Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

“No. I need it straight from the dragonman. I need to draw him out again.”

Jackal hesitated. His eyes dipped tellingly to the scar on Styke’s face, then to his mangled hand. “We’ve both changed,” Jackal said gently. “If it was the old Styke, I’d believe you could fight a dragonman, but in your state…”

“Yeah,” Styke said, the words biting, “I know I’m a cripple. But I’m Mad Ben Styke, and I’m no fool. You can get word to him, can’t you? Your spirits can tell you where he is, and your boys can deliver a message?”

“This isn’t a good idea.”

“You haven’t even heard the idea,” Styke said. “I want you to tell Kushel that I’ve got his knife, and he can take it from me at the muster yard in Loel’s Fort.”

Jackal pursed his lips. “That’s an obvious trap.”

“Of course it’s an obvious trap. I’m not facing this bastard alone. If he’s a legendary warrior, he can fight this old cripple for it on my own terms. And if I lose, at least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing Lady Flint will put a bullet in his head.”

“He won’t fall for it,” Jackal said.

Styke removed the bone knife from his belt, as well as his own big knife, holding them side by side so Jackal could see. “The stories say these weapons are part of a dragonman’s identity. If someone I hated had my knife, you bet your ass I’d cut my way through a brigade of infantry to get it back.” He returned the knives, his eyes falling once more on the bruises on Celine’s neck. “Just send the message.”

Vlora stared at a smudge of blood on the slimy, limestone floor of Greenfire Depths and struggled to keep her anger in check. She could feel it at the edges of her awareness shoving and pushing like a creature trapped in a bubble of her mental making; a bubble that threatened to burst at any moment. She fought to keep her face stoic, her demeanor professional, even while a part of her reached out with her sorcerous senses to feel the black powder on the soldiers around her. Like standing on the edge of a cliff with the unnatural impulse to jump, she felt the urge to detonate every ounce of powder within the radius of her sorcery, killing her, her men, and no doubt hundreds of innocent Palo.

Perhaps some guilty ones, too.

“Please tell me,” she said calmly, “that we know something .”

Olem’s Knack prevented him from needing sleep, but the redness in his eyes told her that he’d been pushing himself too far, not getting enough rest as he sought to gather all the information she needed from this city. He was frayed at the edges, smoking like a chimney, and the glint in his eye said he knew exactly what sort of self-destructive beast was rampaging through her head.

“All we know is this is the last place they were seen,” Olem said. They stood about fifty yards into Greenfire Depths from the bottom of the Rim. The only light came from strategically placed reflective mirrors, and the dirty street – more like a corridor – was empty of Palo and eerily silent. Vlora had twenty soldiers with her and not a single one so much as muttered as they stared somberly at her and Olem.

They’d been with her long enough to know her moods.

The subject of their discussion, a single engineer and a squad of bodyguards that had come down here this morning to survey the destruction of a block of these spiderweb-like tenements, was missing. They’d been three hours late in reporting in when Vlora decided to lead an expedition to look for them, and in another three hours all she’d managed to find was this smudge of blood and a trail that went completely cold.

“This is where they were last seen?” Vlora echoed. “What were they last seen doing ? Was there gunfire? Shouting? Screams? Damn it, Olem, I need answers .”

Olem stared back at her, eyes narrowing slightly, and she immediately regretted raising her voice. “We’ve combed every tenement within a hundred yards. Not a single person reports anything out of the ordinary. That some of them mentioned our boys passing through at all is a miracle. We’re not wanted here. ”

That’s just too bad for them, isn’t it? “Palo silence, huh?” Vlora remembered her talk with Gregious Tampo, along with the warning about her status among the Palo. She was their villain, and to think she could change that with a few handshakes and a now-well-publicized desire to rebuild a block of tenements was folly.

“Palo silence,” Olem agreed.

“Expand our search area to two hundred yards. Bring more men down. I want our boys found.” The orders were barely above a whisper, and Vlora could immediately see that Olem didn’t like them.

“We shouldn’t risk more men,” Olem said reasonably.

“I won’t abandon them.”

“Every minute we’re down here is another minute our enemies have to plan another attack.”

“If this was an attack.”

Olem looked pointedly at the smear of blood. “If we go kicking down doors, we’ll be working against ourselves. We have to return to the fort and regroup.”

Vlora closed her eyes. She knew Olem was right. She had a responsibility toward more than just the nine men who’d gone missing. The engineer, Petaer, was a particularly talented young man and his loss would be palpable, but the others were infantry. Her infantry, but infantry nonetheless. She needed to attend to the brigade. Not a single squad. But if she abandoned a squad, at what point would the men begin to wonder if they, too, would be abandoned?

“The order stands,” she said, opening her eyes and locking them with Olem. His lip curled in a brief show of defiance, then he looked away, ashing his cigarette.

“All right,” he said quietly.

“Two hundred yards. If they find anything, let me know immediately. No violence. Our men are to travel in groups of no fewer than twenty at any time. And tell them to begin mapping this area of the Depths in three dimensions. I want to know what this warren looks like. Search until eight, then call it off.”

Olem perked up. “A map will be useful.”

“That’s why they pay me so well.” Vlora slapped him on the shoulder with enthusiasm she didn’t feel and turned back toward the entrance to the Depths that she could see through the dim light behind them. “Get me Meln-Dun. If I’m going to play his petty politics, I want him to protect my men.”

Meln-Dun entered Vlora’s office in Loel’s Fort with hat in hand, a measured, sympathetic smile on his face. Vlora shook his hand and offered him a seat, and he spoke before she could begin.

“I’m very sorry to hear about the loss of your men,” he said.

Vlora had to consciously keep her eyes from narrowing. How could he possibly know about the attack? “You know about that, eh?”

“Word spreads quickly in the Depths, and your men have been searching for hours.”

Of course. A few hundred mercenary soldiers knocking on doors in one corner of the Depths surely would have attracted attention. This whole situation had her squinting at shadows, and Meln-Dun had done nothing to earn her distrust. “I’m sure it does. Which is why I was hoping for your help in finding my men.”

Meln-Dun seemed to have expected the request, nodding before her sentence was even finished. “I already have my contacts looking into it, Lady Flint, and I’m honored that you’d ask my help.” He hesitated a moment, then continued: “You have a reputation for respecting honesty, correct?”