Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

Michel swallowed. Okay, this wasn’t so bad. He could manage this. A plausible excuse was all he needed – information he craved, something that might get him into trouble, but not too much trouble. His mind raced, looking for the proper story to spin while keeping his face carefully neutral.

“Tell me, Agent Bravis. Why were you in the upper archives when we so dearly need everyone searching for Styke?”

“I thought…”

“You might find information there to help you track down Styke?” Jes finished, a slight smile touching his lips.

“… Yes, sir.”

“A likely excuse, certainly. Then why did you visit Professor Cressel at the monolith dig yesterday afternoon? Was that some kind of wrong turn? A mistake? Or did you think you’d find Styke there, too?” Jes’s tone turned mocking, and he suddenly slid to his feet, taking his sheathed sword in hand like a truncheon and doing a quick circuit around Michel the same way he’d done the first time Michel was called into his office. It reminded Michel exactly what he was to the grand master: a piece of meat.

“Think fast, Agent Bravis,” Jes whispered into his ear. “I’m very interested in your excuses.”

Michel tilted his head back slightly, Jes’s whisper raising his hackles like nails on a chalkboard. It said, very clearly, that there weren’t any excuses. Nothing would get him out of this. He tried to focus on something – anything – to get his mind around what was happening. He scrabbled mentally for some sort of bedrock.

“Where’s my mother?” he croaked.

“Hm,” Jes said, doing another circuit and stopping just behind Michel’s left shoulder. Michel cringed inwardly, waiting for a blade or a fist or just about any kind of violence. “Tell me, Agent Bravis, why are you looking for the godstones?”

Michel cleared his throat. “Where’s my mother?” he asked again.

“That’s not important,” Jes responded. “Who do you really work for, Bravis? Is it Brudania? The Deliv royal cabal? Adro? Well?” The last word came out a shout, and Michel finally flinched. Jes continued the circuit, coming back into Michel’s frame of vision and stopping in front of him. He took the end of his sword, tapping Michel on the shoulder, then the elbow, then the side of his knee. They were the taps of a butcher checking for the tenderest spots of meat.

“You know this isn’t going to go well for you, Agent Bravis. If you tell us everything it will… well, it’ll still be very painful. But much, much shorter. I can assure you of that.” Jes laughed to himself, as if this whole thing was really quite funny. “I’m genuinely impressed. You worked your way up to a Gold Rose only to betray yourself the very first day. I can’t imagine how impatient you must have been to slip up so quickly. It’s a combination of skill and stupidity that I haven’t seen for a very, very long time.”

Michel felt a tear roll down his left cheek. His fists were balled so tightly that his fingernails drew blood. He took several deep breaths, trying to come to some sort of acceptance that his life was over, but all he could think about were the books on the table behind him, and the fact that Fidelis Jes had sat in his mother’s rocker. It was that unspoken threat that got to him worse than anything Jes was saying now, and it made his stomach twist into a knot.

“Where,” he demanded, “is my mother?”

Jes turned around, stepping toward the door. “You should have worried for her health before you did all this, Agent Bravis. And to think, you were so promising…”

Michel dug into his coat pocket, fingers wrapping around the familiar brass of his knuckledusters. He took a quick step forward, drawing back with all his might and swinging his fist. His best bet was to make Jes kill him right now – end it quick, with the least amount of pain and maybe, just maybe, Jes would have no use for his mother.

But Jes didn’t step out of the way, draw his sword, and run Michel through.

Michel’s knuckledusters connected with the base of Jes’s neck and the grand master dropped like a sack of potatoes. In half a breath, Michel found himself staring down at the unmoving form, mouth agape, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Then he did the only thing that came to mind:

He fled.

He was less than a block from the house when he rounded a corner and ran headlong into his mother. She screamed, books scattering in the street as the two of them went down in a heap. Michel regained his feet while his mother crawled around, swearing and grumbling, trying to stuff penny novels back into her satchels. He grabbed her under the arm, trying to help her up.

“You pillok!” she said, jerking her arm away. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

“Damn it, Mother, we don’t have time for this.” He scooped her up bodily, depositing her on her feet. She squinted at him. “Michel? What are you doing here?”

“Saving your life,” he said, dragging her along behind him.

“Wait, my books!”

“I’ll buy you more!” He pulled her along until they were both running down the street, huffing and puffing. They made it less than a block before his mother stopped him, gasping for breath.

“What is going on?” she demanded. “And what is that ?”

Michel looked down to see the Gold Rose had fallen out of his shirt. He stuffed it back, shaking his head. “Ignore that, I…” He paused. “Damn it! I should have damn well made sure he was dead.” He took two steps back toward her house, stopped himself, then waved toward a nearby hackney cab. “Never mind. It’s too late. Shit, shit, shit.”

His mother slapped him on the shoulder. “Why are you cursing? And what’s the meaning of this? I was going to spend the afternoon reading.”

“You spend every afternoon reading!”

Her eyes suddenly widened as she caught up to what he’d said a moment ago. “And what do you mean, you should have made sure he was dead? Who?”

Michel leapt into the hackney cab as it pulled up beside the curb and shouted for the driver to head to Greenfire Depths. Once they were seated he let himself take a deep breath, wishing he had something to drink. He looked out the window, waiting for someone to come running after the cab, or a squad of Blackhats to burst from an alley. That arrogant bastard had come after Michel alone. There was no one to chase him down.

But there would be.

“Fidelis Jes,” he said finally. “I left him lying on your floor. I might have killed him.”

The Riflejack cavalry were having breakfast in their camp outside of Jedwar when Styke, Ibana, and Jackal rode through their tents and corrals, accompanied by one of their outriders.

Styke fell into old habits, glancing around at the equipment and state of the horses and men. Saddles were oiled, swords sharpened, and the carbines looked well cared for. The men lounged beside their morning cook fires, stirring pots and playing cards, their uniforms well worn but clean. He used the examination to focus on something other than how much his ass hurt.

“The corrals are sturdy,” Ibana said approvingly.

“You bet they are,” a man said, standing up beside Styke’s horse. He was tall and lean, with the strong shoulders and bowed legs of someone who spent a lot of time in the saddle – and swinging a sword from one. He had light brown hair and mutton chops, and a clean-shaven face. He fetched his jacket from a nearby post and slid it on over his shoulders. “We’re Adran cavalry. We don’t screw around.” He eyed the lancers’ jackets, and the banner waving over Jackal’s head. “You’re Fatrastan military?” he asked.

“Who’s in command?” Styke asked.

The soldier considered the question for a moment. “Colonel Olem. If you want to talk to him, you’ll have to head to Landfall.”