Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

“That,” she said, chewing on her words and trying to work the smell out of her nostrils, “is not a pleasant place.”

Michel gave her a tight smile, as if to say I told you so , but followed it up with a sympathetic nod. “That’s putting it lightly. It used to just be a confusing slum. Get lost, ask for directions, you’ll make your way back out by morning, perhaps with an empty purse. But now, with the Palo in charge, entire Blackhat squads go missing and are never heard from again.”

“They really hate you, don’t they?”

“Me?” Michel asked. “Ma’am, you seem like you prefer people to be honest with you, so I’ll tell you this: They hate us . They may not know yet, but word will spread who you are and who you work for. When it does, your men will start disappearing.”

The words felt like a punch in the gut. What the pit had she gotten herself into, coming to a place where her men couldn’t be safe walking down the street? Surely, this kind of thing should be familiar? The swamps of the Tristan Basin were just as impenetrable and dangerous, yet it felt like a betrayal to come to a modern city and find the same kind of danger. But, she decided, they’d managed in the swamps and they’d manage here.

“Any advice I should give to my men if they get lost down in the Depths?” she asked. If you say ‘pray,’ I will punch you in the face.

Michel scrunched his nose, gazing down over the edge of the Rim, then checked his pocket watch. He swore to himself. “Advice? Yeah. Try to find a quarry wall, then stick with it until you find a switchback out. Don’t leave the floor of the quarry until you find a switchback because if you go up one of those tenements, your maze has become three-dimensional.” He checked his watch again. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I have several more meetings today. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Always running off. Vlora glanced toward Loel’s Fort, where she could see the company flag being hoisted. It reached the top of the flagpole, jumped once, and the whole flagpole suddenly toppled over, raising a cloud of dust above the fort. That doesn’t bode well. “Yes,” she said. “I’m not going into that place without some sort of intelligence. You said you had agents in the Depths?”

“Yes. Well. Sort of. Here,” Michel said, scribbling on the back of one of his business cards and handing it to Vlora, who read the words and address.

“The Ice Baron?” she asked.

“He’s a businessman.”

“Can he be trusted?”

Michel seemed to hesitate. “He’s a man without guile so I guess in that sense, yes. He can be trusted. I’d suggest being discreet about your mission.”

“What’s our public reason for being stationed just outside the Depths?” Vlora asked. “People are going to ask questions, after all. We’re a whole damned army.”

“We haven’t given one yet,” Michel said. “The propagandists are working on it.”

Vlora gave a derisive snort. Propaganda was a normal part of any government, but referring to their public relations office that way sounded damned cynical, even for Blackhats. “How about this,” she suggested. “My men have been put on ice until the next mission. We’ve been recalled because of the recent riots, and we’re here to keep the peace. While we wait for our next assignment I have several engineers who have offered to begin reconstruction around the rim of Greenfire Depths.”

Michel cocked an eyebrow. “Do you have several engineers?”

“Very good ones,” Vlora said. “And I like to keep my men busy when they’re not fighting. I’ve noticed that the Lady Chancellor seems to love construction projects, so let us knock down and rebuild a few tenements and it looks like we’re doing community good. Might even give us an excuse to snoop around the Depths.”

Michel mulled it over. “It might work. I’ll pass it up the chain of command.”

“Let me know by tomorrow afternoon. People will begin asking questions, and I want an official answer to give them.”

“Very good, ma’am.” Michel tipped his hat and headed toward the building where he’d left his Blackhat uniform.

Back at Loel’s Fort, Vlora stood in the doorway to watch the organized chaos of an army setting up a new headquarters. Olem noticed her after a moment and came by.

“How did it go? Is it as horrifying as they say?”

“No,” she replied. “I’d like to build a summer home here. Retire. Let the grandchildren play in the streets.”

“We’d have to have children first.”

That was a conversation she wasn’t having right now. “I’m being sarcastic. It’s a bloody maze. Makes my skin crawl, and not just because of the sludge you have to walk through. I don’t like it one bit. Oh, and I may have just set up a construction project for the engineers. Once they’re done rebuilding the fort, that is.”

Olem looked aggrieved. “I’ll tell Whitehall. He’ll be thrilled. Do we have a plan of attack for finding Mama Palo?”

“I’m not sure,” Vlora answered, “whether the Blackhats thought they could trick us into using force, but I am not going to fight my way through that slum. We’re going to finesse this thing. Agent Bravis gave me a card for someone called the Ice Baron. Know him?”

“Businessman,” Olem said.

“I gathered. Sounds like he’s our intelligence. Set up a meeting, and let’s figure out how to get inside Greenfire Depths.”

“She has me chasing a fairy tale,” Styke said, rolling the weight of his lancer’s ring back and forth between thumb and forefinger. It was barely past seven in the morning, and he stood at the far northern tip of the bay, squinting at the ships out past the breakers, sailing into the morning sun with the tide. His leg ached from the long walk, but he had a piece of horngum in the corner of his mouth and felt better than he had in years. To think, something as simple as watching the ships go out could make his heart glow.

He’d spent his first and second nights of freedom at a sailor’s hostel near the docks. The single room, not much wider than a closet, felt like a palace, and the bunk pallet like a four-corner bed. Celine slept on the top bunk, snoring through the early morning hours as Styke lay awake listening to the sailors break bread in the common room downstairs.

“A fairy tale,” he repeated to himself, counting the eighth ship to leave port in just under fifteen minutes. He remembered a time when two ships a day was considered an event in Landfall. Pit, he could still see the docks burning in his mind’s eye, set ablaze by the Kez navy, and wondering if they would ever rebuild. A lot of horrible things could be said about Lindet, but she had fulfilled her promise to turn Fatrasta into an economic power in just a single decade.

Styke glanced down at Celine, who sat on the rocks beside him with her head drooping sleepily into her lap. She could have stayed behind and slept, but had insisted on coming with him without a word of complaint. “You ever heard any stories of the dragonmen?” he asked.

Celine perked up, shaking herself awake. “No. Dad never told me stories. Taught me how to pick a lock and slip a pocketbook, but never any stories. Said stories were for babies and silly fools.”

“Your dad was a prick,” Styke said.

“I loved my dad.” Celine sniffed. “And he loved me.”

“Doesn’t make him less of a prick. Listen – a thousand years ago, back when this land belonged to the Dynize, the dragonmen came out of the deepest swamps. They were the greatest warriors of a people who thrived on war, worth a hundred soldiers in any battle.” Styke drew his knife, examining the blade in the morning sun before pointing it at Celine. “Dragonmen were trained from birth to be fierce, bold, and give no quarter. They proved themselves in their adolescence by killing the biggest swamp dragon they could find. They fashioned armor from its skin and axes from its bones and were blessed by the bone-eyes – the blood sorcerers. Made them damn near invincible.”