Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

Vlora bit her tongue, then couldn’t help but ask, “What’s going to happen to her?”

The Bronze Rose’s eyebrows went up. “An example, that’s what.”

“Torture?” Olem asked, a dangerous note to his voice. He didn’t like the prospect any more than Vlora did. She reached out in the darkness to gently touch his hand in warning.

“Nah,” the Bronze Rose said with a note of regret. “She’s going to hang within days. The grand master doesn’t want any chance of a rescue attempt or riots. For the best, I suppose.”

“For the best,” Vlora echoed, allowing herself a silent sigh of relief.

The Blackhats were gone within moments, and Vlora found herself watching until the prison wagon was out of sight. She wondered about how quickly it had all gone. An hour ago Mama Palo had been challenging Lindet herself for control of a significant part of Landfall, and now she was just another criminal ready for the noose.

All thanks to Vlora and her mages. It soured her stomach a little, and she needed somewhere to spit, and a drink to get the bad taste out of her mouth.

“Lady Flint.”

Vlora looked up to find Meln-Dun beside her. The anger and spite the Palo had shown during the kidnapping was gone, replaced with his normal placid calm. She wondered whether she’d seen a truer side to him, or if the stress of the mission had brought out something dark. The latter was not unheard-of.

“Well done,” she told him.

“To you as well. I can’t thank you enough, Lady Flint. It may take a week or two to calm things down in the Depths, but I’ll have my people begin a purge of Mama Palo’s followers immediately. I think a time of peace and prosperity is due in Landfall.”

“I certainly hope so,” Vlora answered. “And you’ll be able to get your family back safe?”

“Yes, I believe so. I’ll see to that tonight.”

Vlora raised her eyebrows as Meln-Dun turned to leave. “Do you need an escort?”

“Ah,” Meln-Dun said, “I don’t think so. With the chaos of Mama Palo’s disappearance I should be able to rally my own forces without trouble. Thank you again, Lady Flint. You have my gratitude.”

The Palo businessman left by the main gate, leaving Vlora alone in the muster yard as her mages had gone to tend to their wounds.

Well, not quite alone.

Olem stood beside her, a weighing look in his eyes as he watched Meln-Dun leave. He wore a small frown, and tapped an unlit cigarette against his lip. The night was suddenly quiet within the fort, muted sounds of a city at sleep drifting over the walls. It was so peaceful that Vlora wondered if the entire raid had been a dream.

“This went off without a hitch,” she said quietly. “Why do I feel shitty?”

“Having to kill a whole lot of people is a pretty large hitch,” Olem answered. A match flared to life, and a moment later she smelled cigarette smoke.

“But I’m a bloody mercenary. I’ve killed hundreds of people. Maybe thousands. This shouldn’t bother me.”

“You’re a killer,” Olem agreed, “but you’re a decent person.”

The two statements seemed mutually exclusive to her. “Do you think about the people you’ve killed?”

“Seems like a pretty good path to madness.”

There was a brief pause. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Olem sighed. “Sometimes. I try not to.”

“Same here.” Vlora looked out the gate, hoping that Mama Palo would make it to the noose unmolested. She may have been the enemy, but she was an old lady who had the guts to challenge the most powerful woman on this continent. That was something Vlora had to respect.

She intertwined her fingers with Olem’s and said, “I’m sick of this place. Let’s leave.”

“I think,” Olem responded, “we should get paid first.”

Michel returned to Landon Plain the next morning with three dozen Iron Roses, eight Bronze Roses, and two prison wagons. Taniel had told him that he’d get his Gold Rose today, but he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. Which, he reasoned, would make things more authentic.

He spent the entire ride trying to put his thoughts and memories back into the marble, but to no avail. He could feel himself slipping, mentally, thinking of the Iron Roses riding beside him in the wagon as his enemies instead of underlings. He caught himself worrying about Taniel – no, he corrected himself, Tampo – instead of champing at the bit to bring him in. It left him confused and irritable, and it took all his effort to keep from muttering about it under his breath.

Landon Plain was bustling when they arrived, but the moment the prison wagons with the white roses emblazoned on their sides and their accompaniment of Blackhats rolled onto a street the Palo scattered like a flock of geese, leaving goods, animals, and even rickshaws where they lay.

The Palo Herald was quiet as the Blackhats surrounded it, and Michel felt an anxious trepidation. What would he find inside? Bodies? Live Palo left as scapegoats? An ambush?

“All right,” Michel said, getting out of the back of the prison wagon and pointing to two of the biggest Iron Roses he could find. “You two, take that door. You six, sweep under the docks. You four take the warehouse next door. Where’s Warsim?”

“Here, sir,” Agent Warsim responded, getting out of the next wagon.

“You take the lead.”

Michel rounded to the far side of the prison wagon to watch the attack, a trio of Bronze Roses remaining close in case of a fight. He licked his lips, then nodded to Warsim as he and several big Iron Roses crept up beneath the sign that said PALO HERALD. As one, they kicked in the door and rushed inside while the rest of the group sprang into action.

Within moments Michel heard the crash of more doors being kicked in, and coordinated shouting from the crawl space beneath the warehouse. He listened to the tramp of feet, watching the open front door of the newspaper office with bated breath.

There was a long silence, broken only by the crash of something being knocked over, and then a single shout.

Warsim appeared in the doorway. “All clear!” he called.

Michel let himself breathe, jogging over to the building. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Where is everyone?”

“We’ve got nothing, sir,” Warsim reported. “It’s empty.” He scowled, and Michel waited for the bad news.

“And…?” Michel prompted.

“There’s a body upstairs.”

Michel rushed into the warehouse and took the stairs two at a time up to the little room where, just yesterday, he’d spoken with Taniel. The room seemed dimmer than it had before, the walls closer together. And just inside, slumped beside a chair in the middle of the room, was a corpse lying facedown in a congealed pool of blood.

Michel slowly circled the body and waved away the buzzing flies. The corpse wore an expensive suit, now soaked through with blood, with a cane lying on the ground beside it. Michel picked up the cane and, using it and the toe of his boot, turned the body over. It held a spent pistol in one outstretched hand, and there was a bullet hole in the left temple. The wall behind the body was covered in blood and bits of brain.

The face, despite being covered in blood, belonged unmistakably to Gregious Tampo.

“Do we have a Knacked?” Michel asked, trying not to wretch.

“Sammlen, sir. He’s downstairs,” Warsim answered.

“Bring him up here.”

Warsim returned with Sammlen a moment later, and Michel pointed to the body. “What is it you use to sense sorcery? Your third eye, right?”