Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

“Ben!” Fles called out behind him.

Styke half-turned to the old swordmaker. “Yeah?”

Fles hobbled out into the middle of the market and peered up at him, face thoughtful, and said in a low tone, “Good to see you again. Is Mad Ben Styke back to give ’em the pit?”

Styke held his jacket out at arm’s length, examining it for a moment before removing the pins from the lapels. He stuffed them in his pants pocket and slipped his arms into the jacket. It still fit him, even if it was a bit loose. He rolled his shoulders, feeling a knot that he’d not known he had, disappear from his stomach. He clenched one fist, feeling the heavy lancer’s ring on his finger. “He is.”

Vlora sat in a wicker chair in the yard of Willem Marsh, one of Landfall’s most popular outdoor coffeehouses. The sun had set but the Landfall boardwalk remained loud, well lit, and crowded. The docks creaked with the movement of the sea while sailors fought over dice and prostitutes. Vlora sipped her coffee and stared into the crowd, waiting for the inevitable knife fight to break out.

Pit, it was good to be back in a real city again.

She felt a hand briefly squeeze her shoulder, then Olem dropped into the chair beside her, his fingers rolling a new cigarette before he’d even settled.

“Well?” she asked.

Olem smiled at her from behind a sudden cloud of smoke. It was a cool, easy smile – one she hadn’t seen for months – and it made her heart skip a beat. “I found us a room,” he said. “At the Angry Wart in Upper Landfall. Running hot water, nightly pig roast, and a bed we could sleep head to foot across the width.”

“I intend to do very little sleeping.”

Olem leaned toward her, wiggling his eyebrows. “I don’t intend on sleeping, either.”

Vlora rolled her eyes.

“Because of my Knack,” Olem explained in mock earnestness. “I don’t need sleep.”

“I know!” Vlora took the cigarette from him and took a drag before handing it back. She held the smoke in for a moment, then slowly exhaled it through her nostrils. “And you know exactly what I meant.”

Olem smirked. Of course he knew what she meant, the prig. “The room costs a small fortune, but I think it’ll be worth –”

Vlora punched him in the shoulder. “Report, soldier.”

“Right,” Olem said, rubbing his shoulder. “Michel was as good as his word. He’s given us an old barracks on the edge of Greenfire Depths and sent over a few hundred boxes’ worth of files the Blackhats keep on Greenfire Depths and the Palo activity in the city. I’ve got my sharpest boys reading through it all, but it’ll take them days. Even then we won’t know how much they held back.”

Vlora nodded, pleased at how quickly Olem had organized the effort – as well as the idea of a hot bath and a large bed. They needed alone time that was hard to get in a mercenary camp in the middle of the swamp. “Have you gotten anything out of your contacts?”

“It’ll take me weeks to set up any sort of intelligence network,” Olem said, puffing out his cheeks and slowly letting them deflate. “I can’t decide if the Blackhats will make it easier or harder. Practically everyone in the city sells information, but most of it goes directly to them.”

“Do the best you can,” Vlora said, reaching over and squeezing Olem’s hand. “You ask anyone about Mama Palo?”

Olem snorted. “Yeah, and everyone has a different answer. She’s either an enemy of the state, a freedom fighter, or a Palo god made flesh, depending on who you ask.”

Vlora felt her skin crawl. “I’ve dealt with enough gods for one lifetime, thank you very much.” She thought briefly about the Adran-Kez War, an involuntary chill creeping down her spine. “My entire family died killing the last one we encountered.”

“Well,” Olem said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He had his own memories from the war, his own ghosts – many of them the same as hers. “I don’t think Mama Palo is a god. She’s clever, though. Stirs up huge amounts of trouble without ever provoking an outright battle with the Blackhats. The Palo worship her, the Blackhats despise her, and the rest of Fatrasta just hopes to stay out of the way when she and Lindet finally come to blows.”

Vlora forced a chuckle. “Is Lindet pissed someone is challenging her for queen of Fatrasta?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“I’ve no interest in a queendom,” Vlora said, dismissing the thought with a wave. “This Mama Palo… is she really that big of a threat?”

“I won’t know for sure until I get my intelligence network set up.” Olem held up a hand, signaling a passing waiter, and ordered coffee. He frowned at the dark night sky. “Nobody can challenge Lindet outright. It’s not a winnable fight. But it looks like Mama Palo has no intention of fighting Lindet – simply annoying her to the point of giving up.”

“Giving up what, though?” Vlora asked. “What does Mama Palo want?”

“Palo rights?” Olem speculated. “Palo independence? Land, money? What does anyone want?”

Vlora pointed at Olem’s chest. “Find out. It sounds like the Blackhats want us to go through Greenfire Depths kicking down doors until we find her, but you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. If we can find out Mama Palo’s goals we might be able to track her down.” She ticked through half-formed plans in her head, examining each one briefly before discarding it – or storing it away for further consideration later.

“You see this guy watching us?” Olem asked, lifting his chin.

Vlora took Olem’s coffee from the waiter, handing it across, before following Olem’s gaze. She spotted the man quickly. He stood on the other side of the café, just inside the small partition between the coffeehouse and the boardwalk. He was big – no, enormous – with thick, broad shoulders and a bent back, his head held forward like a man used to hiding his height and still over six and a half feet tall. His left cheek had an old, pitted scar and his hair was gray, his jaw large and firm.

He wore a shirt and trousers that were slightly too small for him, and an old Fatrastan cavalry jacket slightly too big. His only weapon was hooked to his belt – a boz knife longer than Vlora’s arm.

He stared openly at her and Olem, only pulling his gaze away to take a coffee and newspaper from a waiter, before heading in their direction.

Vlora tensed, not sure what to expect. She was a powder mage, faster and stronger than any four people in this café, but everything about the man, from his scars and limp to the casual way people moved out of his way as he walked through the crowded café, spoke of imminent violence. She found her heart beating a little faster.

Olem shifted in his chair, spreading his legs so that his pistol could be drawn easily. “I saw him down at the keelboat landing earlier today. I thought he was watching us, but I wasn’t sure until now.”

“Adom,” Vlora breathed, “look at the size of that knife.” She brushed her hand across the hilt of her sword.

The man slowed as he approached them, looking around with a frown, before reaching over to an occupied table and gently removing the coffee cup and handing it to the startled owner. “Pardon me,” he said in a deep, quiet voice, dragging the table over between the three of them, then appropriating an empty chair and dropping into it, tucking his newspaper into one pocket.

He looked around as if he had misplaced something, then tilted his head back, calling over his shoulder, “Celine!”