“I do not …” Agoston looked down and to his left, then grimaced. He sniffed, his mouth forming into a hard line.
When it became clear he would say no more, Styke began to pace. The anger was building, and he forced his voice to remain neutral, matching Agoston’s calm demeanor. “You betrayed the lancers, Agoston. You got me sent to the firing squad. Did you know what Fidelis Jes was planning?” There was a long, empty pause, and Styke added, “Don’t pull this silent bullshit on me. You can either answer the question or we can take a few minutes and bury you alive beneath this hovel.”
Agoston glanced around the room once more, and Styke could see the calculations going through his head: his chances of escaping, or putting up a good fight, or at least making them finish him off quickly. The corner of his lip curled, and Styke remembered something about his own experience playing cards with Agoston: He always got surly when he was losing. “Two million krana.”
Styke raised his eyebrows. “Pit. You’re joking, right?”
“Fidelis Jes really wanted you dead.”
“I knew that. But two million?” Styke scoffed. “I would have damned well just retired if he’d come to me first.”
“No you wouldn’t,” Agoston spat. “You like killing too much.”
“Maybe.” Styke acted careless, but on the inside he continued to boil. Agoston had been a comrade-in-arms, even a friend. To sell Styke out, even for so much money … He felt his facade crack and turned away for a moment so that Agoston couldn’t see the emotions playing out across his face. “Why didn’t you just put a knife between my ribs yourself?”
“Because I’m not stupid. These assholes would have hunted me down no matter where I went. There’s not enough money to knife Ben Styke.”
Styke almost gave Agoston credit for that underlying assumption that he could have finished the job. Almost. “And that money? Did you spend it well?”
“Bought a townhouse in Upper Landfall. Changed my name. Kept my head down. Spent the last decade whoring and gambling in places so expensive I was never likely to see a lancer again.” Agoston gave him a shallow smile. “So, yeah, I spent it well.”
Styke looked at his hand and flexed his fingers. Ten years in the labor camp, when only a couple miles away one of the people who put him there lived a life of luxury and excess. He’d known about Fidelis Jes, of course, and his hatred was one of the things that kept him alive. But Jes had always been an enemy. Agoston … not so much. Styke remained looking at the wall, facing away from Agoston. “Cut his bonds,” he said.
Ibana started. “What?”
“You heard me.”
Hesitantly, Ibana nodded to the brothers.
“You sure, sir?” Markus asked.
Styke nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He flexed his fingers, feeling that twinge, churning that rage. “Zac, do you have a pistol on you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is it loaded?”
“Yes.”
“Give it to Agoston.”
“Sir?”
“Now!” Styke turned around and glared at Zac, who licked his lips and glanced warily at Ibana. Styke held a hand toward her. “Don’t say a damned word. Zac, give him your pistol.”
Zac drew his pistol and handed it to Agoston as he climbed to his feet. Agoston brushed himself off and took the pistol, staring at Styke intently. “What’s this?” His tone said that he sensed a trap, but he didn’t know where it was.
Styke took a step toward him and spread his hands. “You wanted me dead. You were paid to help put me in a grave. It didn’t work, so here’s your shot to earn that two million. Put a bullet in my head.”
Without hesitation, Agoston lifted the pistol and took a half step forward, pressing the barrel against Styke’s forehead. He pulled the trigger, and Styke heard the click-and-snap of the flintlock.
Nothing happened.
“You think you’re hot shit, Agoston,” Styke said, finally letting his fury unfurl. “But you never paid attention. Zac still carries the same shitty, leaky powder horn he has for fifteen years. Powder gets wet and his pistol misfires two times out of three.”
As Styke finished the sentence, a look of panic spread across Agoston’s face. He backpedaled and tried to flip the pistol around to use it as a weapon, but Styke was on him before he could take a second step. Styke drew his boz knife, dragged the blade along Agoston’s sternum, and rammed it into the soft spot beneath his jaw until the crosspiece touched skin and the tip jutted from the top of his skull. Agoston’s eyes bugged, a rasping came from his mouth, and his body convulsed. Styke allowed his momentum to carry them against the far wall of the hovel and slammed Agoston’s body against the rotted timbers. The whole house shook.
His hands soaked with warm blood, Styke stared into Agoston’s dead eyes. “Who else betrayed me?” he asked the brothers quietly.
“Bad Tenny Wiles, Valyaine, and Dvory,” Markus answered.
“Where are they?”
“Tenny Wiles owns a plantation about a hundred miles west of here; Valyaine is a boxer in Belltower; and Dvory is a general in the Fatrastan Army.”
Styke let Agoston’s body fall. “Toss him in the rubbish heap out back. He doesn’t deserve a real burial.” He took a deep breath and clapped Markus, then Zac on the shoulder, leaving a bloody handprint on each. “Thank you. I needed that. Whatever happens these next few months, I’m going to find the rest of those assholes and kill them.” He looked at Ibana. “Let’s go find out what Flint is up to.”
CHAPTER 9
Vlora drank cold coffee at the table in the middle of her tent. She stared absently at the maps laid out in front of her and noticed that her hand was trembling. Olem sat on the corner of her cot, fiddling with the metal tin he kept his matches in. His face mirrored her expression: absent, lost—shell-shocked. He licked his lips, opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it again. She hadn’t seen him this out of sorts since the Adran-Kez War. Taniel and Ka-poel were standing just outside their tent, waiting for Vlora’s decision on the news they’d brought from Landfall.
“Taniel wants us to go find these other two godstones,” Vlora said. “Is it our responsibility?”
Olem looked up, blinking away his own thoughts.
Vlora continued before he could reply. “We’re Adrans. We have no horse in this race. The Fatrastans, Dynize, and Palo are going to spend the next few months—maybe even years—killing each other over these things. Why should we get involved?” She slapped her palm on the table, almost spilling her coffee, feeling a sudden swell of anger. “We’re in this damned situation because I couldn’t just keep my head down and do a job. I tried to arrest Lindet over these stupid things, and I managed to lose our allies on this continent in the process.”
Olem clicked his match tin against the wooden frame of her cot, his expression conflicted. “We’ve seen what gods can do to a country,” he said.
“This isn’t our country. We’re mercenaries, and after a year in the swamps and two major battles the men are almost spent. I’m not going to appeal to their patriotism, because this isn’t an Adran matter.”
“I agree with that.”
“Then answer me this: Is this our responsibility?”
“No,” Olem said. He tilted his head, as if pained, and said, “And … yes.”
“Explain.”
“Less responsibility,” Olem said, “and more necessity. Back in Landfall you said that the world doesn’t need any more gods, and I think you’re still right about that. These consequences that you and I understand—I think it makes us responsible, even if our men are not. This world is not as large as it once was. You’re still a member of the Adran Cabal, and we’re both still Adran generals. We can either deal with a new god once this continent has finished warring over the stones, or we can try to prevent one from being born in the first place.”
“So you’d argue that it is an Adran matter?”
“I’d argue that it will be. Unfortunately, we aren’t accompanied by the Adran Army. We’re accompanied by mercenaries.”