Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

Vlora turned from her continued study of the dragonman to cock an eyebrow.

“Never know when a corpse will come in handy,” Olem said with a shrug.

Vlora paced nervously as the muster yard emptied and the blood was cleaned up. Something about Styke’s tale had her on edge, but she couldn’t quite place it. Maybe she was bothered by the reminder of how much of an impact Taniel had on, not only her world, but everyone else’s. Maybe it wasn’t even the story itself, but his fight with the dragonman. Styke was no sorcery-enhanced powder mage. Normal men didn’t have that kind of power. They didn’t crush a skull with a bare fist or break a Warden’s spine. She suddenly feared Styke, and she hadn’t truly feared another person for years.

Maybe she didn’t like remembering that there were still monsters in the world that even she couldn’t comprehend.

The blood was just being scraped off the dirt of the muster yard when there was a sudden commotion at the front gate. Vlora stopped her pacing and turned around with a scowl, only to see a handful of Blackhats appear at the open doors of the fort. There were two riders with Bronze Roses hanging from their necks, and another six Iron Roses on foot gathered around them. Their ranks suddenly swelled as more joined them from the street. Ten, then twenty, then thirty Blackhats crowded into the space.

Vlora’s heart was suddenly pounding. She checked her pistol and sword. “Someone get Olem,” she ordered, striding toward the gate.

Her soldiers stood firm just inside the fort gate, while Blackhats shifted nervously, staring at the Riflejack guards like a pack of wild dogs waiting for a signal. For their part her guards were stone-faced, and their sergeant – a stubborn, flat-faced man missing an ear from enemy straight shot – was arguing with one of the Bronze Roses.

“Lady Flint’s orders,” Sergeant Jamenis insisted. “No one allowed inside Loel’s Fort without being announced first. You wait until word comes back from the Lady and then –”

“It’s all right, Jamenis,” Vlora said, hurrying up behind him. “I’m right here. Stand down.” Jamenis immediately stepped aside, saluting.

The Bronze Rose scoffed, urging his horse forward. Vlora grabbed the horse’s bridle, holding up the whole mob. “I didn’t say you could enter. Can I help you with something, Blackhat?”

“Your men are lucky you’re here,” the Bronze Rose responded. He tugged on his reins, but Vlora held firm. “Next time we won’t be so accommodating. This is a surprise inspection, and I have full authority to search the premises on order of the grand master.”

Vlora pursed her lips. Pushy Blackhats. This was the last thing she needed today. Was this Agent Bravis’s idea of a joke? Or was this a screen for her cover – hoping the Palo would see she was being pushed around by the Blackhats and be more likely to trust her?

“No one inspects my men without my say-so,” Vlora said.

“Grand master’s orders,” the Bronze Rose said again, as if the words were a magic password. “Surprise inspection. You do know what a surprise is, don’t you?”

Vlora looked around at her gate guard, noting the tightening of fingers on rifles and the frowns on the faces of her men. She wondered what it would take to get the respect of the locals – Palo or Blackhats – and decided she’d have to live without it.

This could turn very ugly, very quickly. She tried to read the face of the Bronze Rose. He was sweating heavily, even for the heat, and he kept shifting the reins from one hand to the other.

“What’s going on, Blackhat? I don’t report to anyone except the Lady Chancellor herself, and I won’t listen to the lip of a lapdog. Explain yourself before I shut the gates in your face.” The Bronze Rose opened his mouth, but Vlora continued in a reasonable tone: “And before you throw threats and curses, remember that I have a brigade of the finest riflemen in the world within a whistle. Keep it civil.”

The Bronze Rose chewed on his tongue for several moments, his face turning several shades of red before returning to a healthy, pink sheen. “We’re looking for an escaped convict named Ben Styke. Witnesses say they’ve seen him entering this compound on at least two occasions. He is a dangerous war criminal and is to be remanded to our custody immediately.”

“You’re shitting me.” The words slipped out before Vlora could stop herself, and she immediately bit down on her tongue, her mind racing. Styke was an escaped war criminal? A thousand little things clicked into place, every interaction with Styke suddenly making all the more sense. His disappearance from public life, his injuries, his desire to keep a low profile, his disconnect from the modern city.

The initial shock passed within moments, replaced quickly by an utter lack of surprise, and then a cold anger in the pit of her stomach. It must have all been plain to see on her face, because the Bronze Rose looked down from his saddle with a smug smile.

“If you’d just hand him over, we’ll be gone in a few moments.”

The Blackhats behind him all tightened their grip on their weapons. A little part of her realized they were not expecting an easy time of things, but the rest of her didn’t give a damn. “Give me a moment,” she snapped, spinning on her heel.

She found Olem coming toward her across the muster yard but snatched him by the shoulder and pulled him into the fort office, slamming the door behind her.

“He lied to us.”

Olem pursed his lips. “Who?”

“Styke. There’s a whole platoon’s worth of Blackhats standing at our gate demanding we hand over Styke. He’s a damned war criminal. An escaped convict.”

Olem paced to the other side of the room, took out a pouch of tobacco, and smoothed a rolling paper on the table.

“Olem…”

He held up his finger. “Hold on. I’m thinking.”

Vlora flexed her fingers, gripping and ungripping the hilt of her sword. Everything was making her furious lately – it was like an angry cloud had descended on her the moment she entered Landfall, preventing her from sorting her thoughts clearly. She had to fight through it. She had to be cold, calculating. Before two weeks ago she didn’t know Styke from a swamp dragon. She had no reason to trust anything he said – even if he had followed her orders and tracked down the dragonman. All she had was his reputation, Olem’s admiration, and Taniel’s letters.

Did she have any more reason to trust the Blackhats? They were notoriously two-faced and underhanded. They existed to lie and manipulate. But did they lie about this? Styke was dangerous, and it made perfect sense that he’d escaped from a labor camp. But why wasn’t there a general alarm around the city? How was this the first Vlora had heard of it? Surely the newspaper would have reported something.

“He didn’t lie to us,” Olem suddenly said.

“What do you mean?”

“He just said he needed work. Never told us where he’d been, or why. And we never asked. So, technically, he never lied to us.”

“What have I told you about using the word ‘technically’ to me?”

Olem finished rolling a cigarette and squinted at the ceiling. “That you’d kick my teeth in?”

“Right.” Vlora ground her teeth. “I was just starting to like him. Pit, I was just starting to trust him.”

“More than you trust the Blackhats?”

“Something I was wondering myself.” The knot of anger still sat in her stomach, but it had diminished to a reasonable size and Vlora felt like she could approach the matter with a clear head. She took a deep breath. “There’s nothing we can do for him,” she said. “We’re employed by the state. I could defy the Blackhats, but that mob out there means Fidelis Jes takes Styke very seriously. By the end of the night we could have an army outside our gates.”