“Don’t keep me waiting.” With a single glance back, Ichtracia strode from the room.
Michel waited for about ten minutes before cleaning up the ledgers he’d been looking through and then scrawling a quick note on a piece of paper and heading for the door. He stopped for a moment before leaving the room to look around at all the records, wondering how much longer he should continue with this farce. Ichtracia was right—he couldn’t focus on looking through records anymore. He needed to focus on the Blackhats. He could abandon the idea of attacking Sedial through Forgula’s associates, and also set aside his search for Mara.
At least for the time being.
He headed across town on foot, doubling back and waiting at intervals to be sure he wasn’t followed, then headed down into Emerald’s morgue, where he found Emerald standing over the open chest cavity of a cadaver, a length of intestine in one hand. He paused his work as Michel entered and shook his head.
“You obviously haven’t been shot again. I hope you have a damn good reason for coming down here so soon.”
“Can you get a message to Taniel?”
“Hmph,” Emerald responded, setting down the intestine and resting his hand on the cold, dead forehead of the man lying on his workbench. “It’s possible.”
Michel pulled out the note he’d written and double-checked it, taking a deep breath. Perhaps it was his recent victory against Forgula—perhaps it was this new relationship with Ichtracia—but he felt like he needed to focus on his work for the Dynize. No more searching ledgers for a mysterious name. The note simply said:
Target can’t be found. Need more information. Will remain in place. It was written in a cipher he and Taniel had come up with years ago. “Get this to Taniel. Any idea how long until I can get an answer?”
Emerald nodded at Michel to set the note on his workbench. “Two to six weeks. Maybe longer, if I have trouble finding him. I’ll see what I can do.” He sighed, clearly irritated, and pointed at Michel with a bloody hand. “You have to stop coming down here. If I hear back from Taniel, I’ll find you and let you know. Until then …”
“Right, right. I’ll be easy to find.” Michel backed out and headed up to the street. He stopped, checking his watch and realizing he’d be half an hour later than he told Ichtracia. “I’ll be either in bed with the enemy or in a shallow grave somewhere.”
CHAPTER 47
Styke sat in the deep, oppressive darkness of the Hock, listening to the sounds of the forest and the distant snores of lancers in their beds. Unable to sleep, he’d found a spot on the edge of a ravine some fifty yards from the camp where he could see the smallest sliver of starlight through the thick branches overhead. Somewhere nearby, a critter stirred in the underbrush, approaching him slowly and fleeing when he shifted to get more comfortable.
His mind was a mess of conflicting thoughts as he considered the whole of his life for the first time since the labor camps and wondered if perhaps he was not the person he’d always fancied himself. He thought of Valyaine’s statement about Styke expecting loyalty and obedience but never giving his own. He thought about Celine’s defiance in defense of Ka-poel, reminding him that he would—and had—gone off on his own and just expected the lancers to be there when he returned.
It was one thing to be called a hypocrite by a full-grown man he intended to kill. It was a whole other to have that confirmed by a little girl.
Styke wondered if perhaps, all these years, even while losing himself in the labor camps, he had bought into his own legend: that of an unkillable monster, a force of nature. Maybe deep down he had begun to believe what people said about him.
He heard someone coming from the camp through the underbrush toward him. He could tell from the weight of the step and the way she moved that it was Ibana. She joined him up there, settling down next to him and pushing a skin into his hands. He smelled wine and took a sip.
“What are you doing up here?” she asked. “It’s four in the morning.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Styke responded.
They shared a few companionable minutes in silence, handing the wineskin back and forth, and Styke felt a calmness come over him from Ibana’s presence. They had not been this close—physically—since the war and it felt good to feel her hand brush his as they exchanged the wine. She’d been a guidepost since the beginning of the Mad Lancers, his levelheaded second-in-command, the one who would keep everything running even when he had to meet with Lindet or assassinate an enemy general or any of the other shit he got up to.
“I’ve been thinking …” Styke began.
“I’ve warned you to let me do the thinking.” There was a long pause, and Ibana let out a soft sigh. “About what?”
“About being a hypocrite.”
Ibana snorted. “Still? Is this because Valyaine called you one?”
“Celine did, too, just a couple hours ago. I think that I am, and I don’t really like the feeling it gives me. I’ve always looked down on officers and politicians as hypocrites and cowards, and now, so long into this life, I realize that I am what I’ve always derided.”
Ibana remained silent, so Styke continued. “I am a hypocrite, but I think I am too far along for it to be helped. To break my hypocrisy, I would have to swear allegiance to some higher power, or I would have to dismiss the Mad Lancers and head off on my own path. I am not willing to do either.” He felt Ibana shake beside him, and it took him several moments to realize that she was laughing at him. “What the pit is so funny?”
She put a hand on his thigh and leaned over, and he was surprised to feel her lips against his cheek. She pulled away, wiping her sleeve across her eyes and chuckling. “You really think you’re a hypocrite? I’ll give you one thing: You were a hypocrite. Your double standard during the war was something we all decided to let slide because of who and what you are.”
“So you discussed this?” Styke asked, incredulous. “Behind my back?”
“You think you’re the only one to bad-mouth your superiors?”
Styke felt stung by the revelation. It was so simple. So stupid and obvious. Another hypocrisy. “What am I?” he asked.
“You’re Ben Styke.”
“Because you say I am,” Styke insisted. He felt angry, confused. He was not used to delving this deep into his own insecurities. He had always trampled them underfoot, ignoring them like so much garbage, and moved on with his life. Why couldn’t he now? The old way had gotten results, and he needed results right now.
“You’re not just Ben Styke because we say you are, though I admit that the allegiance of the people who follow you gives your name weight,” Ibana said thoughtfully. “You’re Ben Styke because you always lead the charge. Because you can break a Warden’s back and crack a dragonman’s skull. Because you’re big and strong enough to do whatever you want and yet you still have a sense of right and wrong. Even if it’s a twisted one.”
Styke stared through the darkness at his crippled hands, feeling the twinges in his wrist when he moved his fingers. He thought about how his doubt and pain went away when he wrapped his fingers around the lance and how all his other failings seemed to disappear when he charged into the face of the enemy.
“You’re not a hypocrite, Ben,” Ibana said. “You were, but you aren’t anymore.”
“I haven’t changed.”
“Haven’t you?” Ibana demanded. “The old you wouldn’t have spared Tenny Wiles or Valyaine. Definitely not Dvory. Not a chance. The old you wouldn’t have sworn allegiance to Lady Flint. Seeing the way you look at her is the first time I’ve seen you truly respect a superior officer.” She ticked off two fingers, then a third. “You took Celine under your wing, and you’ve always hated kids. Besides”—Ibana laughed again—“you didn’t ask any of us to follow you. We came because we saw that you needed us—not because we needed you.”