Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

“One other question,” Flint said, bringing Michel out of his thoughts. “Are you familiar with someone named Gregious Tampo?”

All trace of exhaustion left Michel as quickly as if he’d been dunked in the bay. “Where’d you hear that name?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

Flint must have heard some excitement in his voice, because she turned to him with a frown, looking him up and down. “You seem distracted today,” she said.

“Never mind that. Tampo. Where did you hear the name?” Gregious . Michel had a first name now, and that could mean a lot.

“I met him,” Flint said.

“Where?”

“The Yellow Hall. He was at the gala the other night.”

“You’re sure? Describe him to me!”

Flint hesitated. “He was tall and thin. He had black hair. A bit of a hawkish face. Seemed a bit off to me, like someone you wouldn’t want to meet in a back alley, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. He was incredibly rude to me at the gala, and I was wondering if he was someone I need to look out for.”

Michel licked his lips, half-tempted to tell Flint about his alternate mission. But no, he needed to keep that information close. “What did he say? Did he tell you who he was, or where he lives?”

“He didn’t offer a lot of information.” Flint dug through her pocket and then handed Michel a card. All it said was “The Palo Herald” and “Gregious Tampo” in smaller letters underneath. Michel checked the back for an address, but there was nothing.

“Did he say where it was?”

“Not that I recall. He said it was a small newspaper that catered to the Palo. But when I asked Vallencian, he’d never heard of it.”

“Can I keep this?” Michel didn’t wait for an answer, but shoved the card in his pocket. He raised his hand toward the nearest cab. This was big. Huge, possibly. A small newspaper required a printing press, and printing presses could be traced. For the first time since he’d lost Tampo at his offices, Michel had another lead. “Thank you, Lady Flint. I’ll get the permissions you require.”

“Wait,” Flint said. “What’s going on with Tampo?”

A cab pulled away from the curb and headed toward Michel. “Tampo is an enemy of the state,” he told Lady Flint. “If you see him again, you must arrest him and send for me – and only me – immediately. I must go. The Millinery,” he ordered the cabdriver, leaping onto the running board.

Michel was going to find this Palo Herald , and this time he wasn’t going to let Tampo get away.

Styke entered a small Kresim church under the west rim of Greenfire Depths that matched the directions given to him by Old Man Fles. It was a dilapidated wood building; practically a disaster waiting to happen, long rotted through by the constant damp at the bottom of the quarry. The church was tucked up against the wall, a three-room construction with a steeple atop which Kresimir’s Rope had long ago fallen off. The inside was well lit by gas lamps, the floor covered in rubbish, old pews long stolen or destroyed.

There was an orderly queue of people along one side of the chapel, and at the front, atop what had once been an altar to Kresimir, sat an immense soup pot and stacks of stale bread. Palo boys as young as Celine and all the way into their twenties either waited in line or already enjoyed their morning meal squatting by the wall or sitting cross-legged in the empty chapel. Styke was more than a little surprised to recognize the man standing behind the soup pot, dishing out bowls to the waiting youth.

Styke watched him work for a moment, remaining unnoticed, then pulled Celine to one side of the chapel and squatted down among the Palo, who gave him space without comment. He pointed at Jackal.

“Henrick Jackal,” he told Celine, “was an orphan like you. Now look at him. Taking care of kids on the streets where he fought, killed, and stole. Funny how life works out.”

Celine seemed more than a little impressed. “He looks like a killer.”

Styke found a piece of horngum in his pocket and chewed thoughtfully for a few moments. A little girl solemnly proclaiming a man she’d never met as a killer made him chuckle, but she wasn’t wrong. Jackal was missing an ear and the pinkie on his left hand, but even beyond the obvious war wounds he was an intimidating man. He was well muscled but lean, and held himself with the kind of confidence that tended to intimidate ordinary folks. He wore an old brown duster, parted in the middle to reveal a stomach hard enough to take a kick from a mule, and a pair of old buckskin pants. His red hair was long and braided off to one side, his shallow cheeks covered in the ashen freckles of a Palo.

A spiritualist, Fles had called him.

“Henrick isn’t a Palo name,” Celine observed.

“Neither is Jackal,” Styke said. “But an orphan can call himself anything he wants.”

They waited for almost thirty minutes for the line to die down, but more Palo teenagers entered the chapel to replace each that finished their breakfast and left. Eventually a pair of teens came through the front door lugging a new soup pot, letting everyone in line know they were out of bread but that they had enough gruel to go around.

Styke was just beginning to think this would go all day when a small Palo boy – probably no more than a year older than Celine – suddenly approached them. He held two bowls of soup, and the last two loaves of bread from the platter, and offered them to Styke and Celine.

Styke took the soup, drinking it quickly and mopping the bottom of the bowl with the bread. It tasted awful, but Celine didn’t seem to mind. The boy watched them through their meal, then said in broken Adran, “Jackal wants to see you.”

Styke palmed a few pennies and slipped them to the boy, getting up and stretching his legs. He searched his pockets for more horngum and came up empty, making a mental note to stop by an apothecary.

Jackal had been replaced at his post by a pair of Palo teens, and Styke slipped past them to head into the vestry. It proved to be a dark, closetlike space, barely big enough for a sleeping roll and a small shrine comprised of a human skull, in front of which he found Jackal kneeling. Jackal’s eyes were closed, and he faced the shrine with lips moving silently.

“You never struck me as the praying type,” Styke said.

“I’m not praying. I’m talking.”

“With?”

“A spirit.”

Styke tried to remember what he could of Palo religion. With so many tribes scattered across Fatrasta there tended to be a wide array of beliefs. “I’ve never met a Palo who believed they could talk to spirits.”

“That’s because most Palo don’t.” Between sentences, Jackal’s lips continued to move as if he were carrying on two conversations at once. Finally, he gave a slight nod and opened his eyes, smiling warmly at Styke. “Colonel Styke. When the spirits told me you were still alive, I thought they were playing a joke on me. The afterlife can get awfully boring, and spirits aren’t to be trusted.”

Styke snorted. He wondered if Jackal had finally lost the few marbles he’d started with. “Good to see you, too, Jackal. I thought once the military police were done with me they’d come after you.”

“They did,” Jackal said, his face not changing expressions. “Ibana held them off long enough for me to get away, and then her father pulled some strings to get her released from their custody.”

“Smart,” Styke said. “I appreciate you coming after me when they put me up against the wall.”