Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

“Hilarious,” the old Blackhat said. “I’ll take your name and address and we’ll let you know when to keep your appointment.”

“Benjamin Styke. Colonel. First Division, Third Cavalry, Mad Lancers.”

“A soldier, eh? Usually you guys are smarter than…” The old Blackhat trailed off, his mouth working silently. From somewhere inside the Millinery came the sound of shouting, and the watchman finally looked up, mouth hanging open at Styke’s appearance. “Oh,” he said breathlessly. “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Styke confirmed. “Tell Fidelis Jes I’m going to make a hand puppet out of his worthless corpse. I’ve told a dozen newspapers I’m on my way here, so if he tries to make me disappear the whole city will know him for a bloody coward.” A lie, but a plausible one.

The guard lurched from his chair and backed away from Styke. “I’ll, uh, give him the message. Give me just a few… moments.” He bolted into the Millinery. The shouting got closer, and Styke was soon aware of the heavy tromp of feet. The narrow gate filled with faces as Blackhats crowded just inside, bristling with weapons from blunderbusses to cudgels. Feet shuffled and men jostled for position as they tried to look intimidating – while they stayed well out of arm’s reach.

Styke leaned against the watchman’s post, cleaning his nails and contemplating his mortality.

He did not expect to leave the Millinery alive. He didn’t feel any real fear – he’d never desired death, but the prospect had never particularly phased him, either. He was here to die, and he suspected it would be by the hands of the very mob gathered just inside. He’d take a few of them with him, if he could, but his only real goal was to go down with bits of Fidelis Jes’s brains on his shirt.

He pictured Fidelis Jes as he last saw him – thin, muscular, his neck a little too thick and his head a little too narrow, making him look like a nub of pencil stuck on a body, looking smug as he watched Styke’s firing squad take aim. Styke froze that smile in his mind’s eye and wondered what it would look like when he popped Jes’s head between his palms like a ripe melon. The Blackhats would gun him down as soon as their leader expired, but Styke would die with a grin.

He had a few regrets. He wished he hadn’t been forced to double-time Lady Flint. He regretted not saying he was sorry to Ibana. He wanted to know what Tampo’s real plans were for Landfall.

He wished he could have watched Celine grow up.

“Colonel Styke?” a voice asked.

Styke came out of his reverie to find a woman of about thirty standing between him and the mob of Blackhats. “Who are you?”

“My name is Dellina. I’m the grand master’s secretary. I understand you’re here about personal combat with the grand master.”

“I have no interest in waiting.”

“Of course,” Dellina said, smiling professionally. If she was put off by his bloody state, she didn’t show it. “And we have no intention of keeping you waiting. The grand master is in a meeting right now but he left strict instructions to be summoned when you arrived. He should be here anytime.”

Styke felt a knot form in his stomach. “He was expecting me.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Styke felt the sudden kick to the ribs that accompanied the realization that he’d been manipulated. Of course. He’d played right into Jes’s hands. Instead of forcing Jes to chase him around Landfall, Styke strode straight into the Millinery and offered himself up like a damned dunce.

That was the foolish thing Old Man Fles had been referring to.

No backing out now. Styke felt a little bit stupid, but he was not afraid. He was going to die, and Jes would die along with him. The feeling gave him some comfort, but he nonetheless kept his knife hand ready as Dellina parted the mob of Blackhats and led him through the Millinery. The mob dogged their heels, then disappeared as he was led into a small, nondescript courtyard toward the back of the building. The Blackhats reappeared a few moments later, gathered around the catwalk above the courtyard, watching him like so many vultures.

“May I offer you any fruit or wine?” Dellina asked politely.

“No.” Styke shrugged out of his old cavalry jacket and handed it to Dellina, who took it without comment.

“And what weapons shall you be fighting with today?”

Styke looked around the courtyard. The cobbles showed regular scrubbing, but only in particular splotches, likely from cleaning up blood. He caught the glint of metal down one arched hallway, and spied a weapon rack with dozens of swords, knives, pistols, and muskets, all polished and on display. Styke tapped his knife.

“Knives it is,” Dellina said.

This was where Fidelis Jes did his killing, and if the newspapers were any indication, he’d become damned good at it. Styke wondered if he should be feeling fear right about now, but dismissed the thought. He’d not felt it when he charged fifteen thousand infantry in the Battle of Landfall, nor when he charged a full brigade at Planth, backed only by Two-shot’s irregulars and a small-town garrison. He’d not felt fear once during the war, and he refused to surrender to it now.

“Benjamin Styke,” a voice called.

Styke felt his heart soar as Fidelis Jes strolled down a short run of steps at the far end of the courtyard. Seeing him approach was like witnessing the arrival of an old friend – if you planned on murdering him painfully – and Styke drummed the fingers of his good hand on the hilt of his knife, humming to himself.

This was it. A moment he’d dreamed about for ten years.

“Been a long time,” Fidelis Jes said, falling into a soldier’s stance about ten feet away.

“Too long,” Styke said quietly. “And not long enough.”

If Styke was a wreck of a human being, just a shadow of his former self, Fidelis Jes had done nothing but grow stronger and better-looking. His shoulders were wider than Styke remembered, his arms and thighs more massive, his skin pleasantly tanned. He still had that ridiculously thick neck and stupidly thin head, but they seemed less important when the rest of his body was a godlike specimen. Jes had not allowed himself to grow fat or lazy in his position. Styke hated him a little for that, but as far as hate went it was like throwing a glass of water into the ocean.

Jes grinned like he was about to carve up a particularly succulent turkey. “Pit, you’re uglier than I remember. Bullet didn’t help your face, did it? Or your back or knee.” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “The years have not been kind to you, my friend.”

“Were we ever friends?” Styke asked. For a moment, he genuinely couldn’t remember.

“Allies.”

“Not the same thing.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Jes admitted. He squinted at Styke. “Decided you were ready to die, did you?”

Styke tapped on the hilt of his knife. “Everyone dies sooner or later.” He studied Jes, searching his eyes and face. They had witnesses – dozens of Blackhats gathered on the catwalks above them – and Jes looked nothing but the confident blowhard that he’d always been. But Styke could see a crack in the armor; Jes’s eyes were too inviting, his smile a little too wide. He bounced on his heels a little too eagerly.

He was nervous. As he should be.

“Knives, is it?” Jes asked. His voice cracked slightly, but he cleared his throat and repeated the question.

“Yes, sir,” Dellina responded. She hurried down the side hall where Styke had spotted the weapon rack and returned with a fixed-blade knife just as big and heavy as Styke’s. She offered it to Jes handle-first and he drew it with one swift motion. Styke expected him to look ridiculous with such a big knife, but Jes gave it a few comfortable, expert flourishes and then began to stretch his arms and legs, like a gymnast readying for a performance.