Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

Styke suddenly understood. There was a long way from ordering a man’s death without his knowing – like what had been done to him ten years ago – and giving him the chance to fight back. She was allowing him that chance, even if the odds were stacked well against him. “One of us should finish this now and save Fatrasta the grief.”

“Can either of us?”

Styke considered the knife in his pocket, and the little girl he saved so many years ago. “No.”

“I didn’t think so. All I ask is that you consider that which remains unseen.” Lindet’s voice dropped to a mere whisper. “A storm is coming, Ben, the likes of which this world has never seen. I have tried to prepare for it, but for all my efforts I remain… fearful.”

Styke tried to imagine what could possibly scare the woman who’d faced down the Kez at the height of their empire. “The Dynize?” he asked.

“The Dynize. The Palo. Our enemies and our allies. Our very own machinations turned against us. I’ve tried to make Fatrasta strong enough to face what comes, but all our sins will be accounted for. I…” Lindet trailed off, shaking her head, and then treated Styke to one of her rare smiles. Despite her talk of fear, he could see the eagerness in her eyes. Whatever she saw in the future, she could not wait to face it. “I don’t know enough.”

“Well,” Styke said, hearing a creak on the floorboards somewhere in the house below them, “let me know when you do.” He wondered if it was a guard, or even the midnight chef. Regardless, he’d been here too long. “Good-bye, Lindet.”

“Good-bye, Ben. Whatever happens, keep an eye on the horizon.”

Vlora loitered through the city for most of the day, finding a cheap but comfortable hotel that evening and taking breakfast the next morning in the sun at a cliffside café before finally wandering through the streets at random for several hours. It felt good to not be under contract, to not be in uniform. Back at the fort Olem would be getting the men ready to move out. She felt bad leaving all the logistical work to him, but she needed this.

She needed to be a civilian again, if only for a couple of hours.

The Landfall city square was several blocks of public park a stone’s throw from the capitol building. There were mature ironwood trees, manicured shrubbery, cobble walking paths, and even a small pond. By the time Vlora arrived a little before noon, the area was almost entirely covered with people – several thousand at the very least. There was a volatile mix of angry Palo, wary Blackhats, and curious Kressians, all surrounding a high gallows in the middle of the otherwise pleasant park.

Vlora searched in vain for a vantage point from which to watch the execution before sniffing a bit of powder and scaling one of the ironwood trees, joining several rather surprised children on one thick, high limb. One of them, a boy of perhaps eleven, made a bit of space for her to perch on, eyeballing her sword and pistol.

The spot gave her a clear view of the gallows, as well as the crowd milling around it. Both the gallows and the crowd were absolutely crawling with Blackhats – easily one in every three people present – and it took Vlora only a few moments to realize why. Behind the gallows, flanked by a pair of white-gloved Privileged sorcerers and completely encircled in heavily armed Blackhats, was Lady Chancellor Lindet.

Vlora had never actually seen Lindet, but she’d read her description in the papers a number of times. The Lady Chancellor was a thin woman of medium height with blond hair and a pair of spectacles that she removed every so often to rub on her sleeve. The newspapers often described Lindet’s eyes, and Vlora waited for some time for a good view before Lindet turned to face her. Vlora’s light powder trance allowed her to see Lindet as if they were standing nose to nose.

Lindet’s eyes did not disappoint. Deep-set, darkened by makeup, Lindet’s gaze moved across the crowd again and again over the shoulders of her Blackhats. They were studious, critical, like a master craftsman checking her tools. Vlora remembered Taniel’s letters mentioning how Lindet might easily be mistaken for a librarian if not for those eyes, and how they had made his throat go dry every time they lit upon him.

Like so many of Taniel’s descriptions, Vlora had dismissed them as an exaggerated fancy, but when Lindet’s gaze swept past her she felt a tangible presence and her heart skipped a beat, though she couldn’t pinpoint why. It wasn’t fear, or awe, or anything she could put her finger on. Vlora felt like a schoolgirl again, ducking to avoid the critical eye of the stern headmistress.

“Hey, lady,” the boy next to Vlora said.

She shook her head, leaving her study of Lindet and letting her eyes refocus. “Yeah?”

“When is this thing supposed to start?”

“Noon,” Vlora said.

The boy squinted at the sun, and Vlora checked her pocket watch. It was just a few minutes till. The boy bounced up and down on the branch, making the whole tree shake.

“I’d appreciate if you didn’t do that,” Vlora said.

“You scared of heights?”

Vlora craned her head to look at the other children lined up on the branch, then down at the twenty-foot drop. “Not really, but you’re gonna ruin the pit out of my day if you knock someone else off.”

“Oh, all right,” the boy said glumly. His attention turned to her pistol and sword. “Hey, you think there’s gonna be fighting? Da said that the Palo bitch was gonna hang high for stirrin’ up trouble.”

“Don’t say bitch,” the girl next to him said, elbowing him in the ribs.

“Well, that’s what Da said! Anyway, I hope there’s a fight.” He leaned eagerly out from the branch. Vlora got herself ready to catch him if he fell. “Hangin’s happen all the time, but Da always makes us go inside during the riots.”

“Probably smart of him,” Vlora commented absently. Her own attention moved to the Blackhats as a group of them shoved forward through the crowd, surrounding a prison wagon with white roses painted on the side. It came to a slow stop in front of the gallows and the Blackhats fanned out, pushing back the crowd, before opening the door. Mama Palo, looking rumpled and angry but no worse for the wear, was led out of the wagon.

There was a sudden cacophony, a shoving and shouting match between Palo and the Blackhats nearest the wagon, then Mama Palo was led up to the gallows. Lindet, still flanked by her Privileged, climbed onto the gallows and waited patiently while the noose was draped around Mama Palo’s neck.

Vlora could feel the protective sorcery surrounding Lindet. If she had opened her third eye she would have seen splashes of sorcerous color. The Lady Chancellor wasn’t taking any chances with this crowd. Mama Palo would hang, and the Palo wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it no matter how feisty they got.

“That’s her, huh?” the boy said. “The ol’ Palo bit – I mean, lady?”

“That’s her,” Vlora confirmed.

“She doesn’t look like much.”

Vlora couldn’t help but agree. Mama Palo looked smaller, older, and more feeble in the light of day. Despite the pageantry and the obvious hopelessness of her situation, she managed to keep her chin up, her back straight. Once the noose had been tightened around her neck she gave a small smile.

For some reason, that smile made Vlora nervous.

Vlora scanned the crowd again, wondering if there would be a rescue operation of some kind. She had no intention of interfering – her work here was done – but anything the Palo mounted would be doomed to fail. She looked again and again, scanning for weapons among the crowd, or large groups of men, or anything that looked mildly organized. Nothing caught her eye.