Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

It did not arrive. Perhaps not all dragonmen were alike.

Several minutes passed in silence. Sitting forward, Styke shook the half-empty bottle of whiskey and handed it across to Ji-Orz. The dragonman regarded it for a moment before taking a swig. He took another, wiped his chin on his sleeve, and handed it back. He stood up, straightening his duster to cover his weapons.

“I will leave you to mourn, Ben Styke. Thank you for sharing your story with me. The next time we meet, I will attempt to kill you. I will probably succeed.” He put a notable emphasis on “probably.”

The dragonman bowed his head toward the gravestone and strode off into the darkness, leaving Styke alone. His passage was purposefully loud, sticks crackling as he walked, as if to tell Styke that he had, indeed, gone. Soon the crickets returned, and Styke settled back to watch the flames. Amrec nibbled at his shoulder.

“All out, boy,” Styke said, showing him his empty hand, letting Amrec explore it with his velvety lips.

Styke finished the bottle and lay awake, staring at the flames while he waited for Ji-Orz’s wrathful return, or for one of the other dragonmen to happen upon him. He did not remember closing his eyes, but when they opened once more, it was early in the morning. The fire was ash, his bedroll soaked with morning dew. Styke stirred from his spot and took a walk around the grove, examining the ground for sign of the dragonman hiding out nearby. He couldn’t find any.

He finished clearing the last of the vines and brush from the grave and walked to the old, rotted cabin where his mother was born, casting its now-crumbled walls to memory. Returning to the grave, he bent to kiss the stone and then saddled Amrec. He left without looking back.

The column was already assembled to leave the Third Army by the time Styke returned. Ibana watched him arrive from horseback. Celine sat on her own horse nearby. Styke ignored Ibana and went to the girl first.

“Why did you leave me?” Celine asked.

“I had to do something alone,” Styke said.

“I’ve seen you kill before.”

“It’s not always about killing,” Styke explained softly. “I had to visit someone I love. Perhaps when this is over, I’ll take you to visit her as well.”

Celine seemed to sense the solemnity of his words. She gave an uncertain nod. “Ka-poel is angry you left her behind. So is Ibana.”

“They can both damn well deal with it.” He brushed her hair out of her face. “I should have taken you. I’m sorry. Next time I will.” With that, he headed back to Ibana at the front of the column. He let her stare at the side of his face for several moments before letting out an irritated sigh. “Well? We’ve got Dynize dragoons and a godstone to find. Let’s go hunting.”

Michel stepped down from Ichtracia’s carriage, holding on carefully to the door until his feet were on firm ground. He wasn’t entirely certain of his body, even after two days of forced recovering in Ichtracia’s townhouse. Everything seemed to work, despite how sketchy her sorcery-and-surgery combination sounded, and he was in less pain than if he had just been stitched up again by Emerald.

Which didn’t mean he didn’t hurt. He looked up at the columned facade of the Landfall City Bank. It was an enormous building, over sixty feet tall with foreboding gargoyles perched on the decorated eaves, all finished in black marble. Last he heard, the bank had been ransacked and abandoned during the invasion and had sat empty ever since.

Now, though, half a dozen carriages sat out front, all of them bearing the black and red curtains of the new regime. A Dynize flag hung from the highest point of the roof, and he saw a steady stream of people coming and going. He couldn’t help but wonder if Ichtracia had fixed him up only to turn him over to Ka-Sedial to be tortured. He looked up at the driver of the carriage, one of Ichtracia’s footmen. “Tculu,” he said, “why am I here?”

“I just brought you to where I was told,” the footman responded. He snapped the reins and drove off before Michel could question him further.

Two days locked up in Ichtracia’s townhouse. Two days without any information from the outside world. It was worse than when he’d been stuck in Emerald’s morgue, if only because he had no way of knowing who had survived the blast that destroyed Yaret’s house, and whether he would emerge with any allies left among the Dynize. Other than Ichtracia, that was, though Michel couldn’t consider her an ally. At best she was an enigma.

After his healing, they had exchanged less than ten sentences. And now? He was dumped outside the Landfall City Bank.

“Michel!”

Michel turned to find Tenik walking toward him from beyond one of the carriages. He couldn’t help a smile, a wave of relief sweeping across him at the sight of a familiar face. “Tenik, I’m glad to see you alive.”

“Perhaps,” Tenik responded in a somber tone. “Come with me.”

“What do you mean, perhaps ?” Michel asked. Tenik didn’t answer, turning sharply and striding away with a purpose that was incongruous with the laid-back man Michel had gotten to know. Michel was surprised at the brusqueness, and he slowly followed Tenik up the steps of the old bank and through the enormous front doors. Despite Michel’s obvious discomfort, Tenik neither offered a hand nor slowed his pace. Inside, the cavernous main hall was a whirl of activity – men, women, and children seemed to fill most of the space and a vaguely organized sort of indoor camp, with tents and partitions splitting the room into thirty or forty smaller ones.

Tenik navigated the space with ease, and Michel had a difficult time keeping up. He paused in the center of things for a breather, only to look up and see Tenik waiting ahead, watching him with a cold stare that put Michel on edge.

They continued to the back of the great room and up two flights of steps to the bank manager’s offices. Four Dynize soldiers stood watch outside, muskets shouldered. “Watch him,” Tenik told them before slipping inside the offices. Michel felt their eyes turn on him instantly, and he shifted uncomfortably, wondering what he had walked into. There was something very wrong here, and it took him far too long to figure it out.

The realization hit him just as the door opened and Tenik reappeared: Everyone here thought that Michel was responsible for Yaret’s death. He felt a trickle of sweat roll down the small of his back, and the behavior of Tenik – and the angry stares of the guards – now made so much more sense. This bank was the Household’s staging point, where they’d all gathered to recover. Michel was the man responsible for this, or so they all thought, and he had little doubt who’d spread that rumor.

Tenik stood in the open doorway for a moment, his expression troubled, obviously trying to read Michel. For his part, Michel could do little more than sweat openly, knowing how pale and frail he looked. He knew what guilt looked like, and it wasn’t all that different from a man trying to keep himself together when he is physically and emotionally empty.

“All right,” Tenik said, “come in.”

Michel stepped through the door and into the bank manager’s offices, which he could tell in a single glance had been co-opted by whoever was taking over Yaret’s position as the head of the Household. Michel wondered briefly how the line of succession affected the Name, and if Yaret would fade into obscurity, forgotten by all but a few dusty history books.

It was with some surprise that he entered a second doorway and found Yaret himself sitting behind the manager’s old desk, leaning forward, fingers steepled, brow furrowed as one of his cupbearers spoke earnestly. At the sight of Michel, Yaret raised his hand, and the woman beside him fell silent.