Sins of Empire (Gods of Blood and Powder, #1)

by Brian McClellan

Vlora opened her mouth several times through the tirade, but couldn’t get a word in edgewise. She’d heard of this pamphlet – copies were given out all over Landfall the last couple of days, despite the Blackhats’ efforts to censure them. It was a fascinating read with a few radical, naive ideas but a central premise that she basically agreed with. But as a necessity she kept her politics quiet, and out of her business. Politics had been the forte of Field Marshal Tamas, her mentor, a skill that had not rubbed off on her. Besides, mercenary generals didn’t always get to choose who they worked for when their men had to be paid.

“You know,” Vlora said, “it has been done.” Enna’s eyes grew somehow larger. “It has?” “Yes. That revolution in Adro. I was in it. We killed several hundred noble families and the king, sparking a war that ended over a million lives.” And wound up with more than one dead god. “That’s right! It must have been glorious,” Enna breathed. “The Adran Coup was the most well-organized revolution in history, and even that turned into a shit show,” Vlora said bluntly, immediately frustrated that she’d allowed her anger to seep through. Her involvement in the Adran Coup and the Kez Civil War had, she’d found, made her a bit of a celebrity among radical leftists. Which made her more than a little uncomfortable. “You don’t want to live through a revolution,” she added. “If you do survive to the end, half the people you’ve ever loved will be dead.”

“Well,” Enna said, her demeanor turning prickly, “you must break your omelet to use your eggs.” Vlora squinted at her. “What?” “I think,” a man said, slipping up beside Enna, “that she means you must break some eggs to make an omelet.” “Yes!” Enna exclaimed. “That’s it!” “Lady Enna, I think you should sit down,” the stranger said. “Here, give me your arm, and come over here and speak with Vallencian. He has so missed your company.”

Styke locked eyes with Celine in the moment the dragonman lost his calm. He made a chomping motion with his jaw, and Celine immediately twisted around, biting down hard on the dragonman’s wrist. By the time her teeth closed on the dragonman’s skin, Styke was already running, whipping his knife overhand as hard as he could. Two things happened at once. The dragonman tossed Celine aside as easily as a doll, and he stepped to one side, snagging the knife out of midair as easily as if it were a ball. Styke slammed into him a moment later, not bothering with finesse, throwing all his weight at the dragonman’s chest. Both his knife and the dragonman’s went flying. They crashed to the boardwalk, and Styke felt pricks like adder bites as the dragonman struck him flat-handed below the ribs. Styke ignored the punches and snatched the dragonman by the throat with his bad hand, drawing back his good into a fist. His heavy lancer’s ring connected with the dragonman’s nose, which broke beneath the blow, showering them both with blood.

Olem seemed distracted, though, and despite everyone else in the room looking tired-eyed the silence at the card table was tense. What were they all doing up this late on a weeknight? Olem’s Knack kept him from needing sleep, but the others doubtless had duties in the morning.

Vlora drew her pistol and put a bullet between the culprit’s startled eyes before he could bring the blowgun to his lips. The crack and flash of the pistol seemed to freeze everyone in place. Vlora glanced at Devin-Tallis and could see he would be dead within moments. She tasted the powder on her tongue, rubbed the grit of it against the roof of her mouth, and reveled in the strength it gave her. “You’ve made a terrible mistake,” she said, drawing her sword.

Without a powder trance, Vlora knew she would be considered a top-notch fighter among any company, and it became instantly clear that these attackers, while they had not been stupid enough to bring any powder with them, were not in any way prepared to fight a powder mage. She had trained her whole life as a soldier and a duelist. Her actions were cold and precise, the blade of her weapon aimed to kill or disable instantly, and she was fueled by the anger of seeing the innocent family man behind her die in his rickshaw.

Styke cleared his throat. “They say that some people are overtaken by a berserker rage in a battle. Their eyes mist and time seems to slow and they just kill everything that they see. I’ve heard people speculate that Field Marshal Tamas had that” – he nodded at Flint – “and that only his training kept him from being a true berserker.”

Styke felt the memory flood him. He could almost taste the sweat and stench of the battle, the heat of burning buildings and racket of an artillery bombardment. He savored it. “Sounds arrogant when I say it out loud. But yeah, I knew I’d win. Nothing stood before me and my lancers. We wore enchanted armor, stuff that saw its heyday four hundred years ago, and it shrugged off bullets and sorcery like a parasol does rain.”

could smell the blood sorcery on her, and see the playful confidence that seemed so strange in the eyes of a Palo youth.

rueful

“Ben can kill anyone. Yesterday, he killed three Palo without breaking a sweat.” “Is that so?” Tampo tilted his head at Styke, looking from him to Celine with some significance. “Some Palo kid got in the way of a job I was doing,” Styke explained. “And Celine will keep her mouth shut around Lady Flint. Won’t you, Celine?” Celine folded her arms. “I like Lady Flint. But if Ben has to kill her, then…” She held her hands up as if to say “oh well!” “Regular old pair of mercenaries here,” Tampo commented. “Well, Mr. Styke, I’ll ask again. Could you kill a powder mage?”

Tampo sucked on his teeth, eyes narrowed, and returned to studying Styke in silence. Styke had to admit to himself that there was something unsettling in that gaze. Finally, Tampo said, “You’re too clever, Mr. Styke. I think that’s why they put you in the labor camp. You look like a thug, kill like a thug, but you think and talk like an officer. It confuses people – the looks and reputation give them expectations, and then you defy them all by being educated.”

Vlora’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. She’d never seen someone with so much passion before. For the first time she noticed a few of her soldiers standing just outside the door and shooed them away, wondering if they’d gotten an eyeful before she’d dressed. Oh well. No helping that now. Vlora stuck her head out the door. “Olem! Olem! Someone get the colonel, would you?” “I’m right here.” Olem rounded the corner at a jog, hand on the hilt of his sword. “Are you all right?”

“Who is Mean Jackal?” “Used to be one of my captains,” Styke answered thoughtfully. “He was a founding member of the Mad Lancers, but was always a little crazy. Disemboweled the mayor of Little Starland for spitting on his shoe.” Celine’s eyes widened, and Styke frowned at the Old Man. “You’re sure Henrick Jackal is a spiritualist now? Is it some kind of a con?”

Styke and Celine headed toward the front door. Styke paused for a moment to look back at the great room, filled with a lifetime of knickknacks and furniture, a smile tugging at his ruined face. He opened the door behind him and turned toward the street.

Styke took the soup, drinking it quickly and mopping the bottom of the bowl with the bread.

The minutiae of the common man is the grease that slicks the gears of civilization.

Michel thought about jimmying the lock, but picking his way into a Palo warehouse in broad daylight seemed like a very bad idea. Instead, he went back to the street and waited until no one was looking before ducking beneath the industrial park.

“The rumor is you killed a Warden with your bare hands,” she said. There was a bit of a challenge to her smile, as if she suspected such a rumor was nothing more than soldierly bragging taken to the extreme. “Taniel Two-shot aside, we’d damn like to hear about that Warden.”

“That’s where I saw Two-shot. He’d brought his men around to flank and opened fire on the enemy rear, sowing confusion. The enemy general broke and ran, and me and a few of my lancers gave chase. What we didn’t know was that we had pursuers of our own, and by the time we caught up with the general, two Wardens had caught up with us.”

The next strike came for his unarmed left. Styke snatched the ax by the haft and turned his fighting knife to pass beneath the blade of Kushel’s other ax, allowing the blade to draw a long, crimson line down his arm. Kushel tried to stretch the advantage, pushing his ax into Styke’s chest, but Styke did two things at once: First, he slammed his forehead into Kushel’s nose. Second, he twisted his knife and drew back. The blade slid along the polished bone haft of Kushel’s ax and, with a final jerk, severed Kushel’s thumb and four fingers. The dragonman reeled back, stunned, but even with a destroyed hand managed to dodge Styke’s next thrust. They each had one good hand and one weapon now, and Kushel jammed the stubs of his fingers against his side to try to stanch the blood, doing it all without comment or cry, which in itself was more than a little unnerving. He came on hard, ax crashing against Styke’s knife, working inside Styke’s guard with both blade and haft, leaving Styke’s chin and chest bloody and bruised.

Vlora flexed her fingers, gripping and ungripping the hilt of her sword. Everything was making her furious lately – it was like an angry cloud had descended on her the moment she entered Landfall, preventing her from sorting her thoughts clearly. She had to fight through it. She had to be cold, calculating. Before two weeks ago she didn’t know Styke from a swamp dragon. She had no reason to trust anything he said – even if he had followed her orders and tracked down the dragonman. All she had was his reputation, Olem’s admiration, and Taniel’s letters.

Styke felt his heart soar as Fidelis Jes strolled down a short run of steps at the far end of the courtyard. Seeing him approach was like witnessing the arrival of an old friend – if you planned on murdering him painfully – and Styke drummed the fingers of his good hand on the hilt of his knife, humming to himself. This was it. A moment he’d dreamed about for ten years. “Been a long time,” Fidelis Jes said, falling into a soldier’s stance about ten feet away. “Too long,” Styke said quietly. “And not long enough.”

“Maybe if you’d given talk a chance you’d be something grand. Not a burned-out old cripple.” The words were spoken in a gentle tone, but Styke could hear the dagger behind them. Jes’s face smiled, but his eyes had begun to smolder, and Styke wondered if this performance was for the Blackhats watching them, or for Jes himself. “You wanted me to kill kids,” Styke said, loud enough the Blackhats could hear it.

Ibana grabbed Ferlisia by the collar, pulling her close. “Do you see what they’ve done to Ben? Our colonel? You set the guardhouse on fire, and shoot anyone who tries to escape. Shoot ’em in the legs and throw them back in. Pit-damned Blackhats have declared war on the Mad Lancers. They should have known better.” Styke jumped at the gentle touch of gloved fingers and felt his arm lifted to the light of the torch by the Privileged. The Privileged examined him clinically, then said quietly, “This is going to hurt. A lot.” The last thing Styke remembered was a blinding white light.

“This is Norrine. She’s been with the Adran Army for forty-two years. She was trained by Field Marshal Tamas himself.” Norrine was an older woman with dirty-blond hair and an elfin-like face. She was nearly to her sixties, but a tight physical regimen made her look fifteen years younger. She continued to sharpen her sword, smirking at the fourth member of their group. Vlora introduced him. “Buden je Parst is Kez. Doesn’t speak a word of Adran so don’t bother. And Olem,” Vlora finished, slapping Olem on the knee, “you’ve met.”

Davd led them out through the back of the pub and down a side alley, checking to be sure they weren’t spotted, before motioning for Meln-Dun to go ahead. It was a quiet evening, a weeknight curfew in effect by order of Lindet, and they were nearly alone on the dark streets of the plateau. Meln-Dun took a deep breath and stashed his pistol beneath his shirt before he led them along a series of winding streets. They crossed boulevards and back alleys running parallel to the Rim overlooking the Depths before finally taking a small, little-used path behind someone’s house down into a narrow hallway cut into the very rock of the plateau.

Their descent was arrested suddenly as Meln-Dun stopped to fiddle with a door, and a moment later they were on flat ground once again. “Ground,” Vlora corrected herself, wasn’t the word for it. They had certainly not gone all the way to the bottom of Greenfire Depths, and as they walked down what appeared to be plastered hallways, their footsteps echoed like they were tramping along the scaffolding of a tenement construction site and felt only slightly more stable.

They spread out across the roof, checking their weapons in the darkness before creeping along to the very edge of the shingles. Vlora could sense a steep drop below her – probably three stories or more – and wondered how they were going to get down. She and the other mages could make that jump without suffering damage, but Olem and Meln-Dun would break a leg.

And you, Mama Palo, are under arrest in the name of the Lady Chancellor for crimes against the state.” “Is it a crime to want to be free?” the old woman said in perfect Adran. “In this country? Most definitely.”

Vlora closed her eyes, focusing on the powder that she sensed just outside the door. There were at least seven people out there, and she found their powder and, with a thought, ignited it. She used her sorcery to warp the blasts, containing it, focusing the explosions in small spaces to minimize the chance of starting a fire. The blasts rattled the ceiling, causing plaster dust to sprinkle on their shoulders. The thumping stopped, and Olem immediately leapt away from the door, jerking it open, his pistol at the ready.

Michel had to admire Taniel’s foresight. The journal was impeccable. It had been written in every week for almost three years, and illustrated the downfall of a disenfranchised Adran nobleman who’d escaped Field Marshal Tamas’s coup in Adro ten years ago and come to Fatrasta, only to lose what remained of his family fortune on speculations. He had no friends or family to question, and this writing illustrated a paranoid mind that was convinced he could remove Lindet from power and then step into a role in whatever government rose from the ashes of hers. The journal had not been written last night. It was a long, thoughtful work. Likely something Taniel had been keeping as some sort of kill switch for the whole persona of Tampo for the eventuality of being caught by the Blackhats.

Michel turned away and rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. The most feared organization on this side of the planet, and the Blackhats fell to pieces once Fidelis Jes went out of sorts. Controller Britt was the seniormost Gold Rose, with two thousand men under his command, so he had claimed the easy stuff. Everyone else was now scrambling, hoping to be the first ones to find Styke and, probably, get some kind of favor with Jes and Lindet.

It was not a basic keyhole. There was a slight, rounded indentation with seven wavy lines, each appearing to catch a separate mechanism. The lock itself was thick enough that blasting powder might not even be able to break it, and the mechanisms were protected behind polished steel.

The room was as he remembered it – obscenely large, with ironwood-paneled walls, an enormous four-poster bed with mahogany curtains, flanked on either side by a nightstand. There was a wing-back chair by the window, a lantern burning low beside it, and Styke could see the ember tip of a lit cigarillo. A shadow moved within the wings of the chair, and a delicate hand reached out to turn up the lamp. “Hello, Ben.” Styke was immediately struck by how Lindet had lost the soft edges of her youth. She had grown gaunt over the years, and at thirty-three all the softness had been hammered out of her until only iron remained. She wore a pair of spectacles that cast shadows on her face. Her skin was naturally pale, her hair like strands of yellow silk. Her lips were thin, her chin strong, and even in her nightclothes she exuded a calm, dismissive air that gave Styke the urge to apologize for entering and back out of the room.

People always commented, privately, on Lindet’s eyes. They were a steady blue like the sky on a clear day, and those who saw them often swore that an actual fire burned deep within. Some called it sorcery, some an embodiment of Lindet’s ambition. The reflection of the lamp on the lenses of her spectacles cast a double likeness, one that seemed to dance independent of the flame that cast it. Styke noted something hanging over one arm of her wing-back chair.

peevishness

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.

Over the years she’d seen sorcery the likes of which most Privileged could only dream, but she’d never witnessed anything like this. Her skin crawled, stomach turning. She should have been able to sense a fellow powder mage. She should have been able to feel the sorcery that hid his face in the Else.

“Jes will stay the bloody pit out of my way while I am in command,” Flint said, “or I’ll put him in front of a firing squad before Lindet can so much as sneeze. You two can either follow my orders or get out of my office. I have real work to do.” Styke glanced at Ibana, then down at his own hands. It was right there at his fingertips, a new commission for him and his men, with horses and kit and a real purpose. All he had to do was reach out and take it. And put aside a decade of hatred. Ten years since he last sat in a saddle. His balls were going to be so damned sore by the end of the night. “We’ll leave at once,” he said. Flint nodded as if their joining her was a foregone conclusion. “Good. Major Fles. Colonel Styke. Welcome to the Riflejacks. Now go pick up the rest of your command.”

“Food, in my experience, is one of the few things that can cement a good friendship between strangers.”

“It’s tradition,” Lindet said, “to ask guests about the news from their homeland, but I’m afraid that might take a while. We are a hundred years behind.” Ka-sedial tilted his head to one side, looking slightly bored. “Not at all. There was a civil war. Millions died to sword, famine, and sorcery. It has taken four generations, but the imperial family has retaken their rightful throne and brought peace to Dynize.” “Ah. Peace. I’m glad to hear it.” Lindet did not sound at all glad to hear it. “As are we.”

An audible gasp came from the assembly, and Vlora didn’t blame them. The words were innocuous, but the tone held an unmistakable threat. The last person to publicly threaten Lindet, as far as Vlora knew, was the Kez governor who’d tried to relieve her of her post at the beginning of the Fatrastan Revolution. At the end of the war, his tongue was cut out as part of the peace settlement. Vlora cleared her throat. “Ambassador, every expedition has a goal. What is yours?” Ka-sedial turned his attention slowly toward her, like a lizard who’s spied a particularly fat mealworm. She wondered if his spies had reported her to him. “Lady Flint, I presume?” That seemed to be a yes about the spies, she noted. “That is I.” “We’ve only come looking for what is rightfully ours.”

“I don’t know! Make gods? If I knew I wouldn’t be… asking.” The final word slipped out in a whisper, and Vlora found her mouth suddenly dry. “No. You must be joking.”

It was an effective way to destroy a longboat, but she couldn’t keep it up forever. She wondered how many of the Dynize Privileged had ever encountered powder mages in a battle. She couldn’t take them all out by igniting powder, but she didn’t need to. “You!” she yelled, pointing at a nearby private. “Get me my rifle!”

“Ordering a charge, Colonel? Been forever since I killed a man in battle, you know?” Sunin was old enough to be his great-grandmother, but looks were deceiving. She’d always been one of his meanest lancers – which didn’t mean she’d survive the shock of a charge at her age. “I am,” Styke said, “but you’re not in it. Take Celine.” “I’m not a nursemaid,” Sunin objected. “You can also barely hold a lance.” “Not true!” Ibana snorted. “You’re about a thousand years old, Sunin. Keep the girl safe.”

She squeezed her trigger, detonating two extra powder charges with her mind and pushing them behind the bullet, willing it to fly longer and farther than any normal flintlock shot. The bullet soared in a perfect arc, helped by the nudge of her sorcery, until it slammed into the Privileged’s chest, knocking him into the foaming ocean.

Vlora watched as a longboat disgorged all but a handful of rowers, who immediately began heading back to the distant ships. The soldiers splashed through the shallows, muskets held over their heads, ignoring the continuous fire of Olem’s soldiers with their hold on the beach. They reached dry sand and immediately fell to their knees, producing short, steel shovels from their packs and heaping up fortification in moments.

Styke pulled himself out of his thoughts and joined the vanguard, where he found Jackal now riding a blue roan beside a bloody-faced Major Gustar. The lance holding the Mad Lancers’ standard had been broken, then mended with a belt, and now flew just a little lower and more crooked. Somehow it seemed fitting. “Orders, Colonel?” Gustar asked, trying to salute but only managing to bring his hand halfway to his face.