Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

“It’s the worst kind of garbage,” Jes said, sneering at the pamphlet like it had just insulted his mother. “It claims to spell out all the crimes of our beloved Lady Chancellor, dragging her name through the mud. It puts forth that she is a dictator, a madwoman bent on forcing a new empire on this part of the world. Leftist drivel.”

“Have we tracked down who printed them, sir?”

“We have. They were printed by a number of companies across Landfall, each of them believing they were working independently on a secret counterespionage project for the Lady Chancellor herself.”

Michel could barely contain his shock. “It’s antigovernment propaganda. How could they possibly think they were working for us?”

“In your line of work, Agent Bravis, how many people openly question the Blackhats?”

“None, sir.”

“Yes, well. The companies were all hired at the same time, by different agents, each of them carrying an Iron Rose.”

Michel’s breath caught in his throat. The Roses were considered sacrosanct. As an organization, the Blackhats would tolerate all sorts of crime and corruption around the capital, as long as it didn’t impede government business. But when it came to the Roses – nobody pretended to have a Rose who didn’t earn it. “Does the public know about this?”

“We’re burying the use of the Roses underneath our public investigation,” Dellina said. “As well as providing plenty of our own propaganda. We’ve already lined up a scapegoat – a foreign businessman who will be shown to have printed the pamphlets as a badly timed prank. He’ll be ‘caught’ within the week, fined, and deported, and then we’ll gather all of the pamphlets as they hit the street.”

“That seems wise.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Fidelis Jes said sarcastically. “I don’t care much about the propaganda. As far as the fate of the nation goes, one piece of antigovernment propaganda, no matter how annoying, is not going to bring down the Lady Chancellor. However, I will not stand by and allow some leftist upstart to use Iron Roses to spread lies. That’s why you’re here, Agent Bravis. While our public investigation parades around a decoy, you’re going to find out where those Iron Roses came from – fifteen in all. If they were forged, stolen, bought, or if they genuinely belong to one of our own people involved in a plot, I want to know and I want to know quickly.”

Michel tried to wrap his head around all this information. The pamphlet, it seemed, was inconsequential. Fifteen Iron Roses, though… “Does the Lady Chancellor know?”

“I would rather she not,” Fidelis Jes said. “You’re no doubt wondering why I chose you, Agent Bravis. We have several skilled investigators within the Blackhats, but they all come from police backgrounds. They’re used to operating in the public eye. Their actions are watched by the papers and enemy spies. Few people outside this office know how you rose to your rank. No one has their eyes on you. You can – and in fact are trained to – track down information without anyone else finding out.”

Fidelis Jes exchanged a glance with his secretary and continued. “What’s more, Dellina keeps a list. It contains the names of several young, ambitious Blackhats with bright futures. They must be intelligent, preferably self-taught, without many friends or family members. People whose loyalty is unquestioned, yet haven’t risen high enough through the ranks that they aren’t expendable. Your name is on that list and because your grandmother was a Palo you may be able to move in circles that our other agents cannot.”

Michel flinched at the reminder about his heritage. Nobody liked a mixed-blood, and it wasn’t something he advertised. “I see.” Beyond his racial background, there were a lot of nice words in that statement. The only one that he really paid any mind was “expendable.” And he didn’t like it one bit. “I’ll find the Iron Roses, sir.”

“You had better.” Fidelis Jes nodded to Dellina, who stepped forward to hand Michel a file.

“In the meantime,” Dellina said, “we have another light assignment for you. We want as few people to know about our internal investigation as possible so this is something else that will let you snoop around without raising much suspicion. We’ve recalled a nearby mercenary company from work on the frontier in order to take care of some business in Greenfire Depths. Do you know about Lady Flint?”

“The powder mage?” Michel asked.

“Yes. It’s her company. You’ll be her Blackhat liaison.”

Michel flipped through the file. Another powder mage. Just great. Two years ago he’d been an informant in central Landfall and had uncovered an assassination plot against the Lady Chancellor involving a Deliv powder mage. The discovery had earned him his Silver Rose, but now it seemed he’d been, what did the theater people call it? Typecast. Michel snorted. At least this time he and the powder mage were on the same side. “I’ve heard incredible things about her.”

“She’s an arrogant bitch,” Fidelis Jes said, waving his hand in dismissal. “She thinks of herself as a principled mercenary, as if such a thing exists. Turn her loose on Greenfire Depths and we’ll see how principled she feels after putting down a real Palo riot. The insurrections she’s fought on the frontier will seem like a weekend stroll.”

“Of course, sir.”

“She’ll be here this afternoon,” Dellina said kindly. “Keep in touch with her, but remember your primary assignment.”

Michel glanced down at the copy of Sins of Empire in his hand. “I’ll get started right away.”

“Very good,” Fidelis Jes said. “Dellina?”

“Eight twenty-two, sir. You have breakfast with the Lady Chancellor in eighteen minutes.”

Jes suddenly seemed to notice he was still carrying the bloody handkerchief he’d used to clean his sword. He discarded it, looking Michel up and down once more as if to assess whether he was really up to the job. His expression was not promising. “I have high hopes for you, Agent Bravis. If you succeed, you will have earned my gratitude. I’m sure you know how valuable that is. If you fail…” He trailed off and strode inside, followed by Dellina, leaving Michel in the courtyard with a bloody handkerchief and a small Palo janitor scrubbing crimson off the cobbles.

Michel closed his eyes, forcing himself to ignore the bald threat. “Think positive,” he muttered, slapping the pamphlet against his open palm, reading the title over and over again. Sins of Empire. “Find the Roses and make my career.”

“Or,” he countered, “don’t find them, and wind up a spot on the cobbles over there.”

“He wouldn’t actually kill me for a failure.”

“You so sure of that?”

Michel didn’t argue that point. “I could earn my Gold Rose.”

“Maybe,” he responded, his own voice a little too ominous.

He stuffed Sins of Empire into his back pocket and headed in the opposite direction across the courtyard, sidestepping the janitor and his work. “Well,” he said to himself, “if I do fail, at least the consequences will be quick.”

Styke lay on his back on the floor, staring at the cracked plaster ceiling of the labor camp holding cell. Everything hurt. He rolled over with a groan, hacking up a wad of phlegm and blood and spitting it on the floor. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been given that good a working over. It had been three hours since they’d finished the beating and thrown him in here, but it felt like a lifetime.