Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

Vlora had become increasingly aware of the low buzz of conversation at the edges of her powder trance, but a wave of voices suddenly burst upon her as if she’d entered a banquet hall. They passed two more guards in the gaslit corridor and then Devin-Tallis opened a heavy wooden door for her. What she saw nearly made her gasp.

They stood at the top of three steps leading down into an enormous room, easily a hundred paces across, with dozens of nooks and crannies. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and there were hallways and balconies above them that implied the building was much larger than this one hall. Light came from gas lanterns; food and drink, including wine and iced coffee and tea, were provided by smartly dressed servants. The walls and floor were made of the same dark yellow limestone from which the capitol building had been constructed, though the architecture here looked much older.

Guests filled the entire hall, dancing, speaking, lounging on couches along the walls. She had expected a sea of freckled faces with bright red hair, but instead found that only about half the people in the room were Palo. The others were Kressians from a variety of backgrounds, from white Adrans and Kez, to dusty Rosveleans, to black-skinned Deliv, and they all seemed to mingle freely.

“Welcome,” Devin-Tallis said, “to the Yellow Hall.”

Michel spent all day setting his trap. The grand master’s office lent him Iron Roses to cover the entrance to the office building, to watch the windows, the back door, and the street. He had men follow the secretary home – which turned out to be just a few blocks away on the edge of the industrial quarter – and positioned people outside her door. This was his chance at wrapping up this investigation in just a few days. It would get him his Gold Rose.

He was not going to fail.

It was almost nine when Agent Warsim, Michel’s sometime partner, scurried across the street and joined Michel in his hiding place beneath the shadow of a nearby factory. Warsim wore his Bronze Rose and carried a pistol and truncheon. “The boys think they’ve spotted Tampo,” he said in a low whisper.

Michel bit nervously at his nails, eyes on the street, and headed out into the waning sunlight. He arrived a half a block from the office building in time to see a man in a sharp black suit and top hat, carrying a silver cane under one arm and an attaché case under the other, slip in the entrance.

Michel looked up and down the road, making fists to keep his hands from trembling. Pit, this was it. Tampo wasn’t going to escape. He let himself inside and ascended the staircase, followed by Warsim and three Iron Roses. The building was quiet, most of the offices empty, and on the second floor there wasn’t a single lantern lit except for the flicker of light coming from underneath the door of the suite at the end of the hall.

“Give me your pistol,” Michel said, taking the weapon from Warsim. The five of them crept down the hall, careful not to make any noise, and came up against the suite door. He listened for a moment, then nodded to the biggest of the Iron Roses. “Open the door!”

Styke followed the dragonman through the city for almost two hours. He hung back – far back – so as not to draw attention, keeping his shoulders hunched and his hat pulled low. It was hard to follow anyone for a man of his size, but he kept Celine as a lifeline. She had her eyes on the dragonman, and Styke had his eyes on her.

The dragonman ranged all over. His path seemed random at first, and Styke was worried he knew he was being followed, but it soon became apparent that the dragonman was meeting with people. He stopped by a brothel in the industrial quarter, spent an hour in the Treasury building in Upper Landfall, then went down to the docks, where he visited three different ships in the course of fifteen minutes.

Styke got more than one good look at the dragonman in the light of day, and he was more convinced than ever that he was a Dynize. The Dynize were related closely to the Palo, both in looks and language, but there were subtle markers that someone with a good eye – and enough historical education – could see right away. The dragonman’s eyes were slightly more oval, his cheeks a bit too gaunt, and his ears were pierced at the top of the ear instead of the lobe.

The mystery became to Styke not that the dragonman was a Dynize, but rather why he was a Dynize. Even before Styke’s time at the labor camp the Dynize had been isolationists, the borders of their continent closed to outsiders – including merchants and missionaries. No one had seen them anywhere outside their country for more than a hundred years, even though Fatrasta lay practically on the Dynize doorstep. What were they doing here now?

Styke didn’t even know the Dynize had dragonmen. The stories said the Palo developed their own warriors after the Dynize pulled out of Fatrasta. It seemed, though, based on the tattoos, that they’d taken their dragonmen straight from Dynize society. Which meant that the Dynize might have a whole nation’s worth of dragonmen, and even if they were one in ten thousand, the prospect of an army of mythical warriors was… off-putting.

But all that seemed like a pretty huge assumption. Styke needed to stop getting ahead of himself and get the drop on the dragonman. It would be best to take him alive, but even tossing a dead body at the feet of Lady Flint would answer some questions. At the very least it would get her to trust him, which, Styke reminded himself, was his primary mission.

Styke pulled his head out of his own thoughts for a moment, looking around for Celine. He’d lost her a few times, but she wasn’t hard to spot in her yellow shirt and boy’s trousers. She kept well ahead of him and he didn’t begin to worry until he’d gone almost a full block and saw no sign of her anywhere.

They were still down in the docks. This area was packed with warehouses and silos, half of them on the boardwalk, forming a myriad of alleys and switchbacks. It wasn’t the ideal place to follow someone.

But it was a great place for an ambush.

Styke felt his heart beating a little faster. Celine would have called out if she ran into trouble, wouldn’t she? She was a smart girl, more than quick enough to get away from most adults. But this was a dragonman, a killer as bloody and remorseless as Styke himself.

He found himself doubling his pace, head whipping back and forth as he rushed past alleys, looking for any sign of Celine. He kept one hand out in front of him, pushing dockworkers and sailors out of the way, the other hand on the hilt of his knife. She was here somewhere, he knew it, and he’d find her.

“Ben!”

Styke only needed to hear the sound once. He about-faced, backtracking through the evening traffic, even shoving a pack mule bodily from his path, his mind racing. His name had been yelled in desperation.

He checked the face of an alleyway and came up short.

The dragonman stood less than twenty paces away. His head was cocked, an expression of annoyance on his face, and he held a squirming Celine by the back of the neck. In his other hand was a polished bone knife, curved and wicked like a ceremonial dagger.

Styke felt his chest tighten at the sight of Celine. The dragonman was clearly hurting her, and he clearly didn’t care.

“Ben, was it?” the dragonman asked casually. “You’re going to answer some questions.”

Styke drew his knife, knuckles white on the hilt, and took a step forward. “Like the pit I am.”

The Iron Rose kicked in the door, cudgel in one hand, pistol in the other. His companions knocked in the two office doors of the suite, and Michel heard a string of protestations and a startled yell from one of them. He ran a hand over his mouth, trying to keep the enormous grin off his face.