time figuring out the godstones and preparing their armies for anything the Nine decides to throw at them.” He finished one last tug at the stitches. “However, I’m just passing on what whispers I’ve heard. I’m not a military man myself.”

Michel examined his arm. The stitches felt tight and uncomfortable, but they were as precise as if they’d been done by a machine. “I’m not, either. I’ll leave all that to Taniel.”

“And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime,” Michel said, thinking of Taniel’s informant, “I have my own tasks to accomplish.” He wondered how quickly he could even find this woman, and if the war would already be lost by then. Strictly speaking, the war wasn’t between the Dynize and Taniel’s faction of Palo. But if Fatrasta fell, Michel had little doubt that the Dynize would crush any other opposition to their rule. The longer Lindet managed to hold out, the longer Michel had to accomplish his task. “I appreciate the help,” Michel told Emerald. “I need to get out and clear my head.”

Emerald politely inclined his head. “I hope I was of some use. Just remember that in the future …”

“Only in an emergency.”

“Precisely.”

Michel left the morgue, stewing on all this new information, and headed to one of the few remaining markets in the city, where he procured wood ash and vinegar. He returned to his safe house, where he created a mixture of the two and let it sit in his hair for part of the afternoon. When he washed it out, his hair was a shocking dirty blond. He carefully shaved the stubble from his face, leaving only a mustache.

He practiced holding faces in the mirror, subtly changing the depths of his cheeks and the squint of his eyes until he found something that he could keep up steadily in public. When he finally looked at the finished transformation, he barely recognized himself.

He leaned over the washbasin, staring at himself in the mirror, taking several long, deep breaths before fetching his shoes. Removing the sole of the left shoe, he produced both his own Gold Rose and the Platinum Rose he took off Fidelis Jes’s body a month ago. He practiced his best confident smile in the mirror.

Wearing a new jacket, he headed for the capitol building.

He approached the guards out front, asking several before he found one who spoke passable Palo. “I’m looking for Meln-Yaret,” Michel said. “Can I see him?”

“Only with an appointment.”

“I understand he wants information.”

“That is true.”

“And he’ll pay for it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Take him a message for me. Tell him my name is Michel Bravis, and I would like to help him dismantle the Blackhat presence in Landfall.” Michel produced the Gold Rose and gave it to the guard. “When you tell him, show him this.”