Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

That meant they had one option left – Bellport – and Styke wasn’t sure he was ready for that. Valyaine, the third of the men who’d betrayed him to Fidelis Jes, was rumored to be in Bellport. Since letting Tenny Wiles go, Styke had wanted more time to consider his actions before another confrontation.

“Bellport it is, then,” he said.

“Bellport it is,” Ibana agreed, rolling up the map. “You figure out what you want to do about those dragonmen?”

Styke cursed them under his breath. Their mere presence complicated things, let alone the fact that they wanted to kill him. “Did you triple the size of our scouting patrols?”

“I did, but no one has seen hide nor hair of them since they fled Granalia.”

Styke remembered the dragonman in Landfall. He’d been an arrogant prick, acting like he could take on an army and win. Styke had now seen two of them fight, and his victories had come from brute force that few could match. He had no doubt that four dragonmen, if they were so inclined, could make life miserable for the lancers.

But would they? They’d taken great pains to come after him when he was isolated. Perhaps they didn’t want the risk of fighting a whole army.

“Not much we can do until they show their faces again,” Styke said. “Drill the men and make sure they know exactly what we’re dealing with. I don’t need dozens dead because they underestimate the enemy. With any luck, they’ll keep their distance when we reach Bellport.” Styke ran a hand through his hair, listening to Celine’s snoring in the next tent over. “Drill the men for an extra hour tomorrow. You’re still using that buddy system?”

“It’s working pretty well, I think,” Ibana answered.

“Good. I’m going to try to get some sleep. If you see Ka-poel, tell her we’re going through Bellport instead of Swinshire.”

Styke watched Ibana drill the men the next morning, enjoying the way the horses raced back and forth across the meadow. He waffled between frustration and amusement when volunteers fell from their saddles or dropped their lances, but was definitely annoyed to see Major Gustar and the Riflejacks were showing up the old lancers.

They rode out of their camp just after noon with a wind at their backs and the sun high in the sky. Smoke rose in a pillar above some town far to their south, and the road was clear for as far as the eye could see.

Styke paused on Amrec, looking back toward the place they’d spent the night, and spotted figures in the distance. Curiosity got the better of him and he removed his looking glass, directing it toward the strangers. They were far enough away that he couldn’t make out any details beyond the fact that there were four of them and they were on horseback. They weren’t wearing Dynize breastplates or yellow Fatrastan jackets.

They sat still, watching as the Mad Lancers marched down the road before slowly beginning to follow. Styke briefly considered sending a platoon to run them down, but rejected the idea. He’d either wind up with a slaughtered platoon of lancers or waste everyone’s time. The dragonmen weren’t going to be seen unless they wanted to be seen.

The Dynize bastards, Styke decided, would be harder to lose than he hoped. Troubled, he put away his looking glass and urged Amrec to catch up with the rest of the lancers.

Michel wasn’t able to see Yaret until the day after he spotted Forgula meeting with Marhoush. Michel expected to return to the capitol building, where he’d meet with Yaret in one of the enormous offices upstairs. Instead, Tenik led him to a street a few blocks over from the capitol building, where a row of townhouse mansions lay within an easy walk of the engine of government.

The street was full and lively, packed with Dynize dressed in military uniforms and civilian clothing, and it quickly became apparent that the Dynize elite had simply moved into the homes formerly owned by their Fatrastan counterparts.

The Yaret Household was headquartered in one of the smaller townhouses at the far end of the street. It was a strange sight: Soldiers flanked the front doorway, while a pair of redheaded children played in the narrow garden out front and restless teenagers loitered on the sidewalk. Tenik scattered the teens with a sharp word and led Michel past the soldiers to the front hall, where Michel found a bustling household.

“Household,” it turned out, was an apt word for Yaret’s power base. Dynize of all ages filled the halls and rooms. Michel, with his limited Dynize vocabulary, overheard conversations involving political strategy, economic speculation, war projections, and plenty of gossip as he was led down the halls and up to a door on the second floor.

“Is this Yaret’s family?” Michel asked in a low voice as Tenik rapped on the door.

They both looked back down the hall at a pair of thirty-somethings sharing a cigarette and openly lambasting a rival family whose name Michel hadn’t caught. “Yaret’s Household,” Tenik corrected. “Family has importance in our culture, but Household comes first. Everyone in this building is loyal to Yaret through blood, action, or political ties.”

“How big is the Household?”

“Here? A few hundred, if you don’t include active soldiers.”

“And back in Dynize?”

“Tens of thousands.”

Michel let out a low whistle and wondered if every other house on this street had the same flurry of activity. He couldn’t voice the question before he heard a muffled sound from inside the room and Tenik swung the door open.

Yaret’s office seemed to be the only room in the house with a single occupant. It was a large room constructed in the current Fatrastan fashion with deep, built-in bookshelves, a wide window, and an immense desk. The window was open to allow a southerly breeze and the desk had been shoved to one side and replaced in the center of the room with a pair of lounging couches.

Yaret stood in front of one of the bookshelves. He spared Michel a glance, then removed a book from the shelf and flipped through it for a moment before tossing it on a large pile in the corner. “I’m amazed at the rubbish you people stack on your shelves just to look intelligent,” he commented. “There are histories, encyclopedias, medical texts, sex manuals. Very few of these books have ever been cracked, let alone studied.”

“You should see my mother’s house,” Michel said offhand. He immediately bit his tongue, wishing he hadn’t said that. Admitting to a living mother was a piece of information that enemies could use against him.

Yaret raised an eyebrow. “She likes books?”

“Loves them, sir.” Michel cleared his throat. “Mostly penny novels. She likes adventures.”

“Does she read them?”

“Every single one. Many times.”

“Then she chooses better books than the fool who owned this library.” Yaret tossed another book on the pile. “I don’t keep books unless I intend on reading them. Seems like a waste of money, space, and resources.” He gestured at Tenik. “You’re welcome to look through those and see if there’s anything you want for the Household library back home.”

“Thank you,” Tenik said with a nod. He seemed pleased with the allowance, and Michel wondered if such an act was a special privilege. At this point, he understood just enough about Household dynamics to know how little he actually grasped.

Yaret discarded one more book and walked to one of the couches. He lay down, propping his head up with one arm, and examined Michel with a sort of idle curiosity that nearly made him squirm. After a few moments Yaret said, “I understand you have information for me. Have you found the Gold Rose?”