Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

And so he could think.

Everything he’d heard since being released told him that the Palo were a powder keg right now – not something he wanted to put his nose into. But Old Man Fles was right. If the dragonmen had returned, it was doubtful even the Blackhats would know. Only the Palo would be able to tell him.

He wondered if Flint knew exactly how dangerous it would be for Styke to hunt down answers regarding the dragonmen. Doubtful. She thought him a worthless cripple before she found out who he was – or rather, who he used to be. Searching Greenfire Depths for the most dangerous warriors in Palo history seemed far and above what she’d expected him to do.

But if he got her some real answers – if he had solid evidence that the dragonmen were, in fact, real and of what they were up to – he might wind up as part of her inner circle.

Exactly where Tampo wanted him.

Styke directed the carriage back around the western half of the plateau and through northern Landfall until he’d made a complete circuit of the city. It was well after noon when he found Old Man Fles back in his workshop, polishing his latest blade.

“I thought I told you not to come back here anymore,” Fles said.

“I won’t,” Styke promised. “But I need you to do something for me.”

“What?”

“Set up a meeting.”

“With who?”

“A dragonman.”

“That’s the stupidest thing –”

Styke cut him off. “Just let it slip in the right places that the son of an influential Adran merchant wants to meet a dragonman. Say he’ll pay a huge amount of money just to be able to talk to one for a few minutes. Say I’m a historian.” Styke found a piece of paper and wrote down an address. “Set up a meeting at this pub, and let me know when to be there.”

Fles fingered the paper. “You’re going to attract all the wrong kinds of attention.”

“That’s the idea.”

“You’re mad.”

Styke took Celine’s tiny hand in his and turned to leave, throwing a crooked grin over his shoulder. “That’s what they say.”

When Vlora knocked on the door to a large townhouse about half a mile east of Greenfire Depths, the last thing she expected to see when the door opened was a tall, stocky man with the dusty skin of a Rosvelean and a black bearskin draped over his shoulders. His face was red, sweat pouring from his brow, and he was dressed more like someone from the Adran Mountainwatch than a Landfall native. He looked from Vlora to Olem, then back to Vlora.

Vlora opened her mouth, but he spoke first. “Lady Flint?” he asked in a thick Rosvelean accent.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “I’m looking for Baron Habba… Habber…”

The man grinned at her. “Baron Vallencian Habbabberden,” he said proudly, throwing the door open. “Come in, come in. Agent Bravis said to expect you.”

Vlora exchanged a glance with Olem, then followed the big man inside, through the hall, and into a sitting room on the left. She was surprised to find the foyer, hall, and sitting room entirely devoid of furniture. There were no wall hangings, decorations, or even lamps other than a few gas lanterns hanging from the walls. There also appeared to be no staff, despite the house being big enough to need a full retinue of servants.

The big man went to the mantelpiece, leaned against it, and produced a pipe from his pocket that he quickly puffed to life. “Lady Vlora Flint. Standing in my own home. What an honor!” He paused, looked around. “I have to apologize about the furniture. I was born in a tent smaller than this room and now I own four of these damned houses. I don’t have the first idea what I’m supposed to put in them.”

Olem cleared his throat and turned to one side to cough, clearly trying not to laugh.

“You’re the Ice Baron?” Vlora asked, more than a little skeptical.

“I am. Don’t try to say my name, nobody can. Just call me the Baron, or Vallencian to my friends. And you, Lady Flint, are my friend. I read your biography. It was very good.”

What the pit is he talking about? “I don’t have a biography.”

“You do,” the Baron assured. “It was written by a Rosvelean mercenary who served in the Kez Civil War. Excellent stuff. I’ll have a copy translated and sent to you.”

“Thank you? I think?”

“It is nothing. You must be Colonel Olem.” Vallencian suddenly lurched forward, shaking both their hands warmly. “You like cigarettes, yeah? Try one of these.” He removed a box from his jacket pocket and flipped it open with one hand to reveal a line of pre-rolled cigarettes.

Olem beamed. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Vlora waved away the offer as Olem lit his, trying to get a read on this Ice Baron. He was obviously a foreigner, obviously relished his status as such, wearing such a damned getup in this heat. “Forgive me if this is rude, but are you really a baron?”

“Are you a lady?” Vallencian shot back. He immediately threw up his hands. “I joke, I joke. I was born in a village in northern Rosvel, high up in the mountains. I bought a barony last year, but I’ve never been to it. A cousin manages the thing. Poorly, I understand. But I’ve been called the Ice Baron for far longer, just as you have been called Lady Flint for longer than you’ve had a title.”

Vlora glanced at Olem. “I’ve never had a title. Lady Flint is just something that someone called me once, and it stuck.”

Vallencian seemed to consider this, his brow furrowing. “That biography. I won’t send it to you. It’s shit.”

Olem couldn’t cover up his laugh that time, and Vallencian joined in with a chuckle. “Ah,” he said, rubbing the back of his head, “I’m sorry for the state of this place. I’d say it’s new, but it’s been unfurnished for three years now. My footman just recently convinced me to buy a bed.” He patted the bearskin on his shoulders. “All I need is Rangga here under my head and the saints sing me to sleep. And chairs? Ostentatious, I tell you.”

“Don’t you entertain?” Olem asked. “I mean, I’ve heard your name several times around the city. You run in prestigious circles.”

“I am very entertaining,” the Baron said, grinning in a way that made it obvious he knew what Olem had meant. “But I prefer to be a guest, rather than have guests. It feels more right to me. Gives me an excuse to give expensive gifts to my hosts, instead of just offering some wine and a bite of food. And with no hosting, I don’t have to employ a bunch of assholes. Speaking of which, where is my damned footman?” He rolled his eyes. “Useless. I sent him out for dinner. I asked for lobster. Have you seen the lobsters here? I’ve never seen something so ugly, and when I first saw it I thought, I must kill it and eat it and now” – he smacked his lips – “I love it.”

Vlora recognized when a man liked to talk, and it was already very clear that it was one of Vallencian’s favorite hobbies. Talkers, she knew, could go on for hours if you didn’t put a stop to it right away, so she coughed into her hand and said, “Baron, you said Agent Bravis had told you to expect us?”

“Yes, yes, of course. You want information about the Palo?”

“Greenfire Depths, specifically.”

“Ah, the Depths.” The Baron gazed at the ceiling, as if remembering a walk in a particularly striking park. “Have you ever seen anything like that before?”

“It’s a rat’s nest,” Vlora responded bluntly.

Vallencian shook a finger at her. “There is beauty in a rat’s nest; warmth, security, companionship. There is all of that and more in Greenfire Depths, and I try to tell that to the Blackhats but does anyone listen to Vallencian? No.”