Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

Styke felt a little bile in the back of his throat. These poor Palo kids were probably acolytes of some kind. In Styke’s mind, that made the dragonman responsible, just like Colonel Styke had been responsible for every lancer under his command. “I don’t like you,” Styke said. “And I think I’m going to enjoy killing you.”

The dragonman took a step forward, then stopped. His face reminded Styke of a cat, completely unreadable, eyes searching Styke for strengths and weaknesses. He seemed to hesitate and then, without warning, he suddenly went for the door, as quick and casual as a panther who’d decided not to fight a bear for its kill. He was out and gone in a flash, and Styke swore, limping after him. By the time he reached the street, the dragonman was already disappearing into the late afternoon crowd.

“Celine!” Styke jammed a new piece of horngum in his mouth, chewing violently to numb the spasm in his leg.

She joined him quickly, and Styke pointed after the dragonman. “Did you just see the Palo that came out of the door? The one in the black suit?”

“Yes.”

“Follow him. Don’t let him see you, but don’t lose him. I’ll be right behind you.”

Celine took off into the crowd and Styke fell back, following at a leisurely pace. He wiped blood off his sleeve and face, grumbling under his breath. He didn’t like being duped, or given the slip like that. He also didn’t like getting answers that raised more questions.

Like what the pit a legend like a Dynize dragonman was doing alive and walking around in Landfall.

Vlora wore her dress uniform, sword and pistol at her belt, and met Devin-Tallis in the muster yard at eight thirty. It wasn’t long until dark, and she boarded his tiny rickshaw with some trepidation. He immediately set off from Loel’s Fort, heading down the street and toward the switchbacks that Michel had taken her down just two days earlier. By the time they reached the bottom all sign of daylight was gone, and she was surprised to see the narrow streets lit dimly by a handful of gas lamps she had not noticed earlier.

Within moments of reaching the floor of the Depths she was completely turned around. Devin-Tallis chugged onward, his legs working effortlessly as he pulled the rickshaw through a series of rapid, seemingly unnecessary turns, his feet splashing through the permanent layer of damp sludge that seemed to cover the streets. They traveled onward in silence for several minutes, and Vlora’s heart beat a little faster with every passing moment and the realization that if Devin-Tallis left her suddenly, she had no hope of finding her way back to the plateau on her own.

She unwrapped a powder charge and sprinkled a bit on her tongue, relishing the sulfur taste, then snorting a bit more. The trance lit her mind like a fuse, letting her focus better, her vision sharpening so that she could see the dark spots between gas lamps as clear as if it were day.

Being able to see the sudden sharp angles and dubious construction of the overlapping tenements did very little to calm her. “You said this is a celebration,” she said. “But Vallencian called it a gala. Which is it?”

Devin-Tallis spoke without turning his head. “Both, I suppose. It’s a Palo celebration, the Day of the Two Moons.”

Vlora tried to think of a festival that corresponded to today’s date, but no harvests or astrological events came to mind. “What does that mean?”

“No idea,” Devin-Tallis said. “I asked my father when I was a boy. He didn’t know, either. It’s a festival, and we celebrate.”

“Usually a festival corresponds to something.”

“Perhaps it once did,” Devin-Tallis answered.

That wasn’t much help. Vlora looked up, trying to get her bearings from the sky, but even the little slices of fading twilight that she had been able to see through the jumbled tenements were now gone, obscured by the masonry, boards, and cloth that stitched together the layers of Greenfire Depths. She took a little more powder to calm her nerves. “What kind of a name is Devin-Tallis?”

“A Palo one,” he answered.

“I haven’t met many Palo with two names.”

“It’s not actually two names,” Devin-Tallis said. “Devin is my title. My given name is Tallis.”

“No family name?”

“Some of us have them. It varies among the tribes. My tribe, the Wannin, use a naming system that goes back to when the people you call the Dynize used to rule these lands. It’s very old. We go by our title, and then our name.”

Vlora thought of the way Kressian naming conventions went. The lower classes often only had a single name. They could buy or earn a second name – often an epithet like her “Lady Flint.” Now that she thought of it, their methods were not dissimilar. “What does Devin mean?”

“One who serves.”

“Is that a class thing, or…”

“Ah, no,” Devin-Tallis said. “I pull a rickshaw, and I have since I was strong enough. It makes me good money, and allows me to keep a family. One who serves is a proud name. You might call it middle-class.”

Vlora couldn’t help but chuckle. So often it was easy to think of the Palo as savages – most Kressians did – but then she was reminded that most spoke Adran or Kez or some other Kressian language with little accent, and they grasped Kressian traditions better than Kressians grasped theirs. She wondered, if the Palo were not so divided, whether they would have any trouble pushing the Kressian immigrants into the sea.

It was most likely a possibility that haunted Lady Chancellor Lindet’s dreams.

Vlora remembered someone she’d once known – the green-eyed girl Taniel brought back from his time in Fatrasta all those years ago, along with rumors of a scandal that had caused her no end of grief. “What does ‘Ka’ mean?” she asked.

Devin-Tallis slowed slightly, frowning over his shoulder. “I have not heard that before. I would have to ask. Ah, we are here.” They rounded a corner and came to a sudden stop. Vlora glanced around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There were no crowds, no arrival line of rickshaws. Just another side alley with a well-trodden street of stone and muck, ending in a well-lit door made of reeds.

“We’re here?” Vlora asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“This is it,” Devin-Tallis said. “The streets down here are narrow, so every house or hall has several entrances. The Palo don’t care much for grand facades. It is, after all, what is inside that matters.”

Vlora got out of the rickshaw and Devin-Tallis put it off to one corner, then led her to the door at the end of the alley and spoke his name. The reed curtain was pulled aside, revealing a narrow corridor and a pair of armed Palo. Vlora could smell the powder on them, and spotted their pistols a moment later. They gazed back at her stoically, and Vlora spread her senses, trying not to gasp when she felt hundreds of small caches of powder within fifty yards, each of them no doubt representing another armed guard.

Security, it seemed, was not a problem for the Palo.

Devin-Tallis waved her forward. “I will introduce you,” he said, leading her down several narrow corridors, “and then I must return to my rickshaw.”

“You’re not coming in?”

“I am,” Devin-Tallis said with a smile, “middle-class. The Palo have their own system, and only the elite are invited into the Yellow Hall. Ah. Here we are. I will come back and check on you in a few hours. If you wish to leave, simply send someone to find me.”