Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

Lucky. Right. “What was the damage?”

“You were shot in the chest,” Emerald replied, his voice clinical. “The bullet lodged between your second and third rib. It was not difficult to remove, but you had lost quite a lot of blood by the time you were found. You’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness for two days.”

Two damned days. Michel wondered how much had happened in just that time. He had a thousand questions, but bit them back. In due time. “Have I been on this slab since then?”

“Of course not. I had two of my assistants move you here about an hour ago so you wouldn’t get blood on a bed while I changed your bandages. We were just about to move you back, actually. Too much longer and you’ll catch hypothermia.” Emerald leaned over Michel, his tinted glasses sliding down to the end of his nose as he examined Michel with calm, surprisingly blue eyes. “While you’re here, you should try to eat something. I don’t want you throwing up in one of our beds either. Hold on, I think there’s still a little gruel left over from Horastia’s lunch.”

Michel listened to Emerald’s footsteps recede, trying to come to grasp with what he would need to do to catch up on the last two days – and how he would deal with it all while recovering from a gunshot wound. He began to make a list in his head, shoving his way through the haze of the mala injection, trying to ignore the heat coming from his chest that, without the mala, would probably knock him out cold from the pain.

Emerald returned a moment later and gently put a pillow beneath Michel’s head, then spoon-fed him a gruel whose flavor Michel could not place.

“Has anyone noticed I’m gone?” Michel asked between swallows.

“They have. Rumors have been spreading that you were shot and killed in this quarter, and that your body was tossed in the Hadshaw.”

“Among who?”

“The Dynize. The Blackhats, for their part, are confident you’re dead. They’d been shadowing you for days, waiting for you to be alone, and took your little expedition the other day as the perfect opportunity.”

Michel licked his lips, trying to taste the gruel. Any sensation aside from the few this mala haze would allow him seemed suddenly important. “If rumors are spreading among the Dynize, they must have come from Forgula. No one saw me get shot except for Hendres. I wonder if she found me herself, or if Forgula told her where I’ve been staying.”

“That, I don’t know.”

Michel realized how tired just eating and talking was making him. He had to focus the thoughts, ask important questions. “The name Mara – is it Dynize?”

Emerald seemed caught off guard. He paused with a spoon halfway to Michel’s mouth. “It doesn’t sound Dynize. Certainly not one I’ve heard.”

“Then, what is it?”

“Gurlish, maybe? Could be Stren.”

Pit. Michel threw a handful of silent curses toward Taniel for not giving him any more clues to accomplish this mission. He tried to think clearly – there had to be a reason for not finding anyone named Mara among the Dynize. Had Michel remembered the name wrong? Was it some kind of surname, or a nickname? He tried to consider other options, and kept coming around to the fact that he could not fulfill his mission if he could not even find the informant. So what did he do next? Did he flee the danger of the city? Or embed himself deeper with the Dynize?

“What else has happened since I was shot?” Michel asked. “Anything important?”

“Another Dynize minister was killed in a bombing.”

“The minister of rations? She died before I was shot.”

“I said another . It was a minor minister – road engineering, or something like that. He was inspecting a bridge about three miles up the Hadshaw and was killed in an explosion.”

“Shit,” Michel breathed. He wondered if it was another one of Yaret’s allies and was suddenly struck with a thought. “Do you have my clothes?”

“Your shirt was a total loss. I have your jacket over here. Do you feel any nausea?”

“I’m fine. Look in my jacket pocket for a list of addresses and bring it to me.”

Emerald set the bowl aside and disappeared from Michel’s vision for a moment, before returning with the list and holding it where Michel could see. Michel squeezed his eyes closed, focusing his energy, and lifted his left arm as high as he dared. Emerald put the list between his fingers.

Half the paper had been soaked through with Michel’s blood, making it impossible to read. But the top half was still intact, and Michel scanned his eyes across the addresses, trying to come up with some sort of pattern. “Kingston Street, where is that?” he asked.

“Lower Landfall, north of the plateau.”

“And Gorin Way?”

“That’s on the northern rim of Greenfire Depths.”

Michel licked his lips. There was a pattern to these addresses. He could feel it, but what it was remained just out of his foggy-brained grasp. “What do all of these addresses have in common?” he whispered.

Emerald suddenly leaned over him, staring at the paper for a moment before sitting back down and offering Michel another spoonful of gruel. “They’re the locations of the bombings that have been going on the last two weeks.”

Michel’s mouth fell open. “You’re kidding me.” He stared at the addresses, going over them again and again. He brought the paper closer to his eyes, noting a light pencil mark beside each address that he’d missed on his initial perusal. It was a number, seemingly nonsensical until he realized that it was the day of the month – this month and last – according to the Dynize calendar. Each day corresponded perfectly with each bombing at each address.

This wasn’t just a list of addresses. It was the Blackhat hit list. Either Forgula had been given this so that she could keep herself out of harm’s way, or it was a copy of a list of instructions she’d given to the Blackhats. Maybe even both. Michel’s eyes had trouble focusing, his breathing growing strained.

“You need to relax,” Emerald told him. “Otherwise you will set your healing back by days.”

Michel tapped the paper with his thumb. There was an address right where the blood began to soak the paper, only half of which he could read. “What does this say?”

Emerald took the paper from Michel, studying it a moment. “Seventeen Chancellor’s Court.”

“And the number next to it?” Michel’s hand began to tremble from the effort of holding up his hand.

This time, Emerald’s study took almost a minute. He got up, went to the gas lantern in the corner, and held the paper up at several different angles. “I think it says eleven.”

“The eleventh.” Michel struggled against his own sluggishness to try to get to his feet. He barely managed to move his head off the pillow.

“What is it?” Emerald asked.

“Forgula is using the Blackhats to eliminate Sedial’s enemies,” Michel whispered. “That address is Yaret’s Household. What day is it?”

“The ninth.”

“Shit. I have to warn them.”

“You’re not going to get very far in your condition. You might be able to walk in two or three days, but …”

“Then you have to warn them,” Michel hissed.

Emerald raised his eyebrows. “I don’t have to do anything. Certainly not something that will put me or my people in danger.” The words weren’t said unkindly, but his tone was firm.

“Send a runner! Leave an anonymous note!”

“I will have no communication on your behalf with the Dynize,” Emerald said. “I’m sorry, but it’s too much of a risk. Messengers can be recognized or followed. To be perfectly honest, I haven’t entirely convinced myself I’m not going to euthanize you and dump the body in the river so that you can’t be found here.”