Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

“The question, then,” Olem said, “is whether we throw Styke to the dogs.” He lit his cigarette and within moments had filled the room with a cloud of smoke. So much smoke was the best sign Olem was distressed, and Vlora didn’t blame him. He liked Styke. After Styke’s story about Taniel, then the fight in the muster yard, the men were beginning to take to him as well.

“I’m not sacrificing our footing here for one man,” Vlora said quietly.

A pained expression crossed Olem’s face. “I agree.”

Vlora and Olem returned to the front gate, where the Blackhats were obviously getting antsy; horses pranced, men muttered, and the Bronze Rose grit his teeth as Vlora approached.

“He’s not here,” Vlora said.

Was that a bit of relief she saw in the Bronze Rose’s eyes? “Where is he?” he demanded.

“Don’t know. Ran off awhile ago. Didn’t say where he was going. You have ten minutes to inspect the yard. I want Fidelis Jes to know that we were unaware of Styke’s status. He’s been cut loose and I’ll give a public order that my men are to arrest him on sight. I don’t like being lied to.”

The speech seemed to satisfy the Bronze Rose, and he gave orders for his men to do a quick sweep of the fort. Vlora watched them enter, loathing herself for letting secret police have the run of her headquarters. Once they were all out of earshot, she turned to Olem.

“Where’s the girl?”

“Celine? Styke left her behind when he took off. I think she’s playing in the mess.”

“Hide her. I won’t let the Blackhats get their grubby hands on an orphan.”

Olem dashed off a quick order to two of the nearby guards and then returned to Vlora’s side. She watched as her men glared down the Blackhats rushing around the compound, and then said quietly, “Did you send anyone to follow Styke?”

“I sent one of my boys in plainclothes.”

“Send another. I won’t risk the brigade for one man – but for a few days at least, Styke was one of mine. The least we can do is give him some warning.”

Styke followed the Fles apprentice down into the Depths and through the warrenlike streets of the slum, straight toward the Fles family home. People stopped and stared, then headed in the other direction or slammed front doors shut as Styke passed, vacating the streets ahead of him like waves rushing before the prow of a ship. The dragonman’s blood – and probably more than a little of his own – dripped from Styke’s fingertips, leaving a steady trail, and he absently wiped his hand on his shirt from time to time.

The apprentice refused to say a word all the way to the Fles family home, and when they reached the front door he could only point in mute horror. The big oak door had been battered off its hinges and hung from a single hinge just inside the foyer. The house inside was dark, and Styke half-expected the apprentice to turn and flee, leaving Styke alone in some kind of a trap.

The apprentice remained close, as if loath to be alone, even if his only companion was a crippled, blood-covered giant.

Styke drew his knife and crept inside.

The destruction did not stop at the front door. Every scrap of furniture – every knickknack collected over a long life serving kings and commoners – had been reduced to scraps. A priceless grandfather clock lay on its side, broken apart by an ax; the collection of Brudanian porcelain on the mantelpiece had been smashed; Gurlish rugs were shredded and Kez vases crushed.

Styke squinted through the low light, taking in the wreckage. He knew immediately who had done it – the Blackhats – and he saw that they had been thorough. Even the walls had been attacked, hundreds of holes punched through the plaster in a hurried fury. The destruction could only have been more thorough if they’d set fire to the house, and only the fear of burning down the whole of the Depths would have stopped them. Somewhere within the house he could hear the sound of weeping, and that sound more than the ruin caused his heart to crack.

He felt his chest tighten, making it hard to breathe, and he croaked, “Where is the Old Man?”

“In the workshop,” the apprentice said.

Fles’s workshop had received the brunt of the damage. Workbenches were split, tools scattered, swords and knives bent and broken. In the center of it all huddled a small group – three apprentices, all of them gathered around a still form on the floor. The youngest of the boys, no older than Celine, wept openly while the other two had red eyes and trembling chins. Styke pushed them gently out of the way and knelt by the Old Man.

Old Man Fles was as beat up as his home. His face was a mess of blood and bruises, and one arm was bent at an odd angle under him. His shirt was soaked with as much blood as Styke’s, and he clutched a broken sword in one hand. He lay where he’d fallen, the boys not daring to move him.

Styke’s chest tightened further. He tried to speak, but satisfied himself with a gesture and a grunt. “Water,” he ordered. He laid two fingers on the Old Man’s neck, then put his ear next to his mouth. He could feel the faint pulse of the vein, the gentle touch of breath on his cheek. Old Man Fles was still alive.

Relief won out among all the other emotions swirling through Styke’s chest. He forced them all down, clearing his throat, then clearing it again, when he noticed that the Old Man’s eyes were open.

“Big, bloody idiot,” the Old Man whispered.

“Shut up,” Styke said. “Save your strength.”

The Old Man tried to roll off his bent arm. He let out a high-pitched moan, then ceased his struggles. He managed to turn his head slightly, looking away from Styke, eyes searching the workshop. “A lifetime’s work,” he muttered.

“Because of me,” Styke said. It was the only reason, of course. The Old Man paid his bribes, kept his nose clean. The Blackhats had no reason to attack such a highly regarded craftsman. Not unless they were trying to get to Styke. They must have found out the Old Man was passing him information somehow. Maybe one of the apprentices. Maybe a spy watching the house. Maybe the Old Man himself had slipped up.

“Of course it was cuz of you,” the Old Man hissed. “Always knew you were bad luck.” He tried to move his arm again, unsuccessfully.

Styke rolled the Old Man on his side gently, ignoring the protesting squeal, and pulled the arm around and laid it on his chest. It was definitely broken, and would probably need to be set. Styke could do it, but he had no idea if the shock of it would kill the Old Man. “You summon a doctor?” he asked the oldest of the apprentices.

“Just you,” the apprentice responded. “He said no doctors.”

“Well, he’s an idiot. Go get the best surgeon in this half of the city, now.”

“No doctors,” the Old Man grunted.

“Shut your flapper,” Styke snapped. The apprentice hesitated, looking from Styke to the Old Man and back. Styke bared his teeth. “Whatever you think he’ll do to you if he gets better, I’ll do worse right now. Surgeon. Go.”

The apprentice fled, and Styke had the others light the lanterns and gather what was left of the Old Man’s bed before carrying him to it. The Old Man cursed Styke’s face and parentage throughout the whole process, then passed out once he’d been laid still again. Styke sat on the floor by the bed, back against the cold manor wall, while the remaining apprentices busied themselves cleaning up the workshop.

Styke stared at the ceiling, trying to remember the last time he had cried. Decades, probably, and the tears weren’t coming now even if he wished they would. The Old Man had been the closest thing he ever had to a mentor. He was a national treasure, a craftsman on par with the gunmaker Hrusch, and he’d always been inviolate. No one touched him, because everyone wanted his blades.