Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

Ibana’s eyes narrowed. “You want us to change directions.”

“Nah. This is something I’m going to handle myself. I want you to keep heading toward our objective.” He turned his attention back to the map, poring over the roads and towns before pointing to one about eighty miles to their southwest. “I’ll catch up with you here,” he said. “In a week. Shouldn’t take longer. If things get hairy, you can keep moving and I’ll find you farther down the road.”

“All right. Make it quick.”

“Have you ever known me to linger over a kill?” Styke ended the conversation by rolling up the map and handing it to Jackal. He returned to Amrec and began to put the saddle back on while Celine still lay in the grass nearby.

“You’re going to ride with Sunin for the next few days,” Styke told her.

Celine rolled over, staring at him. “Why?”

“Because I’ve got an errand to run. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Oh?” Celine sat up. “You going to kill someone?”

“What gives you that idea?”

“Rumors going around the lancers that you found out about some traitors – the ones who sent you to the firing squad.”

Markus and Zac and their damned loose lips. Styke swore under his breath. “Yeah,” he answered half-heartedly. “I’m going to kill someone.”

“I want to come.”

“You can’t.”

“You took me into battle, but you won’t take me to kill one man?”

Styke finished with the buckles and ran his hand along Amrec’s flank, then patted him on the nose. He thought through a dozen reasons why this was different, knowing that Celine would fight him about each one. Truthfully, he could move quicker and quieter without her. On the other hand, she was his responsibility. Handing her to Sunin every time he wanted her out of the way felt a lot like how his father had treated him as a boy.

The thought caused a sour feeling in Styke’s stomach.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go.”

They slipped away from the lancers and turned south, quickly putting a hill between them and the cavalry. Styke preferred to be away before anyone noticed, and back before anyone had the courage to ask Ibana questions, and they were almost a mile down the road before a horse caught up with them at a gallop.

It was Ka-poel. She put her horse in front of Amrec, forcing Styke to pull on the reins.

Her hands moved in a quick, demanding flurry. He could guess what she wanted to know, but instead he just sighed. “I have no idea what you’re saying.”

Ka-poel snorted at him. She produced a piece of slate, like children in a schoolhouse might use to practice sums, and wrote out a sentence, showing it to him. Where are you going?

“Business,” Styke said. “I’ll meet up with you again next week. Stay with Ibana and the lancers.”

No .

“What do you mean?”

I’m coming , Ka-poel scribbled.

Styke looked down at Celine. “What is this? Are the two of you in cahoots? I’ve got work to do, and I can’t protect you by myself. Stay with the lancers.”

I don’t need a bodyguard.

“Damn it.” Styke rubbed his eyes, wishing she’d just turn around and go away. She made him uneasy at best, and he needed his mind clear for this. Having Celine along was already trying enough. “Ibana thinks you’re with her.”

I told her I’m going with you.

“I don’t take orders from you, girl,” Styke warned.

Most people shied away when Styke became visibly annoyed. Ka-poel just smiled at him coldly. She wrote, I ride with you or I follow. Choose.

Styke stared at her for a few moments, then ran his hand through his hair. “Have it your way. Let’s move.”

Michel waited just inside the capitol building for nearly an hour, trying to look nonchalant under the watchful eye of three Dynize soldiers. He found a blank piece of paper in one of his pockets and practiced folding it into various shapes, holding each one up for the purview of his silent guards. They continued to watch, unmoving, unresponsive, though Michel swore that he saw a hint of bemusement in the eyes of one of them.

His patience was finally rewarded by the arrival of a middle-aged woman wearing a soldier’s uniform without the customary Dynize breastplate. She had fire-red hair and a gentle face that Michel immediately associated with an indulgent governess. She was unarmed, and her turquoise uniform was adorned with the stylized symbol of a dagger poised above a cup just above her heart. Crow’s feathers dangled from her earrings.

When she arrived, Michel’s guards seemed to stiffen, and she examined Michel with a detached, unimpressed gaze. “You are the one who brought the Rose?” she asked in passable Palo.

“I am.”

“Follow me.”

Michel glanced over his shoulder toward the door, trying not to let his misgivings get the best of him. This was probably a terrible idea. He didn’t know the Dynize – not their hierarchy or customs or laws. He didn’t know how to navigate their world, and he was stepping in blind hoping that this Meln-Yaret was smart enough to see the value in Michel’s willing cooperation.

After a few more seconds of hesitation, he followed the woman down the hall.

They walked side by side past rows of offices. They passed soldiers and bureaucrats, officers and errand boys. It was a strange sight, seeing redheads – whom Michel had so long associated only with the Palo – in the government offices, but other than that change everything looked much the same as it did before the occupation. If there had been any particular chaos here after Lindet fled, it had long since been cleaned up, and it appeared that no damage had been done during the fighting.

The woman led him down the first flight of stairs and past several turns, then a whole other set of stairs down into the bowels of the building. Michel began to grow concerned as they left daylight behind and now had to depend on gas lanterns, and was about to ask their destination when the woman stopped and opened a door, indicating with a gentle smile that Michel should step inside.

“I want to see Meln-Yaret,” Michel said.

“I know.”

“Will I?”

“Please.” She gestured to the door once more, and Michel cautiously stepped into the doorway. The room inside was lit by a single lamp. It was small, almost claustrophobic, and it had a drain in the center of the floor.

“Look,” Michel said, “I –” He was suddenly driven to his knees, a pain erupting from his left shoulder. His entire left arm went numb, his vision spotty, and he gasped out loud as he fell. He turned, attempting to scramble away – and farther into the dank room – only to see the woman standing above him with a blackjack held casually in one hand and a wan smile on her face. “Wha …?” Michel tried to ask.

The woman lashed out at his chest with one foot, connecting painfully, and Michel tried to retreat farther, only to come up against the wall. He tried to yell or speak, but all that came out was a breathless whimper.

She came at him with the blackjack, and he raised his numb left arm, only to remember too late that it was the same arm that Emerald had stitched mere hours ago. The blow landed hard, causing him to gasp once more. He dug into his pocket with his right hand, but had left his knuckle-dusters back at the safe house. When she drew back to kick him again, he moved to one side to cause a glancing blow, then attempted to tackle her by the legs.

The woman stumbled, nearly fell, then almost casually swatted Michel just above the ear with the blackjack. It wasn’t even a hard blow, but Michel saw darkness for several seconds before his vision returned, and a horrifying pain shot through his head. He let go of her legs, wrapping his arms around his head, and attempted to curl into a ball to await the next blow.