Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

“Which one?” someone asked.

“Either. Both. I don’t care. I –” Flint cut herself off, pausing just inside the door at the sight of Ibana, eyes falling on Styke half a second later. Her pistol seemed to leap into her hand, and a shout on the tip of her tongue was arrested only by Styke barking one word:

“Wait!”

Styke stared down the barrel of Flint’s pistol for an agonizing ten seconds, Ibana coiled as if ready to spring, hoping the whole time that nobody did anything rash. Slowly, bit by bit, Flint’s finger came off the trigger. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“We came to talk,” Styke said, gesturing for Ibana to relax.

“Everyone wants to talk with me right now. It’s getting bloody well odd. How did you get in here?”

“Olem let us in.”

Vlora whispered a litany of curses before finally lowering her pistol. “I still may shoot you. Who’s this?”

Not a great start, Styke decided, but it was better than getting a bullet through the eye. “This is my second in command, Ibana ja Fles.”

“The swordmaker?”

“That’s right,” Ibana said.

“I have one of your knives,” Flint said. “It’s some damn fine work. Pit, you’re tall. Damn it, Styke, I thought I only had to deal with one giant.” Ibana pursed her lips, but her shoulders relaxed and Styke gave a silent sigh of relief. Nothing like a little flattery to help cool the air. “Okay,” Flint said, “if Olem let you in here he must think it’s important. I’m a bit busy, so you have thirty seconds.”

Styke took a deep breath, wondering why some words were so much easier to say than others. He chewed on them for a moment, glanced at Ibana – whose impatient look was no help at all – then said, “I came to apologize.”

“For tricking me into hiring a convict and making me look like a fool in front of my employers?”

“No. Not for that.”

Flint blinked. That wasn’t what she’d been expecting. She closed the door behind her warily, putting her back to it, still holding her pistol. She was such a small thing, nearly two feet shorter than either him or Ibana. Her blocking the exit might have made him laugh if he didn’t know what she was capable of. “Then what?” she asked flatly.

“You hired me under false pretenses,” Styke said. “But not the ones you think. I did not escape from Sweetwallow like Jes told you. I was released.” He’d considered long and hard what he wanted to tell Flint, and why. He’d decided that, while he owed Tampo his freedom, he owed Lady Flint his pride. After ten years in the camps, the latter was not something he’d ever thought to see again.

“I’m listening,” Flint said.

“I was released from the camps by a lawyer named Gregious Tampo. He bribed the parole board, and as a condition for my freedom sent me to work for you. He wanted me to keep you out of trouble until he didn’t need you anymore, and then kill you.”

To Styke’s surprise, Flint’s face began to change the moment Styke mentioned Tampo’s name. Her mouth dropped, then her brows lowered into a scowl, and then she threw her head back and let out an angry sigh. It was not the reaction Styke was expecting.

Flint scratched her head with the barrel of her pistol and then brandished it at Styke. “Did he actually tell you he wanted me dead?”

Styke looked at her askance. She was taking this awfully well for someone whose trust had been betrayed. “No,” he said. “But that was obviously the end goal. He needs you for something. I never got the order to cut your throat, so I assume he still does. I’m here to warn you.”

“Duly noted,” Flint said.

“That’s all there is,” Styke said, getting to his feet and putting his knife away. “I thought you should know.” He felt strange. Pleasant, but strange. He wasn’t used to giving excuses or explaining himself to anyone. In his old life he’d never had to, and in the camps no one cared. The same went with apologizing. “You said you’re busy, so we’ll go now.”

Flint’s pistol came back up, wavering from Styke to Ibana. Styke tensed, glancing at Ibana, whose hand had gone to the sword at her hip. “Neither of you is going anywhere,” Flint said.

“I told you,” Ibana growled at Styke.

“Shut up,” Styke responded. “I don’t want to fight you, Flint. I came in good faith.”

“I never offered any good faith,” Flint snapped. “And if you think I’m not pissed as pit that I took a spy into my midst, you’re dead wrong. But I’m not looking for a fight, either.” She lowered her pistol, her mouth tightening into a straight line. “I respect the fact you came back. I should cut you to ribbons, but I’m not going to, and here’s why: Tampo doesn’t want me dead.”

Styke exchanged a glance with Ibana. “How do you know?”

“Because Gregious Tampo isn’t Gregious Tampo. He’s a powder mage by the name of Taniel Two-shot, and he’s been playing everyone in this damned city for fools.”

“Uh,” was all Styke could manage. He tried to wrap his mind around this information. Styke’s memory wasn’t great, but he’d fought beside Taniel during the war. Gregious Tampo was definitely not Taniel. “Two-shot is dead. You said so yourself.”

“Taniel faked his death at the end of the Adran-Kez War,” Flint replied. She finally stuffed her pistol into her belt, taking a small sniff of powder, removing the tremor from her voice. “He and the bone-eye you met back during the Fatrastan Revolution are here, now.”

Styke scowled, licking his lips, thinking back over the meetings he’d had with Tampo. “No,” he said. “I would have sensed it. My Knack can smell sorcery.”

“Ka-poel’s sorcery is stronger than anything you’ve ever encountered,” Flint said, sounding almost resigned to the fact. “It fooled your Knack and it fooled my third eye. It’s fooled a damn lot of people, but Tampo – or rather, Taniel – doesn’t want me dead. If he sent you here to keep me out of trouble he probably thought he was protecting me.”

This was a lot to take in. Ibana looked skeptical, and Styke himself echoed the sentiment. It was possible to hide from the Else using Privileged sorcery, but it was incredibly difficult. Wearing someone else’s face for long periods of time, and being completely undetectable? It would take a whole Privileged cabal to manage that.

Or, if Flint was telling the truth, a single powerful bone-eye.

Styke could think of no reason for Flint to lie. “So does this mean no hard feelings?” he asked slowly.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Flint said, eyes flashing. “But a secret bodyguard is more palatable than a secret assassin.” Her eyes suddenly widened. “Son of a bitch, I don’t have time for this.” She opened the door and yelled for Olem, then closed it behind her, eyes focusing on Styke. “Did you fight Fidelis Jes?”

“I did.” Styke grimaced.

“And you lost?”

“He sent me back to the camps, crippled.”

Flint looked him up and down. “You don’t look crippled.”

“The Mad Lancers rescued him,” Ibana explained. “We may have, um, kidnapped a Privileged to heal his wounds.”

“Kidnapped a Privileged…” Flint muttered. She shook her head. “Bloody madmen. Okay, so that is where we stand. Did you find anything else out about the Dynize before that whole debacle?”

Styke shook his head. He could see in her eyes that Flint had moved past the apology, the revealed betrayal, and all of that to something else. Her ability to compartmentalize was admirable, but he reminded himself not to make the mistake of assuming she would trust him again.

“So you know nothing about the Dynize fleet sitting out beyond the bay?” Flint asked.