Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

He sat in bed in a rented room above a pub in one of the dozens of border towns that surrounded Landfall. It was the middle of the afternoon, and he could hear the hum of lunchtime conversation in the room below him and the clatter of traffic in the street outside. Ibana ja Fles, manager of Fles and Fles Fine Blades and second in command of the Mad Lancers heavy cavalry, sat on a chair beside the bed.

Few people would consider Ibana a beautiful woman. She had a tough, cracked face from years of working the forge, with a broad forehead and flat, pockmarked cheeks. She had dirty-blond hair tucked carelessly into a ponytail, with an easy smirk that brought back more than a few good memories. She towered over most men, just a few inches shy of Styke’s height, and was strong as an ox. She used to entertain the lancers by cracking empty powder barrels between her thighs.

Ibana popped her knuckles one at a time, first working through one hand and then the other. Styke had been awake for several minutes, and she’d yet to say a word.

“No,” she finally said. “I dumped him in a ditch on the other side of town.”

“You’re getting soft.”

“I told him I’d let him go unharmed if he healed you. I keep my promises.”

Styke looked down at his shoulder and traced a finger over a thin, pink scar – all that remained of the deep stab wound from Fidelis Jes’s knife. He had seventeen other new scars of varying length over the rest of his body, each of them feeling tight and uncomfortable. He rotated his arm, surprised to feel only the slightest twinge. Everything felt as good as new – or at least as good as it was before his fight with Fidelis Jes. The Privileged had even taken some time on each of the old bullet wounds, and Styke found that he now had more, though not complete, use of his middle and index fingers on his left hand. “Healing Privileged are damned rare. Where did you find him on short notice?”

“He’s one of Lindet’s personal cabal. I actually nabbed him to take care of the Old Man, but then Celine showed up ranting about you going to the Millinery.”

“Celine?”

“She’s safe,” Ibana said shortly.

“And the Old Man? Is he…?”

Ibana’s eyes narrowed. “He’ll live. No thanks to you. He’s pissed as a pit about the house.”

“I didn’t want to involve him.”

“But you did.”

Styke chewed on his words, then decided a nod would suffice. “I had just got out. I needed someone I could trust.”

“So you brought my elderly father into your personal vendetta?”

Styke scowled, confused. What was that supposed to mean? “No,” he finally said. “It wasn’t about Fidelis Jes at all. At least, not from the start.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“On several occasions.”

“About anything important?”

Ibana worked through her fingers again. Only one of them popped. “I don’t want your excuses, Colonel.”

Styke felt his stomach clench. Ibana only called him “colonel” when she was worried, or furious. She didn’t look all that worried now. But he was done. He was whole and safe – at least temporarily – for the first time since before the war and he wanted to enjoy it for a few minutes. “What do you want, then?” he demanded.

“I want an apology.”

“For what? Getting the Old Man’s shop wrecked? Him beat up? Because if you don’t think I’m bloody well sorry for that then you’re a fool.”

Ibana’s jaw clenched. “No,” she said quietly. “I expect you to apologize for leaving me alone the last ten years.”

“Fine,” Styke snapped. “I apologize. I apologize for making enemies with that psychotic horse’s ass Fidelis Jes. For getting put in front of the firing squad. For getting hauled off and buried in a labor camp and then for trying to keep everyone else from getting my shit on them when I got out.”

“I saw that camp. You could have escaped.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“Because I knew that this – your father, Little Gamble’s pub, Sunin’s apothecary – all the things they’d built would come crashing down the moment I escaped. I managed to get out without violence, and I was stupid to think that I was free. But I wasn’t.”

Ibana regarded him warily. “You knew about all that? Gamble’s pub? People’s homes and businesses?”

“Not until after my fight with Jes,” Styke said, lowering his voice. “I went to fight him because I thought it would prevent all that. I wanted to keep him from hurting the rest of my friends. But he’d already done it, and he used it to taunt me when I was down.” He let out a sigh, looking around the room, wondering what he was going to do next. Five minutes ago he’d felt like a new man, but the argument with Ibana had taken everything out of him. He felt drained and invalid, and when he tried to move his leg the old bullet wound reminded him that the Privileged hadn’t been able to heal everything. “I’m sorry I left you alone.”

Ibana stood up, stretching. “Here’s the thing,” she said, before suddenly snapping one fist forward, slamming it across Styke’s face. Styke jerked back, knocking against the headboard, stars swirling before his eyes. He tasted blood and it took almost thirty seconds before he could see clearly. He found Ibana gone, the door left open behind her.

Styke rolled slowly out of bed, all the aches and twinges he thought he’d left behind suddenly catching up to him. He’d only had healing sorcery to this extent once before, and his body had felt like a new, slightly too-small glove for over a week. He tottered over to the washbasin and mirror on the other side of the bed and washed the blood off his face, checking his nose. It wasn’t broken. Ibana had pulled her punch.

She was getting soft.

He checked all the new, pink scars again. Most he didn’t remember getting, but he could still feel the slice along his left wrist that had left him unable to move his fingers. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck and he quickly buried the memory, flexing his hand to remind him that it was working once again.

Ibana was back. The knowledge was both frightening and comforting at the same time. He’d always been the head of the Mad Lancers, she the backbone; in some ways not unlike the relationship between Lady Flint and Olem – though he guessed Ibana had a cruel streak that would make Olem blanch. None of that mattered now, though, he reminded himself. The Mad Lancers no longer existed. They were an idea, a memory – a shimmer on the distant horizon.

And his relationship with Ibana? He’d put her father in danger. He’d disappeared for ten years. He didn’t know if she’d taken other lovers or pit, gotten married. He didn’t want to ask. And even if she hadn’t, ten years was an awfully large gap to cross.

“Pit, you’re old,” her voice said. Styke jumped. Ibana leaned in the doorway, eyeing his naked body. “I don’t remember you being so wrinkly.”

Styke didn’t bother to look down at his scarred, pitted body. She was right. His skin looked like a tomato left out in the sun too long. He’d never really thought about the wrinkles before. “You still look good,” he responded.

“Don’t try to sweet-talk me.”

“Just stating a fact. Everyone ages. You did it way better than me.”

“Yeah,” Ibana responded, “but you started off prettier.”

“I guess we’re even, then.”

“On that account. Yeah.” Ibana cleared her throat and hawked a wad into the chamber pot from across the room. “But you’ve got a lot of catching up to do on all the others. Now, you said this whole thing involving my father wasn’t supposed to be about Fidelis Jes. You said you got out of the labor camp without violence.”