Blood of Empire

Chapter 9

Michel sat cross-legged on the floor of a rented tenement room deep in the guts of Greenfire Depths, working by the dim light of a gas lantern. The lantern was fed by a shoddy-looking tube that jackknifed out of the ceiling, touched the back of the lantern, and punched into the next room via a gap large enough for a cat to squeeze through. He could clearly hear talking and laughing through the paper-thin walls, so when he himself talked, he made sure to keep his voice down.

He finished removing the stitches on one side of Ichtracia’s vest pocket, then flipped the vest inside out. “Hand me your left glove,” he told her. She sat on the floor beside him, watching him work, and occasionally reading aloud from a Palo book with an affected northern accent. Or at least what she seemed to think was a northern accent.

She handed him the glove. “The Palo have been oppressed for hundreds of years,” she read. “Since the arrival of the Kressians, who have sought to steal our land, break our spirits, and enslave our people.”

“No, no,” Michel cut her off. “Longer ‘o’ sounds. Your accent is all over the place. You’ve got to be consistent.”

Ichtracia’s eyes narrowed, but she repeated both sentences and continued reading until the end of the paragraph. “Better?”

“A little. You’ll have to keep practicing if you want to hold an actual conversation with anyone from up north.”

“Is that a risk?”

“Enough of one that you should be ready.” Michel finished putting a handful of stitches into the hem of her Privileged glove, attaching it to the inside of the vest with enough strength that it wouldn’t fall out but not so firmly that it couldn’t be loosened with a quick tug. “Try this.”

Ichtracia stood up, putting on her vest. She put one hand slowly into her pocket. It took several tries, then with a quick yank she pulled her hand back out, loose threads hanging from the glove that was now on her hand. She smirked. “That works better than I expected.” She lifted her hand and inspected the symbols on the back of the glove. “No damage that will prevent me from using my sorcery.”

“Good. I’ll put it back in and do the other glove,” Michel said. “You’ll want to practice this a few dozen times every night.”

“Are you serious? It worked like a charm.”

“The first time, yes,” Michel answered. “But maybe not the second or third or tenth time. We want to make sure you’re comfortable enough with the process that you can do it while someone is shooting or stabbing you. You’ve seen a card trick before? Or watched someone twirl a knife?”

“Yes.”

“They had to practice that thousands of times before they got it right. This is a trick, too. Not as complicated, but it could save our lives. I’ll redo the stitches. You practice.”

Ichtracia snorted and handed the glove back to him, then the vest. “This sounds stupid, but now that I’ve seen such a simple trick, I’m shocked that every Privileged doesn’t have spare gloves stitched into their clothes.”

“Maybe they do?” Michel asked.

“Perhaps. But most Privileged I’ve met wouldn’t stoop to such a trick.”

Michel began restitching the glove into the vest. “Taniel’s friend – Borbador – is full of tricks. Or so Taniel tells me. Borbador was a street rat who never quite took to the Privileged cabal. He wasn’t the strongest, or the smartest, but he was by far the cleverest. From what I’ve been told, you’d either like him or hate his guts.”

Ichtracia sat back down beside him. “I’ll keep that in mind if I ever meet the man.”

“You might,” Michel said. “If that rumor of an Adran army up north is true, then there’s a chance Borbador is with them.” He checked his voice and glanced at the wall of their room, where the sound of laughter had waned. He heard a grunt and a giggle, then chuckled himself. The occupants had gotten on to something else. He finished restitching the glove and had just turned his attention to the other pocket when he heard footsteps stop outside their door. The pause was brief, and a piece of paper was slid under before the steps continued down the hall.

It was a note written in cypher. He read it aloud, quietly. “Meln-Dun is looking for foot soldiers without links to the city to help him find Mama Palo. You have a meeting at three o’clock at the quarry. Contact name is Dahre. Expendable.” He read it to himself several more times, then held it up to the flame of the gas lamp above his head. Within moments it was ash and a wisp of smoke. “Sounds like Emerald has gotten us a job,” he said.

“Shouldn’t we make contact with this Mama Palo before we go work for the enemy?”

“If I knew where to find her, I would,” Michel replied. “But she’s to the wind.”

“So you’re going to use Meln-Dun to find her?”

“If the tool is there, I might as well use it. Are you ready?”

Ichtracia swallowed hard, then nodded.

“Good. Practice your accent while I finish with the gloves. Then we’re heading to meet Emerald’s contact.”

Michel and Ichtracia navigated the web of streets, paths, rickety bridges, and shortcuts that connected the tenements of Greenfire Depths. They headed down to the river, then followed it upstream to the only corner of the mighty old quarry still producing rock for construction.

The working quarry was walled off from the rest of Greenfire Depths by a high palisade fence, and Michel found the gate thrown open to the streets and a large crowd gathered. What looked like a foreman was speaking from atop a large limestone column, flanked by thugs with truncheons. Michel shoved his way along the edges of the crowd, careful to keep one hand on Ichtracia’s arm. They proceeded through the gate and worked their way to one of the large wooden warehouses that were crowded into this corner of the quarry floor.

The sun was directly overhead, peeking through the wide spot of open sky between the end of the Palo tenements and the walls of Greenfire Depths. Michel shaded his eyes as he reached the doors of the office building, where he tipped his hat to a truncheon-wielding guard. He cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders, and sank into his character.

“We’re here about work,” he said, adopting a northern Palo accent. He assumed the body language of a confident man-about-town, with his shoulders relaxed, eyes half-lidded but watchful, and a polite but forceful note in his voice.

The guard was a young woman with a smashed-up face pitted with old scars. She gestured with her truncheon. “So is everyone else. They’re only hiring thirty new workers to fill the Dynize orders, so best of luck with that.”

“No,” Michel said, “not that kind of work. I’ve got a meeting with Dahre.”

The guard cocked an eyebrow. “Right. Head inside. Upstairs, first door on the left.”

Michel jerked his head for Ichtracia to follow. The inside opened out into a wide, long room filled with the clank and scrape of stonemasons carving blocks of a thousand different sizes while foremen organized sledge teams to haul the finished products down to the river. An iron staircase took them up the closest wall to where a series of large offices overlooked the workspace, dangling precipitously from wooden girders. Michel strolled up to the first door and pounded on it, then slumped casually against the wall while he let his eyes travel across the big workroom.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Stonemasons went about their work under the watchful eye of the foremen, and there were a couple of truncheon-wielding thugs, but the latter seemed more intent on watching the doors than enforcing any sort of labor code. He did spot a single Dynize soldier, dressed in morion helmet and breastplate, standing at attention on the catwalk that stretched off from the offices.

“Who is it?” a voice responded to his knocking.

“Name’s Tellurin,” Michel responded. “Got a meeting with Dahre.”

There was a shuffle, the sound of a chair being pushed back. “I thought there were supposed to be two of ya.” A bald head stuck out of the doorway. “Ah. There are two of ya.”

“Tellurin and Avenya,” Michel introduced himself. “Got a recommendation to come down and see ya about some work.”

“You’re the thief-takers from Brannon Bay?” Dahre eyed them both up and down and seemed more impressed by Ichtracia than he did by Michel. Disguise or not, she had the unmistakable confidence of someone who commanded respect.

Michel stifled a smile at Dahre’s appreciative nod. “That’s us.”

“Good, good.” Dahre stepped out of his office, closing the door behind him, and shook both of their hands. He was tall, well over six feet, and paunchy around the middle from too much time behind a desk. He seemed the jovial sort, not the kind of man Michel would want to stab in the back. More was the pity. “Follow me, let’s go find the boss.”

As soon as his back was turned, Michel shared a glance with Ichtracia. He hadn’t actually planned on meeting with Meln-Dun. A lieutenant, certainly, but not the man himself. He must be more itchy to get rid of Mama Palo than Michel had even expected. Dahre spoke over his shoulder as they zigzagged through a handful of offices and then took a catwalk that extended the length of the building and headed up toward a single office at the far end. “What brings you down from Brannon Bay? Most people are leaving Landfall, not coming to it.”

“No work,” Michel responded. “City is flooded with refugees, speculation has hit every industry.”

“I’d think that would be ripe for thief-takers.”

“You’d think.” Michel injected a note of irritation into his voice. “But everyone wants someone found. Nobody wants to pay the price.”

“Aye, aye.” Dahre laughed. “That’s the way of things. Believe it or not, the Dynize have been pretty good to us.” Michel couldn’t tell whether Dahre meant the Palo or Meln-Dun’s organization. Probably both. “We’ve had to triple the size of the quarry since they arrived. Stone for that big fortress they’re building south of the city. They’ve got work camps and factories and they’re paying with anything you can imagine – ration cards, jade, gold, and even Adran krana.”

They reached the end of the catwalk and Dahre stepped to one side, indicating that they should head up to the office. He continued, “Surprised you came to us looking for work. Dynize are convinced the city is full of spies. Paying good money for anyone willing to help round up Kressians connected to Lindet.”

Michel made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. “Figured we’d come to the city and work for someone we can trust before we put ourselves in the employ of foreigners.”

“Smart man.” Dahre rapped once on the office door. A sharp bark answered, and he stepped past them and went inside, gesturing for them to follow.

Michel barely kept himself from blanching the moment the door opened. The office was spacious, decorated in an old-world style of the Nine, with musty carpets, low light, and dark wood-and-leather furnishings. But the first thing his eyes fell on was a woman sitting in one corner, arms crossed, the black tattoos of a dragonman spiraling up her neck. She wore swamp dragon leathers and pared her nails casually with the end of a bone knife, her leg thrown over one arm of the chair.

The dragonman studied Michel’s face, then Ichtracia’s, and then her gaze fell back to her knife. Michel’s heart hammered in his chest and he prayed that Ichtracia hadn’t reacted to the sight of the woman. He raised one eyebrow at the dragonman, as one might toward a curiosity, then turned to the man sitting behind a low ironwood desk.

Meln-Dun was a Palo in his fifties, wearing a tailored Kressian suit with big, ivory buttons and a turned-up collar. He sat straight-backed, a paper held to his face like a man who was nearsighted but refused to wear spectacles. Dahre rounded the desk and whispered in Meln-Dun’s ear. The quarry boss gave Michel and Ichtracia the same weighing glance as Dahre, then turned his head toward the dragonman. “Could you give us a moment? Local business.”

The dragonman didn’t move. “Local business is Dynize business,” she answered, her eyes remaining on the knife.

Meln-Dun’s lips pursed. “Not that kind of local business. If you please.”

Michel paid careful attention to the ticks of the short exchange, curious about Meln-Dun’s relationship with the Dynize. He certainly seemed to think he was in charge, but the dragonman didn’t jump at his bidding. Interesting. Slowly, almost carelessly, the dragonman got to her feet and strode out the door, leaving it open behind her. Michel turned to watch her cross the catwalk, using the opportunity to lock eyes with Ichtracia. She gave the smallest shake of her head.

No recognition from either of them, it seemed.

“You’re the thief-takers I was told about?” Meln-Dun said. He pulled a cigarette out of one drawer of his desk, lit it, but didn’t offer any to Michel and Ichtracia. “I’m glad to hear we found you before the Dynize did.” His eyes dropped to the missing fingers on Michel’s hand, briefly, before returning to his face. “Dahre here has been chasing a problem all around the Depths for a couple months now without any real progress. I’m hoping you can change that.”

“I hope so, too.” Michel took his hat off, nodding to Meln-Dun before dropping into the dragonman’s still-warm seat. It was an affected mix of politeness and confidence that had always gotten him far in infiltrations. “If you need people found, we’re the ones to do it.” Ichtracia leaned against the door, and Michel caught Dahre eyeballing her body for a moment before he went to the one tiny window and squinted outside.

Meln-Dun took several drags on his cigarette. His fingers trembled ever so slightly, and Michel wondered just how much of his soul he’d had to sell to the Dynize to become the de facto king of Greenfire Depths. “I’m curious how you propose to find anything in Greenfire Depths if you’re from Brannon Bay. This place is, as you may have already noticed, unique.”

“I’m from here,” Michel said with a derisive snort. “Parents died when I was a boy. Ran the streets for a few years until an uncle up in Brannon Bay came and found me and gave me a trade. I agree that coming in blind would be foolish, but me? Well, I know the place. And Avenya here learns quick.”

“Do you still have local ties?” Meln-Dun asked, almost too quickly.

“Like I said, street kid,” Michel answered. “If I have any local ties, I haven’t talked to them since before the Revolution.”

“Excellent. We need trackers, but we’re more in need of eyes and ears without the preestablished… loyalties of the Depths. We need a woman found – a local folk hero of sorts. Goes by the name of Mama Palo.”

“Heard the name,” Michel said, digging in one ear with his remaining pinkie as if he wasn’t at all concerned by the person in question. “Freedom fighter, right?”

“That’s right.”

Michel spat on the wood floor. “I’ve dealt with their type before. Idealist pricks, the lot of ’em.”

A small smile grew behind Meln-Dun’s cigarette. “I think I like you, Mr.…”

“Tellurin.”

“I like you, Mr. Tellurin. You and your friend are hired. Discuss the terms with Dahre. He’s heading up the search and already has some boys working their way through this godforsaken rat’s nest.”

“I can have you join up with them tomorrow,” Dahre added, nodding along with his boss.

Michel got up, cocking his head and straightening his shirt. “Thank ya, right, sir. You won’t regret it. By the by, how do you want this lady brought in? Truncheon and ankles dragged in the dirt?”

“Dead,” Meln-Dun said mirthlessly, face hardening. “I want her and all her followers slaughtered. Will that be a problem?”

“The knife, then,” Michel said, pulling a face. “Price will be a little higher, especially if she’s as popular as you say and we have to disappear quick after the job.”

“Price isn’t an issue.”

“Then we have a deal.” Michel returned his hat to his head and touched the brim. “Right you are. Sir?” he said to Dahre.

Dahre led them out of the office and back along the catwalk. Michel lagged behind a little bit, glancing over his shoulder at Ichtracia as they passed the waiting dragonman. Once they had left her far behind and were back among the rest of the offices, he waited for Dahre to get far ahead of them and quietly asked, “That dragonman. Anyone you know?”

“Don’t think so. There are a lot of dragonmen. Don’t think she recognized me, either.”

“Didn’t look like it. But keep your eyes open.”

“Meln-Dun doesn’t want the Dynize to know that he’s having problems with Mama Palo,” Ichtracia said.

Michel resisted the urge to scratch at the painful stubs of his two fingers. “I got the same impression. We’ll have to figure out how to use that.”

“They seem awfully trusting,” she said cautiously as they approached Dahre’s office. She wasn’t outwardly nervous, but her eyes moved just a little too quickly, like someone trying to watch every angle at once.

“This isn’t high politics,” Michel answered quickly. They would have time to talk later, but anything he could do to calm Ichtracia’s nerves would help her stay in disguise better. “Down here, among the Palo, you get jobs on a handshake, a nod, and knowing a guy who knows a guy. People pass through all the time. If they screened them all they’d never do anything else.”

“That sounds… distractingly easy.”

“That’s not the hard part,” Michel responded. “The hard part will be shaking these assholes off our trail once we’re ready to move on.”