Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

Jes entered his office and closed the doors behind him. His voice came out muffled. “Who the pit is that?”

“That’s your eight fifteen, sir. Michel Bravis. He’s the Silver Rose you told me to fetch.”

“Right.” The following silence was punctuated by a muffled curse, then the doors sprang open. Jes’s face was washed, dark brown hair slicked black, and he had changed into an identical, but clean, outfit. He buckled on a belt with a smallsword. “Where are my eight o’clocks?”

“In the courtyard, sir,” Dellina answered.

Jes strode over to Michel, who found his throat suddenly very dry as the grand master examined him first from one side, then another. “Bravis,” Jes said, emphasizing the “B.” “Come with me.”

Without another word, he strode out of the room. Feeling slightly alarmed, Michel glanced at Dellina, who gave him an apologetic smile and hurried after her master. “We’re normally much more organized,” she said as she passed. “But the Lady Chancellor’s construction!”

Michel ran after the two, catching up as they descended to the third floor. Fidelis Jes walked with his head cocked to one side, only answering with a grunted yes or no while Dellina whispered in his ear. They reached the main floor and headed out into the courtyard, where Dellina hurried across to three men waiting in the morning sun. All three held smallswords, and Michel suddenly knew what Jes’s eight o’clock appointments were. His stomach clenched.

“I’m so sorry,” he heard Dellina saying to the three men. “There was construction this morning on the grand master’s run and it’s resulted in a delay. You have our deepest apologies.” She left the three standing there, looking angry and perplexed, and returned to Jes. “The one on the right is the son of a wool merchant. Says you slept with his wife last week.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. The one on the left says you ordered the execution of his brother. I can’t find any records under the name but he claims it’s true. I have no idea who the Palo in the middle is. Says he just wants a good fight.”

In Michel’s experience, everyone had at least one peculiarity. Powerful people tended to have more extreme peculiarities because of their wealth. Some of them were hidden, some out in the open. Fidelis Jes’s was extremely public; even advertised. He had a standing invitation for anyone to try to kill him in single combat. No sorcery, no guns, no quarter. Michel forced himself to breathe slowly as he watched, feeling like he was in some kind of farcical play. He knew about the grand master’s appointments, of course. He’d just never seen one personally.

Jogging aside, it was said that Fidelis Jes had not truly started his day until he’d had a cup of coffee and killed a man.

“Right,” Jes said sharply. “I’m already behind schedule.” Jes strode toward the three men, pointing at each in succession with his sword. “You first, you second, you third.” The last word was barely out of his mouth when he leapt at the first combatant. They crossed swords once and Jes’s blade tore out his throat. Jes was on the second combatant in two strides, and stabbed him through the heart before he’d even raised his sword.

The third combatant, the Palo, watched the other two fights, his eyes on Jes’s footwork. He intercepted the grand master before the second fighter had even hit the ground and Jes fell back several steps. They crossed swords almost a dozen times before Jes disarmed him, stabbed him once in the stomach, then discarded his own sword and wrapped his fingers around his throat, driving the Palo to his knees. The Palo died of strangulation before he even had the chance to bleed out. Michel let out a sigh, not even realizing he’d been holding his breath, and hoped the queasiness he felt didn’t show on his face.

Dellina handed Jes a handkerchief. “Well done, sir.”

Jes dabbed his forehead, then cleaned his sword as a pair of men emerged from the other side of the courtyard and began loading the bodies into a wheelbarrow. “The Palo was pretty good.”

“He held up well,” Dellina agreed.

“Find out where the pit a Palo learned to duel like a Kressian. Those savages shouldn’t have access to dueling lessons.”

“Of course, sir.”

“What time is it?”

Dellina checked a pocket watch. “Eight thirteen, sir. Here’s your coffee,” she said, taking a porcelain cup off the tray of a servant.

“Excellent. Ahead of schedule. Tell me when it’s eight fifteen.” Jes closed his eyes, head back slightly, and sipped his coffee with some relish.

Michel had no choice but to wait, still at attention, sweat trickling down the small of his back. He watched the third body – the one belonging to the Palo – as it was loaded onto the others on the wheelbarrow. The cobbles were slick with blood, and he couldn’t help but wonder just how many men Fidelis Jes had murdered in such a fashion. Hundreds. Perhaps thousands. Was there a purpose to it, other than to show that he could?

Maybe he was going for a record.

Three murders in just a handful of seconds, and Jes seemed barely winded. Everyone feared Fidelis Jes. He was the Lady Chancellor’s hand of vengeance, perhaps the most dangerous man in all of Fatrasta. And that was without even considering the secret police at his beck and call. Michel was used to the threat of violence hanging over his head; when he was undercover there was always the risk of being discovered, even tortured and killed. But there was almost always a way out, through charm or force or guile. Staring down the tip of Fidelis Jes’s sword seemed as inevitable as a guillotine blade and that, to Michel, was infinitely more terrifying.

He said a little prayer to whatever god might be listening that he would never find himself in such a situation.

“It’s eight fifteen, sir,” Dellina said.

Fidelis Jes handed off his coffee cup. “Bravis, was it?”

“Yes,” Michel said.

“Where do I know that name?”

“The Powder Mage Affair,” Dellina said. “Two years ago.”

Michel stiffened. Jes raised one eyebrow, and Michel felt like he’d just been reappraised. “That’s right,” Jes said. “Our informant. Did that end satisfactorily?”

“Very, sir,” Dellina answered.

The wheelbarrow of corpses disappeared down a side path. Michel couldn’t help but glance in that direction, and suddenly Jes was standing beside him, face close enough that Michel could feel his breath.

“Squeamish?” Jes asked.

Michel swallowed. “I’m a spy, sir. If I have to kill someone it means I haven’t been careful enough.”

“Have you ever had to?” Jes asked.

Michel hesitated. “No, sir.”

“You will. What’s your current assignment, Agent Bravis?”

“I’m training informants, sir.”

“Cancel anything you have on your schedule.” Jes snapped his fingers, and Dellina handed him a pamphlet, which he immediately passed to Michel. “Do you know what this is?”

The pamphlet was printed on the same cheap paper as a penny novel, but only a dozen or so pages thick. There was no printer’s mark, nothing on the cover but the words SINS OF EMPIRE printed in large, blocky letters. It looked entirely unremarkable, like any of the hundreds of pamphlets filled with humor, news, gossip, or religion that circulated around Landfall on a daily basis. Michel flipped through it idly. “I’m familiar with the concept of a pamphlet, sir. But not this one in particular.”

“You will be. My people tell me that within the next few days these are going to be everywhere. Over a hundred thousand of them were printed in the last week and we expect to see them flooding the streets.”

Michel found himself holding his breath again. Pamphlets should be handled by the propagandists. He was a spy. “I’m not sure I understand, sir.”