Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

Jes snorted and walked into his office. He came out a moment later with his sword, making Michel’s heart leap into his throat. Jes began to work through a series of thrusts and parries, fighting an invisible opponent, his sword sometimes coming within inches of Michel’s face. Michel’s hands trembled but he dared not move.

He does this when he’s angry , Dellina mouthed.

Yes, Michel answered silently, but he also murders people to get his blood going in the mornings.

Almost a full minute passed before Jes set his sword across Dellina’s desk and paced the room, finally turning to Michel with a soldier’s snap and a more neutral expression on his face. “You’re right,” he said. “Finding where the Roses came from was your task, and you did manage to do that. But if you think you’ve earned my gratitude, you’re sorely mistaken. You’ll have your chance at redemption. Get this lawyer. Bring him in alive.”

“Of course, sir.”

There was a knock on the door, then it opened a few inches to reveal the young face of one of the office aides. His eyes widened at the state of the antechamber, and Dellina hurried over to speak with him in hushed tones. She conveyed the message to Fidelis Jes, whose eyes narrowed.

“Well,” Jes said, clearing his throat, “it’s your lucky day, Agent Bravis.”

“Sir?”

“A random sweep brought a ruffian in off the street. She’s confessed to being one of the messengers who used the Iron Roses, and given us a description of the lawyer matching the same one Bobbin gave you.”

Michel let out a small sigh. This was fantastic news. A corroborating report gave him more credence in Jes’s eyes, and someone else to question. “Did she have a name?” he asked hopefully.

“No,” Dellina responded. “But there was an address.”

Jes picked up his sword and pointed it at Michel, then toward the door. “Bring me this troublesome bastard, so I can flay him myself.”

The lawyer’s office was in the industrial quarter of Landfall, south of the plateau where the foundries and mills worked night and day, fed with raw goods by the keelboats constantly coming down the Hadshaw River. They turned out cigars for the Nine, spun wool for Brudanian colonies, canned fruit for Gurla, and processed a dozen other goods to ship all over the world.

Some enterprising landlord had constructed an office building right in the center of it all, renting rooms to the accountants and pencil-pushers who kept the surrounding mills running. The address given to Michel by Jes’s aide was for the second floor, at the very end of the hall. The building manager described the lawyer – once again matching Bobbin’s description – and said he never caught the man’s name. His rent was paid in full every two weeks, in cash.

Michel left two Iron Roses by the main entrance to the office building and another two by the back – he wasn’t letting anyone get the slip on him, even if the last time was intentional – then headed up to the second floor alone. He wore a nondescript tan suit jacket and matching pants, a flatcap held in one hand, and the collar of his white shirt sharply pressed. He walked up and down the hall of the second floor three times, looking through the windows of the offices, eyeing the suite at the end.

The suite matched the address Michel had been given, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He reached into his pocket, fingers curling around the heavy knuckledusters he kept for special occasions, and knocked with his free hand.

There was no answer. He knocked again, then gently put his ear against the door. Nothing but the sound of men comparing ledgers two rooms behind him.

He checked the door, finding it unlocked, and pushed his way in, adopting his best “clueless busybody” look, and was immediately arrested by the sight of a woman frowning at him from behind a secretary’s desk. She was a young, severe-looking woman with her hair pulled into a tight bun behind her, a pencil in one hand, and a pile of papers in one corner of the desk.

“Hello!” Michel said happily in a slightly high-pitched voice he’d perfected back during his second stint as an informant. “Good afternoon, I’m so sorry… so sorry to barge in here but the door was unlocked.”

The woman lifted her chin, her frown deepening. “May I help you, sir?”

Michel took the address out of his pocket. “Is this… this 214 Canal?”

“It is,” she replied sharply.

“Oh, thank heavens. I was told there was a lawyer here. I can’t… I can’t remember his name but I was told he was very good and he might be able to help me.”

“I think you have the wrong place,” the secretary answered.

“I don’t… I don’t think so. I double-checked the address. I always… always do. This is a law office, is it not? The landlord said I had the right place.”

The secretary looked like she’d sucked on a lemon. “It is,” she answered, “but we don’t practice publicly.”

“Are you… you sure? Are you the lawyer, ma’am?”

“I am not. I am the secretary.” She didn’t offer her name.

Michel looked around the room. It wasn’t large – just a reception area, with a door on the right and a door on the left, meant for a secretary to handle two separate offices. “The owner, is he in? I really must… really must speak to him. It’s most urgent and I was told he could help me.”

“He is not in.”

Michel tried to judge whether she was telling the truth, but her obvious annoyance could mean anything. He swayed backward, as if he was about to step back into the hall, then grabbed for the door on his right, throwing it open. The office was bare, filled entirely with boxes, and not a person in sight.

“Sir!” The secretary leapt to her feet.

Michel crossed the reception area and opened the other door. Inside was a desk with nothing but an oil lamp and several more boxes stacked in one corner. There were no other doors or entrances. This was the entire suite. The secretary had been telling the truth. Michel suppressed a frustrated growl.

The secretary snatched him by the arm. “Sir, I am afraid this is quite untoward. You cannot barge in here and –”

Michel cut her off with a wail. “I’m so sorry, ma’am! I just really need to speak with the… with the lawyer right away and I just want to see him and it’s my wife and I just don’t know where to turn!”

The secretary dragged him bodily toward the door, pushing him out into the hall. “Sir,” she said sternly, straightening her skirt, “I am willing to let this impropriety slide because you are obviously not in your right mind. I just don’t know who you think you are looking for, but this is not it. Mr. Tampo is not in and –”

“Tampo! Yes, that was his name. I must see him!” Inwardly, Michel cheered. He had a name now. And if he had a name, he had a scent. “When will he be in next?”

“Well, I never… hm. Mr. Tampo may be in tonight. He does not have regular office hours but if you come to call around sundown he likes to work when there’s no one else around. I don’t know what you want but I’ll let him deal with you. Now if you will remove your hand, good day, sir!” She slammed the door, and Michel barely pulled his fingers out of the way in time.

He stared at the closed door for several moments, unable to help the feeling of elation. He had a name, he had an address, and he had a time. By tomorrow morning he’d have this whole Sins of Empire affair wrapped up, before the Blackhat propagandists even marched out their scapegoat.

Michel could practically feel the Gold Rose hanging from his neck.

It took Old Man Fles three days to arrange a meeting for Styke. The information came in the form of a note, telling Styke that someone would meet him at Sender’s Place in order to discuss the dragonmen. The note contained no other information about who, exactly, Styke was supposed to meet. But it would have to be good enough.