Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

“Good.”

“Excuse me?” Vlora struggled to hide her surprise.

Another page was signed and set aside. “It makes Styke your problem, and if it keeps him and Fidelis Jes out of each other’s hair for the time being, I consider that a bonus. I’ve instructed Fidelis Jes to steer clear of the Mad Lancers for now. I expect you to do the same for Styke. If you can. This Dynize fleet is more pressing a matter than internal squabbles.”

Vlora exhaled the breath she’d taken in anticipation of a shouting match. “I’ll keep Styke on a short leash.”

“Good luck with that.” Lindet checked her pocket watch again. “Eight minutes.” She raised her voice. “You may allow everyone inside!”

Vlora didn’t see any attendants, but the doors to the room were thrown open and a stream of people poured in. She recognized businessmen, politicians, Kressian ambassadors, and even the chief constable of the Landfall police. Within minutes the tiered seating was filled, as well as half of the chairs around the oval table. Vlora left the spot across from Lindet and rounded to stand beside her.

She spotted Vallencian off in one corner of the room, but when she raised her hand to greet him he looked away. The snub was not unexpected. The Ice Baron, she had assumed, would not be pleased that she had used his introduction to Palo society as a way to arrest Mama Palo. She didn’t consider herself terribly vain, but the knowledge that he was no longer an enthusiastic fan made her a bit sad.

But she had more important things to think about. “Where is Jes, by the way?” she asked, casting about for the grand master.

“Personally overseeing security,” Lindet answered. “The Palo have engaged in some light rioting since we executed Mama Palo. The last thing I need is some fool revolutionary taking a shot at the Dynize ambassador and causing an international incident.” Lindet glanced up, a look of annoyance crossing her face. “Would you please stop hovering and have a seat?” She indicated the chair to her right.

Vlora took the spot hesitantly. No one had told her she’d be sitting beside Lindet during the meeting. She wondered whether her place was expedience, or flattery. Probably a little of both.

A light hand touched her shoulder, and she looked up to find Olem standing just beside her. She didn’t realize that she’d been holding her breath before she let it out in a soft sigh. She gestured him closer. “I was not,” she whispered, “ready to get back into politics.”

“Really?” he asked. “Because you just dove in headfirst.”

“I thought I was agreeing to fight. Why the pit am I at this table?”

“Defender of Fatrasta comes with a little more than just a combat role, I imagine,” Olem commented.

“Pit. Will you be here through the whole thing?”

“I’ll be seated just over there,” Olem said, indicating a spot on the bottom row of seating behind her.

“Thank Adom. I feel like I’m sitting in a den of wolves.”

“You are, love. You are.”

The “love” was unexpected. Olem rarely got more informal than her first name in public, and she felt her cheeks redden. “Thank you,” she whispered back.

“For?”

“Being here.”

“Never want to be anywhere else.”

“You have no idea how much that helps. By the way, just how mad is Vallencian about the Mama Palo thing?”

“I found out this morning that no café in Landfall will serve ice to a Riflejack, if that’s any indication.”

Vlora took a deep breath. That was going to be a hit to morale. Ice was about the only way the boys were getting through this stinking hot summer. “Send him a present. Something handsome, but practical. Dig through my sea chest to see if I have any old souvenir that might soften him up.”

“I’ll give it a try.”

A messenger suddenly arrived, whispering something in Lindet’s ear. Lindet stood up, turning to the door. The rest of the room, Vlora included, stood up with her, while Olem hurried back to his seat.

The messenger announced in a loud, clear voice, “The esteemed Ka-sedial, adviser to the throne of Emperor Janen I, Admiral of the Black Fleet and carrier of the imperial seal.”

The man who entered the room was not, by any stretch of the imagination, impressive. He looked in his mid-sixties, with tufts of gray hair on the sides of a mostly bald head. His face was clean-shaven, a weak chin accentuated by a large nose and soft features. He wore a colorful gown of teal, purple, black, and yellow, raven’s feathers dangling from each ear. He walked slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, taking in the room and assembly with a pleasant but slightly disdainful air.

Vlora’s senses began to tingle, and she didn’t have to open her third eye to tell that this man had sorcery. She immediately dismissed the idea that he was a Privileged, and then a Knacked. He definitely wasn’t a powder mage. That left just one possibility, and it made her slightly ill.

He was a bone-eye, a blood sorcerer. The last time she’d met one of those had been Ka-poel. And she’d helped kill a god.

The bone-eye rounded the table, bowed briefly to Lindet, and then took a seat with the soft sigh of someone getting too old to spend much time on their feet. No one else came through the door, leaving Ka-sedial alone on the other side of the table, flanked by a dozen empty chairs. He didn’t seem to mind.

Vlora glanced sidelong at Lindet, whose expression remained as placid as the bone-eye’s across from her. She sat, and so did the rest of the room.

The room grew deathly still and silent. Someone in the hall outside sneezed. It felt as if the whole room was holding their breath, until Lindet lifted a single finger and one of her aides sprang to her side. “Where is his translator?” she asked. “We offered him one, didn’t we?”

“I don’t need a translator,” the bone-eye said in clear, barely accented Adran.

Lindet dismissed her aide by lowering her finger and turned her entire attention to the bone-eye. Vlora leaned into the corner of her seat, fingers on her chin, marveling at the power dynamic here. Lindet was the most feared person in this part of the world, and yet this single bone-eye seemed to be trying to upstage her in every way.

“Well,” Lindet replied, “that saves us the trouble. Ka-sedial, welcome to Fatrasta.”

“Thank you, Lady Chancellor.”

“It’s tradition,” Lindet said, “to ask guests about the news from their homeland, but I’m afraid that might take a while. We are a hundred years behind.”

Ka-sedial tilted his head to one side, looking slightly bored. “Not at all. There was a civil war. Millions died to sword, famine, and sorcery. It has taken four generations, but the imperial family has retaken their rightful throne and brought peace to Dynize.”

“Ah. Peace. I’m glad to hear it.” Lindet did not sound at all glad to hear it.

“As are we.”

Vlora noted that Ka-sedial did not reciprocate the question of news. He wouldn’t, she decided. Not when the Dynize had been spying on Fatrasta for who knew how long. She wondered whether Lindet had sent her own spies into Dynize. The countries of the Nine had stopped bothering to approach the Empire over fifty years ago, but with access to Palo that would speak the Dynize language and look the part, Lindet might have actually gotten the chance to crack that nut.

It wasn’t a great time to ask.

“I’m afraid,” Lindet said, “that my next question might come off as rude, but it is the foremost on our minds and I would like to put my people at ease.”

Ka-sedial smiled. “Why, you’re wondering, is there a fleet of warships outside your harbor?”

“Precisely,” Lindet said with a sour smile.