Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

“It’s also worth a prince’s ransom,” Styke said. “Three kings of the Nine all carry Fles blades.”

“Two,” Fles countered. “Field Marshal Tamas put Manhouch’s head in a basket, in case you hadn’t heard.”

“Ten years ago,” Styke said. “I did get the occasional newspaper.”

“Just two kings now,” Fles repeated with a sigh, putting the sword back on its peg.

Styke stared at the weapon for a few moments, barely hearing the clang of the hammers on anvils out in the foundry. He’d spent many years in this little workshop and his brain seemed to instinctively tune the hammers out. There were a lot of memories here, both good and bad. He steeled himself, forcing them all to the back of his head.

“So, you’re out of the work camps and still alive? What are you doing here, then? Ibana’s gone to Redstone, if you’re looking for her.”

“I need a blade,” Styke said. “Something cheaper than that.”

“As if I’d give you one of mine,” Fles scoffed. “It’d be like a toothpick to you.” He sucked on his front teeth for a moment, tapping the side of his head. “Ah, I seem to remember something…” He bent beneath the workbench, rummaging through several boxes before removing a long bundle. He withdrew the wrappings, tossing them on the workbench, and proudly held a knife out to Styke. “No idea why she kept it,” he said. “It’s far from her best work.”

It was called a “boz” knife, after the inventor, but most people would find the “knife” part an understatement. It had a fixed blade and was thirty-two inches from the slightly hooked, double-bladed tip to the end of the worn, ironwood handle. It had a steel crosspiece, with a dried bit of something – probably a Kez officer’s blood – still caught in the joint. Carved into the bottom of the handle was a craftsman’s mark with the name “Fles.” Styke removed the blade from its old leather sheath, examined it for rust or misuse – it was freshly sharpened and oiled – and kissed the craftsman’s mark before fastening the sheath to his belt.

He swallowed a lump in his throat. It wasn’t just an enormous knife, big even for the boz style. It was his knife.

Styke let Fles’s complaint go by without comment and turned his attentions to the wrappings the knife had been stored in. On closer examination, it was a faded yellow cavalryman’s jacket, with a colonel’s star still pinned to one lapel. One of the pockets was heavy, and he turned out a silver necklace with a big, heavy ring hanging from the end – on the face of the ring was a skull the size of his thumb, run through with a lance, and a flag fluttering around it. The sigil of the Mad Lancers. Styke licked his lips, feeling a moment of reverence as he unhooked the chain and slid the ring over his right ring finger. Without a word, he folded his jacket and put it under his arm.

“Take it,” Fles said. “Gets some of the junk out of my workshop. Ibana is going to throw a shit fit when she finds it missing.” He grinned wickedly, then let the smile slide off his face.

“Thanks,” Styke said.

“She’s going to kill you,” Fles reiterated.

Styke ignored the warning. “You still have your ear to the ground?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Information.”

“Bah,” Fles said. “I haven’t traded information since the war.” He eyed Styke for a few seconds, his gaze lingering on the scars. “But I’m not deaf. What are you looking for?”

Styke considered his course of action, looking at the sword hanging on the wall behind Fles. The next words out of his mouth could have serious consequences. Bringing Old Man Fles into his vendetta could get him killed, and Ibana really would kill him if he did that. But Styke needed help.

“The Blackhats,” he said, “they still as powerful as they were during the war?”

Fles snorted. “And then some, over and over again. They’re one of the reasons I got out of the information business. If you work in Landfall, you work for the Blackhats, and I have no interest in them. During the war they were just a bunch of thugs and spies, but now…” Fles trailed off. “You don’t want to get involved with the Blackhats.”

“They give you any trouble?” Styke asked.

“I pay them off every few months with a box of castoffs. Gives their midlevel bureaucrats something to brag about, having a Fles blade, without watering down my image.”

Styke couldn’t help but grin. Fles was getting old, but he was still as sharp as any of his swords. The grin slipped off his face as he came to his next question. “And” – he took a breath – “Fidelis Jes?”

Fles looked like he’d bitten into a lemon. “Still runs the Blackhats. Still as cruel as ever. He’s in the gossip columns every couple of months for killing someone important, and he seems to revel in it.”

“Lindet lets him get away with open murder?” Styke was surprised by that.

“Not quite,” Fles said. “He leaves space in his schedule for at least one duel every morning. Anyone can challenge him, as long as they don’t use guns or sorcery. He’s hated enough that his schedule is full weeks in advance, but he never loses.”

Styke’s grip tightened on the butt of his knife. “You mean I could just walk in there and challenge him to a fight to the death?” That sounded incredibly too easy.

“You’d be a fool.” Fles snorted. “Never challenge someone in their own territory. Besides, you look like you got run over by an army’s baggage train, while Jes is more dangerous than ever.” Fles waved a finger under Styke’s nose. “Don’t you give in to that temptation or I’ll tell Ibana, and she will desecrate your corpse.”

“I’m not a fool.” Styke said, though the prospect did tempt him. “I’d much rather enjoy the startled look on his face when he wakes up in the dead of night to my hands around his throat.”

“Much better thinking,” Fles agreed. “But getting that chance will be next to impossible. The Blackhats deal with any sort of threat with brutal efficiency. You should stay away from the Blackhats and stay away from Fidelis Jes.”

Styke considered his mission from Tampo. “I will for now,” he said. “But I can’t ignore them for good.”

“I hope you’ve got a damned good reason.”

“Jes tried to sabotage my parole hearing. I don’t know why, but if he knew I was in the labor camps then he might be the one who put me there in the first place. And if he’s not, he’ll know who did. I owe him for that. And,” Styke said, gesturing with his mangled hand to the deep bullet scar on his face, “for this.”

“What do you need?” Fles asked quietly.

“Everything about him. His habits, his friends. I want to know where he shits and where he eats. I want to know how tight Lindet has him on a leash.”

Fles’s face fell a little with every word Styke uttered. He stared at Celine for a few moments, then up at Styke. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks,” Styke said.

“Is he going to come looking for you?” Fles said.

“I don’t know,” Styke replied. It wasn’t something that had occurred to him, but the possibility made him swear inwardly. If Fidelis Jes wanted him kept in the camps, he’d be furious if he found out Styke was released. “Maybe.”

“I’ll keep an ear to the ground,” Fles said, “but I’ll have to be damned careful about it.”

Styke looked around, the workshop feeling suddenly foreign to his eyes. It had been too long. “I appreciate the help. When Ibana comes back…”

“I’ll tell her to find you.”

“Thanks again.” Styke took Celine by the hand and slipped out from behind the curtain and toward the front of the foundry. He was deep in thought, barely noticing the apprentices who stared at him as he went by.