Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

It was Olem who voiced her next question. “This isn’t just a congratulatory visit, is it?”

“No,” Jes replied, his voice clipped. He clasped his hands behind his back, still looking away from her and Olem. “This is a matter of some personal embarrassment, but Benjamin Styke has escaped.”

Vlora looked sidelong at Olem, who adopted a look that obviously said good for him , and shook her head. He scrunched up his face and dug in his pocket for his tobacco. “I assumed he was dead.”

“He was not,” Jes replied. “For reasons unbeknownst to me, the Lady Chancellor will not allow Styke to die. He was suitably chastised and returned to the labor camp in which he’s been incarcerated for so many years.”

“I thought he escaped that camp before.”

“It was more complicated than that. Regardless, we thought it was a good place for him.”

Vlora snorted. “But it wasn’t.”

“No,” Jes snapped, finally turning toward her. “The Sweetwallow Labor Camp was destroyed last night, the buildings burned to the ground, the guards slaughtered, and the convicts released.”

“You don’t think that we did it, do you?” Vlora asked, incredulous.

“No. We believe it was the work of Styke’s old comrades, the Mad Lancers.”

The thought of a bunch of angry old veterans attacking a labor camp almost made Vlora laugh. She bit her bottom lip, glancing at Olem.

“Weren’t they disbanded ten years ago?” Olem said.

Jes ignored the question. “I want Styke recaptured, and I want his accomplices hunted down and executed.”

“And you want us to do it?” Vlora asked flatly. Even before he’d finished his sentence she began running numbers and logistics in her head, trying to decide how much work it would be to capture or kill a company of retired veterans. The Mad Lancers were legendary, but they were ten years past their prime. She didn’t doubt her men could handle them. But she wasn’t sure it was worth it.

“Your assignment regarding Mama Palo is over and we have paid you in a mix of bullion, bank notes, supplies, and letters of mark as requested.”

Vlora gave a low whistle. “Already?”

“Yes,” Olem confirmed. It was by far the fastest they’d ever been paid.

“I’ve even authorized a bonus, paid immediately, if you’re willing to take on another assignment this very moment,” Jes continued.

“Styke?”

“Yes, Styke.”

Vlora continued to run through logistics, but suddenly put a stop to it. What was she doing? She hated Jes, didn’t much care for Lindet or her government, and her men were about to have a significant population of the city turn against them purely by default. Besides, she liked Styke. He’d more than proved his mettle and she had no interest in chasing after him and putting him down like a mad dog.

She glanced at Olem. He’d managed to restore his card-playing face, but she didn’t even need to ask his opinion on a matter like this. “Is this coming straight from Lindet?”

“From me,” Jes replied.

“Not interested.”

“I’ll have Lindet on board with the idea by this afternoon.”

“Still not interested.”

Jes’s face reddened slightly. Whatever he was expecting, an outright refusal was not it. “Is it because of your relationship with Styke?” He took a measured breath, then said, “We’re rather low on manpower at the moment. I can provide you with a different assignment that will free up my own men to address this menace. We could have you continue your garrison of Loel’s Fort to keep the peace against the Palo.”

“My relationship with Styke, as I mentioned before, was as a sympathetic employer to an old crippled veteran. And no, I’m not interested in having my men picked apart by angry Palo for the next year. You can’t fight what’s going on in Greenfire Depths. You have to either make changes big enough to bring them around to your side, or burn the whole bloody place down.”

“You could garrison Fort Nied…”

Vlora raised a hand to cut him off. She was surprised that Jes seemed so eager to keep her on the payroll. Her impression of him was that he didn’t care one bit for her. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you’re trying to keep me around.”

“You’re… valuable.”

So are green-eyed vipers, but I don’t let them have the run of my luggage. “No thank you, grand master. I expect to give my men some leave, and then we’ll be departing Fatrasta entirely. Back to the Nine with us.”

Jes ground his teeth. “And no amount of money would sway you?”

“Not any that comes to mind,” Vlora replied.

“Well,” Jes said. He fumed openly, his jaw thrust toward her. “I’m sorry to hear that. You’ll understand that we don’t want an unauthorized army on our soil. You have two nights to remove yourself from Loel’s Fort and four to take your men out of the city. Good day, Lady Flint.”

Jes strode away, fists clenched, and Vlora turned to Olem the moment he was out of earshot. “Did that seem strange to you?” she asked.

“Very,” Olem said. “He is going to give himself an apoplexy.”

“Over one man?”

“Well,” Olem responded, “a whole company.”

“It has to be something else,” Vlora responded, though she couldn’t for the life of her decide what. He probably was worried about Palo riots, and he did know about the Dynize, though they were hardly a threat contained as they were down in Greenfire Depths. “There’s no way he’s going that mad over the prospect of a single group of retired lancers running amok.”

“The Mad Lancers were legendary,” Olem said. “They broke whole Kez armies back in their day.”

Vlora mulled that over. She’d witnessed legendary companies firsthand – some that lived up to their reputations, and more that did not. But even if every story was true, Jes’s behavior didn’t make any sense. Something else was on his mind. Something big. Styke was just the thorn that continued to prick him. “It’s not our problem anymore. Looks like we’ve overstayed our welcome, both with the Palo and our former employer. Start chartering us passage back to the Nine.”

“You were serious about that?” Olem asked.

Vlora hesitated. She had a lot of bad memories back home, some of which she’d been running from for more than five years. Perhaps it was time to head back and take those on. Or perhaps not.

“Check with the local chapter house of the Wings of Adom. See if they have any work for us. We’ll head home for the winter, then re-form the company in spring. Maybe head to Gurla.”

Olem touched the brim of his hat. “Right. Any specific action we’re looking for?”

“I’m sick of oppressing people,” Vlora said, glancing toward Greenfire Depths. “I’m sick of working for tin-pot dictators. Find me an underdog to fight for. As long as they can pay decently, of course.”

“That’s the kicker.”

“It always is.” Vlora took the cigarette out of Olem’s mouth and drew on it deeply before handing it back. She had a feeling in her gut, a twisting of her bowels that made her want to look over her shoulder. Their need to be gone from Landfall was suddenly desperate, and she resisted the urge to run back to Loel’s Fort that second.

“Something wrong?” Olem asked.

“Indigestion. I hope. Get the men ready to move out.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m taking a day off, then I’m going to see the fruits of our labor. I’ll come find you after Mama Palo’s hanging tomorrow.”

“The Privileged,” Styke asked. “Did you kill him?”