Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

Glenna recoiled. “They were delivered just yesterday. I’m not a revolutionary! I’m a secretary and a good Fatrastan. If I’d known what was in them I would have reported it to the police immediately.”

“You were never curious?”

Glenna lifted her chin. “Of course I was curious. Mr. Tampo left a message telling me not to look, so I didn’t. I wouldn’t jeopardize a good job like this, not in the current economy!”

Michel sighed, eyeing her for a few moments while he slapped Sins of Empire against one palm. “All right,” he said. “You’re free to go.”

“Excuse me?”

Michel made a shooing motion. “Go on. Get out of here before I change my mind. If Mr. Tampo contacts you, you’re to let us know immediately.”

Glenna fled the room, a look of relief on her face. Michel waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps before he nodded to Warsim. “Have someone follow her. Watch her. Four men at all times. I want to know her every move.” Warsim nodded and left the room, and Michel waved to the other two remaining Iron Roses. “Outside. I need a moment to think.”

The room was soon empty, leaving Michel alone with all the crates of pamphlets. He pinched the bridge of his nose, staring at the floor, furious with himself. “You were sloppy.”

“I did everything I could,” he snapped back.

“You were sloppy, and you’ve lost your chance at a Gold Rose.”

“I’m a spy, not an investigator. I shouldn’t even be on this case.”

“You’re the one who offered to take it further. You’ve got two failures in a row to explain to Fidelis Jes.”

Michel paced the room. This Tampo wasn’t some careful academic. He knew how to hide, and how to protect himself from being discovered. He’d had experience in counterespionage, maybe back during the war or in the Nine. Pit, for all Michel knew he could be a rogue or retired spy from one of the cabals of the Nine. How perfect would that be?

There was a knock on the door and Warsim poked his head inside. Michel opened his mouth to snap at him but managed to rein in his temper. “What is it?” he said.

“I thought you’d want to know the grand master is on his way over here.”

Michel felt a knot tighten in the pit of his stomach. Shit.

Styke returned to Loel’s Fort at almost two o’clock in the morning. He carried a sleeping Celine on his shoulder, his hips and knees hurting from walking halfway across the city, his ribs aching from his fight with the dragonman, and several tender spots on his chest and stomach that would be vivid bruises within a day or two.

He wasn’t staying at the fort. He didn’t quite feel like he was “one” of the Riflejacks yet, and the dilapidated barracks was still under construction, so he rented a cheap room a block away. He was looking forward to falling into bed and sleeping well into the morning, but first he wanted to leave a message for Lady Flint. It was with some surprise that he found a lantern still on at the staff office, and when he knocked on the door there was an immediate “Come!” from inside.

Olem sat on the other side of a round table in the middle of the staff office, four other officers clustered around it, cards and coins scattered on the table. Olem glanced up at Styke, then across the table at the pretty, middle-aged captain sitting directly across from him. “Your draw. What happened to you?”

“Got into a scrap,” Styke said. He laid Celine down on a sofa in the corner, then stretched down to touch his toes, hearing his back pop in several places. The muscles of his bad knee twinged painfully. He dug a bit of horngum out of his pocket and tucked it into his cheek.

“Trouble?” Olem asked.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Styke wondered when he’d last played cards. It was next to impossible to get a full deck in the labor camps. The camp guards thought it was funny to remove the same three cards from each deck you could buy at the camp commissary. It was annoying, but the convicts just came up with their own games to play that required three fewer cards.

“Heard someone busted up Mama Sender’s earlier tonight,” Olem said. “Some big beast of a guy killed three Palo and crippled a fourth. Took off chasing a fifth. Mama Sender swore he looked just like Ben Styke.”

Styke scratched behind his ear. “Yeah, about that. I should probably send her a few hundred krana.”

Olem threw a card down. “Already took care of it. Nobody in this city cares much about some dead Palo. Just try to clean up better next time. Any luck tracking down a dragonman?”

Styke examined Olem for a few moments. No tone of reproach. Just professionalism. He liked that. Olem seemed distracted, though, and despite everyone else in the room looking tired-eyed the silence at the card table was tense. What were they all doing up this late on a weeknight? Olem’s Knack kept him from needing sleep, but the others doubtless had duties in the morning.

“I did,” Styke said. “Was going to leave a message for Lady Flint and then head to bed. She’s not awake still, is she?”

Olem reached over, plucking a cigarette from an ashtray on the table and sucking on the end, discarding it with a disgusted look when he realized it had gone out. “Lady Flint is down in Greenfire Depths.”

Styke froze mid-stretch. “Alone?”

“Yeah. Got invited to a gala at something called the Yellow Hall. They wouldn’t let her bring an escort or anything, and this is her best shot at getting an in with the Palo.”

“You let her go into Greenfire Depths alone?”

Olem looked up, an angry glint in his eye. “I don’t ‘let’ Lady Flint do anything. She can take care of herself better than anyone in this room.” Including you, his tone implied. Styke wasn’t about to argue with the sentiment, but he still didn’t like it. Here he was, off chasing mythical warriors, when his real purpose – Lady Flint – was off in the most dangerous part of Landfall without a guard. If she got herself killed right now, Tampo might very well sell Styke back to the Blackhats.

Styke made a calming motion with his hands. “Agreed, but Greenfire Depths. I don’t like the sound of it.” Not one bit. One person, all alone in the Depths? This wasn’t an invitation; it was a damned death trap.

“What could we do?” Olem asked. “None of us knows this place. Without her invitation, she wouldn’t even be able to find the Yellow Hall.”

Styke rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. This was bad. He pointed at Olem. “I can. But if she’s meant to be alone there’s no taking an army down there. Let’s go.”

He expected an argument, or an indignant response about giving out orders. Instead Olem threw down his cards, scooped up a pile of coins, and wordlessly buckled on his belt. “Any of you know where Davd or Norrine is?” he asked the table. He was answered by a round of headshaking and gave a frustrated grunt.

Styke went over to the sofa, nudging Celine awake. “You told me that you know Greenfire Depths. Can you find the Yellow Hall?” he asked gently. It took her a moment to wake up, then she was on her feet. “It’s been a while,” he added. “The Depths change, and I’m rusty.”

“I can find it,” Celine assured him.

Styke nodded to Olem. “Let’s go find Lady Flint, and hope we’re not too damned late.”

Vlora spent hours mingling with the Palo elite and their Kressian business partners. She relaxed for the first time since entering the city, laughing at jokes, smiling, doing her best to drop the stony demeanor that had earned her her epithet. She was surprised to find most of the elite well educated, some of them even having gone to universities in the Nine, and by the end of the evening she could have been convinced that this was a whole different class of people from the insurrectionist tribes she’d put down in the swamps.