Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

Fles gave a low whistle and set down his tea to take up the blade. He handled it gingerly, turning it over and over again in his hands before taking it by the grip and giving a few experimental stabs. “Haven’t seen one of these since I was a kid. Damn, would you look at that workmanship?” He held the blade up in front of his eyes, squinting at it for several moments. “Sharp as steel. There’s sorcery in this knife. Lots of blood on it, too.”

Styke didn’t think there was any sorcery in the knife – his Knack would have sensed it – but one didn’t argue with Fles when it came to blades.

Reluctantly, Fles handed the knife back to Styke. “Lots of stories around those weapons. Lots of history.”

“Like?”

“Well, a dragonman’s weapons are all made out of the bones of the swamp dragons they killed. That knife is from a back leg, I’d wager, but the axes they carry are the real prizes – carved from the jawbones, one from the top, one from the bottom. They say that each weapon is sanctified by a bone-eye, enchanted by a Privileged, and bathed in the blood of an innocent. It’s probably all hogwash – Palo are a lot more civilized than we’ve ever given them credit for, and they haven’t had their own Privileged for hundreds of years. Even their bone-eyes are pretty rare.”

Styke sheathed the blade. “This one is a Dynize, not a Palo.”

“That’s preposterous. No one from the Empire has been seen here for over a hundred years.”

“He was,” Styke insisted. “And someone I trust told me the Dynize have been spotted in Landfall.” He wondered if he actually did trust Tampo. He didn’t have a lot of choice, he decided.

Fles rubbed his chin, scowling. “I would have heard about Dynize in town.”

“So you don’t know anything about it?”

“Not me.”

“My source said that they were infiltrating Greenfire Depths, mixing in with the Palo.”

“No, no. Can’t be right.” The Old Man sipped his tea, then topped it off and added a lump of sugar. “If it’s true, and I’m not saying it is, the Palo might know more. But you’ll need to ask one of them directly.”

“That’s what I’ve got you for.”

Fles held up his hands. “My contacts got you a meeting with the dragonman. You missed your chance, and I have to live here. Palo favors are like gold, and you won’t be using another of mine. Besides, asking after the Dynize could stir up a world of trouble.”

Styke wondered if the Old Man was slipping. He’d already agreed to dig up information on the Blackhat grand master, but he wouldn’t chase a rumor down here with the Palo? Strange. “All right. Then I’ll ask. Who do I go to?”

“I think… no, not him. Not her.” Fles went through an invisible checklist, talking to himself. “ Definitely not her. Ah, got it. I’ll send you over to Henrick Jackal. Old friend of yours.”

Styke’s mind was elsewhere, considering how he was going to approach the Palo directly. He’d always been evenhanded in his dealing with the Palo, and they’d always seemed to respect him for it, but it had been a long time. Those Palo kids and their dragonman overlord had proved that. He brought his thoughts back to the present. “Wait. Did you say Henrick Jackal?”

“That’s what I said. I know you’re a cripple, but I didn’t think you were deaf, too.”

Styke held a hand up to his eyes. “About yay high. Missing an ear and a pinkie?”

“Yeah, that’s him. He’s some kind of Palo spiritualist now.”

“No,” Styke said, snorting. “Not Mean Jackal.”

“One and the same.”

Celine tugged on Styke’s sleeve. “Who is Mean Jackal?”

“Used to be one of my captains,” Styke answered thoughtfully. “He was a founding member of the Mad Lancers, but was always a little crazy. Disemboweled the mayor of Little Starland for spitting on his shoe.” Celine’s eyes widened, and Styke frowned at the Old Man. “You’re sure Henrick Jackal is a spiritualist now? Is it some kind of a con?”

Fles shrugged. “Beats me. Heard he was the real deal. Teaches runaways to talk to river spirits or some such shit. Even the other Palo think he’s a kook, but he’s the only person who pays attention to the teenage castoffs so he’s got his ear to the ground better than most.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Styke said, searching his pocket for a bit of horngum and tucking it into his cheek. “Never would have pegged Jackal for getting religion.” Styke’s last memory of Jackal was watching him and Ibana attempt to fight their way, bare-handed, through a line of military police as their fellows led Styke up to the firing squad. He always figured Ibana got away with it – she had a family name, after all. But Jackal was a violent Palo, and Styke was surprised to hear he’d come out of that fight alive.

Old Man Fles wrote down the address – or a list of directions, which was as close to an address as one could get in the Depths – and handed it over. Styke tucked it in his pocket, gesturing to Celine toward the door. “When does Ibana get back?”

“A week,” Fles answered. “Maybe two? Maybe less? Pit if you think I keep track of that girl. She’s always off making new deals, bringing on new apprentices. Business head on her she got from her mother, but damn if I can keep up with it. Why? You hoping for some warning before she comes back and pincushions you?”

“Maybe,” Styke replied. He wasn’t quite sure himself. As much as he wanted to see Ibana, he knew it was going to hurt bad – both emotionally and physically.

“Right, right. Don’t let the door hit you on the ass, et cetera,” Old Man Fles said, waving them toward the foyer. “And go out the front. That damned workshop door keeps sticking and I don’t want to deal with it tonight.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Fles,” Celine said.

“Bah!”

Styke and Celine headed toward the front door. Styke paused for a moment to look back at the great room, filled with a lifetime of knickknacks and furniture, a smile tugging at his ruined face. He opened the door behind him and turned toward the street.

Only to come face-to-face with a man in a black uniform, shirt buttoned up the left breast, truncheon and pistol at his belt. There were five more dressed identically just behind him, and the man in front had his hand raised as if he was just about to knock on the door. “Shit,” the Blackhat managed, right before Styke buried his knife in his chest.

Styke shoved Celine back into the Fles house with one hand and twisted his knife with the other. He lifted, charging forward, using the Blackhat’s body as a shield as his companions drew their pistols. The crack of gunfire erupted around him and Styke felt the bullets thump into his unfortunate Blackhat battering ram. He pulled his knife out and threw the body, cutting sideways with a wide arc to open the throat of the woman on his left.

A truncheon slammed across Styke’s left shoulder. He took a second blow, ignoring the pain that erupted from his arm, and punched the Blackhat holding the truncheon hard enough to lift him off his feet. Styke grabbed the falling truncheon of another and brought his knife down hard, severing the man’s hand at the wrist. He flipped the truncheon around, bloody hand and all, and slammed it across the face of its former owner, then let go to draw the bone knife from his belt and bury it in the eye of the last Blackhat.

The whole fight lasted less than twenty seconds. Styke’s chest rose and fell from the effort, and he bent to finish off two survivors before they had a chance to start screaming. He glanced up, noting the Palo policemen still overseeing the quarry down the street. The Palo stared at him, unmoving, and the street was silent.