Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

Vlora examined the baron’s face. In some of the circles she’d traveled in Adro they would consider him a simpleton, but no simpleton amassed a fortune that would allow him to buy a barony after having been born penniless in a mountain village.

“Exactly how familiar are you with the Depths?” Olem asked. “And you must tell me where you got these cigarettes. This is terrific.”

“I’ll send you the name of my tobacconist. And I’m quite familiar. I meet with my business partners there every week. It’s a very pleasant place once you get used to it.”

Vlora shuddered, remembering the sense of dread she felt on just a short walk through the narrow corridors with Michel. “I’ll take your word for it. You’re telling me that you openly do business in Greenfire Depths, but you work for the Blackhats?”

“‘Work’ is a strong word,” Vallencian said. “I did not get this rich to work. The Blackhats come by every few weeks and ask me questions about what I’ve seen and heard in Greenfire Depths. I tell them. I also give them a substantial bribe and in return, they leave my ships alone. The Palo know of this, and they don’t speak of anything within earshot that I might pass on. It’s a good relationship. I try to operate my business without, how do you say, guile?”

“And you can travel freely in Greenfire Depths?”

“I avoid the bad neighborhoods.”

“The entire thing is a bad neighborhood,” Olem said.

Vallencian tilted his head at them. “Let me tell you something about Greenfire Depths. It has its own, what do the naturalists call it, ecosystem? It is its own world. It has its own economy, social classes, armies, even its own weather. To all the high and mighty in Upper Landfall the Depths looks like a shithole. But the Depths has its own slums, the worst of the worst, and its own palaces – places that would make you gasp upon sight. It is as varied as the city in which it resides.”

Vlora rocked back on her heels, chewing on her lip. “That sounds complicated.”

“It is complicated. It’s taken me years to work it out myself.”

“What,” Olem asked, “is it you sell down there?”

“The only thing I do sell,” Vallencian responded. “Ice.”

“Ice?” Vlora echoed.

“When I was young, I made a small fortune in Rosvel in the beef industry. I came to Fatrasta, and the first thing I noticed was how damned hot it was. In Rosvel, they bring ice down from the mountains to keep food and drinks cool during the summer months.”

“Same in Adro,” Vlora said.

“Yes, and my family has done so for generations. Anyway, I spent my fortune on a ship to bring ice to Fatrasta.”

“And people bought it?”

“The ice melted.”

“Oh,” Vlora said.

“So I packed it in sawdust, I did another trip.” Vallencian scratched his chin. “The ice made it all the way here, and you know what I learned? No one wanted ice. Nothing here is cold, not even the mountains, and when no one knows of the cold they have no use for it. I lost everything. Then the war came. I smuggled guns for Lindet in the only thing I had left to my name: a rowboat. Smuggled some more guns, bought a yacht, smuggled some cannons, then the war ended. Spent my money on a new ship and brought more ice over to Fatrasta. Most of it melted before I could sell it, but then a funny thing happened.”

“Yes?”

“The Palo decided they liked iced coffee. It caught on, and the Fatrastans and the Kressian immigrants began to ice their tea and now, about eight years later, here I am.”

“You’re very persistent,” Olem observed.

“Persistence has earned me ninety-eight merchantmen and almost three hundred warehouses across Fatrasta and Rosvel. And,” he said, looking around, “these big damned empty houses I don’t know what to do with.” Vallencian brought a hand to his chin. “Maybe I should bring more of my cousins over.”

Vlora let out a low whistle. That had to make Vallencian one of the richest men in all of Fatrasta. Probably the Nine, too. And he didn’t have a butler or a stick of furniture. What a strange man.

“So,” Vallencian finished, spreading his hands. “That is who I am, and that is my relationship with the Palo. I’ll help you how I can.”

Vlora had thought long and hard about what information to share, and what not, and she decided for Vallencian’s safety it was best to pare back even that. “My company has been assigned to the rim of Greenfire Depths. We’re going to undertake some public works projects and act as a garrison.”

“The Palo are not going to like that,” the baron said, thrusting a finger at her. “They know who you are.”

“That’s what I need help with. I want to learn more about the Palo and find out how we can coexist. I don’t want my men disappearing when they go out on patrol. I want a truce.”

“And you think I can get that for you? Hah. Agent Bravis has exaggerated my place among the Palo. I’m just a businessman. An outsider.”

“Bravis didn’t tell me anything, actually. But it’s clear that you’ve made it into the Palo inner circle. And that’s what I want to do. For everyone’s safety.” Vlora chewed on her words for a moment, hoping they didn’t sound disingenuous. This was for everyone’s safety. But she was trying to capture the Palo’s matriarch, and she found that leaving that out of the conversation made her feel a little guilty. She liked Vallencian. Lying, even by omission, felt distasteful. “Is there anyone I can meet to make that kind of deal with?”

The baron waffled on the question for a moment. “Perhaps I can introduce you to a few.”

“What about this matriarch I’ve been hearing about? This Mama Palo? Is she the one who makes those decisions?”

Vallencian scoffed. “No outsiders talk to Mama Palo.”

“Have you met her?”

“Haven’t even seen her. I’ve talked to a few of her lieutenants, but never her.”

“Is she a myth?”

“If she is, someone down there is playing the world’s biggest joke on all of us, including the Palo. Mama is real. The Palo believe it. The Kressians believe it. Blackhats have been trying to catch her for years.” Vallencian squinted at Vlora, but made no further comment on the matter. “If you want to make some sort of a truce with the Palo, you need to meet the right people. There is a gala in Greenfire Depths in a few days. I’ll see if I can get you an invitation.”

“A gala?” Vlora asked. She exchanged a glance with Olem, trying not to smirk.

“I told you,” the baron said, “slums and palaces. Whole ecosystem. Where are you staying?”

“Loel’s Fort,” Olem said.

“Very good. I will get an invitation and send it to Loel’s Fort. Hopefully I will see you at the gala then.”

Vlora and Olem were shown out by the baron and returned to their waiting hackney cab, where they sat in puzzled silence.

“Did you know I had a biography written about me in Rosvel?” Vlora finally asked.

“Had no idea,” Olem responded, crushing out his cigarette on the wall of the cab. “But these cigarettes are amazing.”

“You’re not helpful.”

“He’s a strange man,” Olem said, answering her unspoken question, “but I think we can trust him. He’s got an honest face.”

“Yeah, so do a lot of horse traders.”

“If you don’t trust him, we won’t use his help. I asked around before we came, though, and he’s known as a fair, open businessman. Everyone seems fairly baffled by his success because he seldom takes opportunities to cheat anyone.”

Vlora bit the inside of her cheek, mulling it over. “We’ll see if he comes through on the invitation. I’ve been down into the Depths. There’s no beauty there, and I’m not fighting through it to find this Mama Palo. We’re going to have to do it” – she imitated Vallencian’s accent – “with, how do you say, guile.” Vlora switched benches, moving over next to Olem, and put her head on his shoulder.