Of course it was.
He waited for her to catch up, trying to figure out what he could say to send her away. Going to see Dvory was already a dangerous gamble. A wild card like Ka-poel might make things worse. But she’d already made it abundantly clear that he couldn’t leave her behind.
“I think,” he told her as she arrived, “that some dysfunction in the back of my brain silently tells me that I’m invincible.” He wasn’t sure why he shared the thought, but he continued. “Maybe I’ve had it my whole life. Maybe it was surviving the firing squad. Maybe it wasn’t until more recently, when I survived that fight with Fidelis Jes. Or maybe it was something you put in my head with your damned blood sorcery. I don’t really care, but I have the feeling that it’s going to get me killed.”
Ka-poel stopped beside him, watching him through half-lidded eyes.
“I was watching that sign language you’re teaching Celine,” he said. “I hadn’t realized it before, but it looks like a jumble of Palo war signals and something else.”
Ka-poel smiled coolly at him and nodded.
Styke felt pleased to have remembered as well as he did. He hadn’t seen Palo war signals for over ten years, and even then he’d only picked up on the very basics while he was in the Tristan Basin. “Did Ibana tell you what I’m doing?” he asked.
Ka-poel made a series of gestures.
Styke shook his head. “I said I recognized it. Not that I understand it.”
She pointed at him, then mimed hanging from a noose. You’re trying to get yourself killed.
“I wouldn’t say I’m trying,” Styke said. He had a sudden worry that maybe he was trying to get himself killed and he didn’t even know it. He’d always chalked his own courage up to a lack of fear, but maybe it wasn’t so simple. “I’m not trying,” he insisted. “We need surgeons and protection while we put ourselves back together. But Dvory might try to kill me. If he does, I intend on taking him with me. You probably should go back to Ibana until I sort this out.”
Ka-poel pursed her lips and tilted her head. That, Styke understood. “Suit yourself.”
Ka-poel put her slate away as they rode up to the sentries. One of them stepped forward, eyeing Styke and his horse. “State your name, rank, and business.”
“I need to see your quartermaster,” he said. “Then I need to see General Dvory.”
“Name and rank?” the sentry demanded.
“Colonel Ben Styke.”
The sentry’s eyes widened. “Oh. Right. I, uh, better have someone escort you to the general.”
Styke and Ka-poel were led through the camp. He was pleasantly surprised to find that the Fatrastan Army was significantly more organized than they had been during the War for Independence, with clean rows of tents and clearly marked regiments, companies, and platoons. It was the first time he’d been in a Fatrastan army camp in over ten years, and he felt more than a little nostalgia for the old days.
They were led to a large tent in the middle of the camp. Two guards stood at the entrance, bayonets fixed, and Styke was able to tell which one recognized him by the way the man straightened, inhaling sharply.
Their escort called out his name and rank and then went inside the tent, emerging a moment later. His face was pale. “General Dvory will see you now, Colonel Styke.”
“That was quick,” Styke commented dryly. “Stay here,” he told Ka-poel, ducking into the tent.
Dvory was much as Styke remembered him—an unassuming-looking man with the dusky skin of a full-blooded Rosvelean. He was slim, of medium height with black hair and a plain face. At some point in the last decade he’d begun to wear spectacles. His bottom lip drooped slightly, giving most people the impression he was stupid, which, Styke remembered quite clearly, was not the case.
“Ben Styke,” Dvory said, standing up from behind his desk. He folded his spectacles and set them on a book he’d been reading.
“Dvory,” Styke replied.
“It’s General Dvory now. You may call me sir.”
Styke ambled over to the chair on the opposite side of the table from Dvory and sat down, listening to it creak angrily under his weight. Dvory was an honest-to-god real general. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Dvory had always been competent, but not “make me a general” levels of competent. Nowhere close. “Fat goddamn chance of that. You’re welcome to try to have me beaten for insubordination. We’ll see how that goes for everyone involved.”
Dvory managed a pained expression and lowered himself into his chair. “I expected you sooner or later,” he said. “Unfortunately, I expected the attitude as well. I heard you beheaded Fidelis Jes?”
“I asked to see the quartermaster,” Styke replied. “I think it’s ironic they brought me straight to you, considering you used to be one of my quartermasters. Yeah, I beheaded Fidelis Jes. He had it coming.”
“I see.” Dvory reached for a cigarette box, opened the lacquered lid, and plucked out a cigarette. He lit it with a match, inhaling deeply, and Styke thought he saw just the slightest tremble to his hand. “It’s a pity,” Dvory continued. “Fidelis Jes was a great man.”
“He was a prick, and everyone knew it.”
“Great men can be pricks,” Dvory said. “Take yourself, for instance.”
Styke interrupted with a snort. “You think I’m a great man?”
“Absolutely! You were, anyway. I understand you’re a shadow of your former self, but you still have that attitude—that disregard for your betters that got you put in front of a firing squad.” Dvory paused to smoke, looking over Styke’s shoulder thoughtfully. “You’ve always been a pompous piece of garbage and yet … still a great man.”
Styke ignored the insults, focusing on Dvory’s careless appearance. Was he trying to goad Styke into attacking him? Or did he just assume he was safe in the middle of his army? Styke produced his most condescending smile. “Have you been practicing that speech in a mirror?”
“Excuse me?”
“The ‘great man’ thing. I bet you’ve been practicing that ever since you found out I killed Jes.”
Dvory’s eyes narrowed. He took a deep breath, ashing his cigarette into a half-empty glass of whiskey. Again, Styke noted that the carelessness of it seemed too performative. Dvory wanted Styke to think he didn’t give a damn about him anymore. “Why are you here, Styke? Did you come to kill me? I heard Agoston disappeared. Tenny Wiles, too. Valyaine, though … he beat the shit out of you in Bellport. That must have been something to see. Have you softened in your old age?”
“I could kill you now,” Styke mused aloud.
“And die by the hands of my guards. Not even you can fight a field army, Styke.”
Styke leaned forward, listening to the chair creak. He drew his knife and planted the tip against the top of Dvory’s table, spinning it. To his credit, Dvory ignored the knife and kept his eyes on Styke’s face. But even with that bravado, he could almost hear Dvory wondering if the prospect of death would stop Styke from having his revenge. “No,” Styke said, watching his knife spin before plucking it up in his hand. “I’m not here to kill you.”
“Oh?” Dvory blinked in surprise.
“Of course not. We’re on the same side, aren’t we?”
“Are we?” Dvory asked. “No one reinstated the Mad Lancers. No one made you a colonel again.”
Styke used his boz knife to trim his fingernails. “That’s not entirely true. Lady Vlora Flint reinstated the Mad Lancers and my rank.”
“A traitor with a price on her head,” Dvory scoffed.