Sins of Empire (Gods of Blood and Powder) by Brian McClellan

Author:Brian McClellan [McClellan, Brian]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Fiction / Fantasy / Epic, Fiction / Fantasy / Historical, Fiction / Action & Adventure, Fiction / War & Military, Fiction / Historical
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2017-03-06T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 35

Styke entered the front gate of the Millinery, unopposed. A guard, slack-jawed, watched him limp through the archway, then yelled something unintelligible over his shoulder as Styke approached the old man sitting watch behind a counter just outside the gate. The old Blackhat snoozed quietly, slumped sideways in his chair, notebook slipping from his fingers.

“I understand Fidelis Jes takes appointments for fights,” Styke said.

The old Blackhat snorted, rubbed his nose, and pushed himself upright in his chair while stifling a yawn. “Right, right,” he said. “I’ll take your name. Wait is a couple weeks. You can back out anytime before then if your blood cools.”

“I’m going to fight him today.”

The old Blackhat’s eyelids fluttered and he scowled down at his notebook. “Don’t you read the papers? The grand master only duels during the mornings, and he’s all booked up. No exceptions.”

“He’ll make an exception for me.” Styke picked at the dried blood on his arms, watching it flake off and fall to the cobbles. He wondered if Old Man Fles would make it to the morning, and if it was cruel of him to allow the Old Man to die alone. But he wouldn’t be alone, Styke reasoned with himself. Fles would die surrounded by friends. Unlike Styke, who wondered briefly if he’d always been destined to die surrounded by enemies.

“Hilarious,” the old Blackhat said. “I’ll take your name and address and we’ll let you know when to keep your appointment.”

“Benjamin Styke. Colonel. First Division, Third Cavalry, Mad Lancers.”

“A soldier, eh? Usually you guys are smarter than …” The old Blackhat trailed off, his mouth working silently. From somewhere inside the Millinery came the sound of shouting, and the watchman finally looked up, mouth hanging open at Styke’s appearance. “Oh,” he said breathlessly. “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Styke confirmed. “Tell Fidelis Jes I’m going to make a hand puppet out of his worthless corpse. I’ve told a dozen newspapers I’m on my way here, so if he tries to make me disappear the whole city will know him for a bloody coward.” A lie, but a plausible one.

The guard lurched from his chair and backed away from Styke. “I’ll, uh, give him the message. Give me just a few … moments.” He bolted into the Millinery. The shouting got closer, and Styke was soon aware of the heavy tromp of feet. The narrow gate filled with faces as Blackhats crowded just inside, bristling with weapons from blunderbusses to cudgels. Feet shuffled and men jostled for position as they tried to look intimidating—while they stayed well out of arm’s reach.

Styke leaned against the watchman’s post, cleaning his nails and contemplating his mortality.

He did not expect to leave the Millinery alive. He didn’t feel any real fear—he’d never desired death, but the prospect had never particularly phased him, either. He was here to die, and he suspected it would be by the hands of the very mob gathered just inside. He’d take a few of them with him, if he could, but his only real goal was to go down with bits of Fidelis Jes’s brains on his shirt.

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