Styke paused for a moment just inside, before stopping Jackal with a hand on his chest. “Keep an eye out. You should be able to see the front drive from that room there. Watch for Sirod leaving, or his bodyguard returning.” He handed Jackal his carbine. “Fire off a shot if you see them.” With that, he set off on his own.
The house was enormous, and this servant’s corridor along the east wing stretched nearly as long as a drill field. It was dark but for a few gas lamps and the dancing of the flames from the stables through the occasional high window. Styke paused beside each of those long enough to look for any familiar figures out in the yard. He could see the rush of servants trying to put out the fires, reminding him of the people of Fernhollow attempting to do the same – only to be cut down.
Styke had no quarrel with the servants. Just with one man and his Privileged bodyguard.
He finally reached the end of the corridor, pausing to listen to shouts coming from what he guessed were the kitchens. He tried to orient himself, getting an idea of the layout of the house. He could smell that brimstone stronger here. The Privileged was close.
Styke slipped from doorway to doorway, soon catching sight of the servants as people rushed into the kitchens, the head maid shouting for buckets and bowls, and sending all the young men out to the garden pumps. A few of the maids crouched by a window, watching the whole event, whispering to each other.
One last glance out a window made Styke freeze. He saw a single figure – a man, six feet tall or more with broad shoulders – framed by the flames and walking toward them with arms outspread. Even as Styke watched, the smell of brimstone in his nostrils grew stronger. The flames of the barn suddenly flickered, as if being battered by an invisible wind, and then began to subside.
The Privileged, Bierutka.
Styke did not know how long it would take him to contain the fire. He hurried through the halls, looking this way and that, opening each door with a soft hand to check inside. He knew the general design of these manors, and he knew that the study would be near the center of the manor, perhaps just off into one of the wings.
He found it within the minute, opening the door just a fraction and seeing the soft gaslight within, noting the built-in mahogany shelves and the high, wing-backed chairs. He pushed the door open in silence, then closed it behind him and took a long look at the man sitting in one of those chairs.
Sirod wore a dressing gown over bedclothes, a pipe in one hand. He looked at Styke over the top of his book like one might look at a flea-bitten dog that had just stolen into the kitchen. One eyebrow raised, and then Sirod’s lip curled in disgust. Styke wondered how he looked – looming in the dim light with his forehead stitched, his jacket and shirt stained with dried blood. Sirod slowly closed his book and set it in his lap. “What the pit is this?”
Styke took a step into the room.
Sirod inhaled sharply. “You’re him, aren’t you? Yes, I recognize you from that damned little village. The lancer who attacked my brother.”
Styke glanced around the room. There was a gilded hunting rifle above the mantelpiece but no other weapons, and he was surprised at how calmly Sirod took a giant of a murderer slipping into his study. “Did you get my message?”
“Message?” Sirod echoed.
“The box.”
Sirod looked disgusted. “You mean the hands, feet, and head of my brother?” Sirod’s eyes narrowed, his hands drawing up over his book to steeple beneath his chin. He was calm and collected, but Styke could see a smolder in his eyes. “Yes, I got that. You’re a monster, Styke.”
“Fine words, coming from you.”
“You think me a monster?” Sirod seemed genuinely surprised.
“You ordered the death of a whole town because they insulted you.”
“I have a duty to keep order. Fernhollow would have started something that may have put the empire in danger. What are the lives of a thousand commoners next to the fate of an empire? Attending to my duty is far from monstrous.”
“Yeah? Your brother messed up. He didn’t kill me or the garrison. He just made it all worse. Everyone within a hundred miles of Landfall knows what he did, and that you ordered it.”
Sirod considered this for a moment before giving a slight shrug. “Perhaps you’re right that I overreacted. People make mistakes. Martial law will make them forget it.”
“That’s not a mistake. Just proof that you’re a piece of shit.” Styke drew Rezi’s knife.
Sirod shifted in his chair, the first bit of genuine consternation crossing his face as Styke stepped toward him. “You mean to kill me?”
“That’s about right.”
“I am the governor of this province!”
“You look like a dead man to me.”
Styke was feet from Sirod when he felt a breeze across his neck and his nostrils filled with brimstone. He whirled, hurling the knife with all his strength at the Privileged who had opened the door behind him.
There was a faint pop, and Rezi’s knife shattered into a thousand pieces. Styke didn’t even wait for the shards to hit the ground, throwing himself at the Privileged as quickly as his legs could carry him. He only made it a few steps when what felt like an enormous wind swept beneath his feet and lifted him, hurling him through the wall.
The impact knocked his breath out. Every bone rattled as he smashed like a cannonball through one wall, then another, then another. A table finally slowed his momentum, one wooden leg splintering as his shin went through it, and he finally rolled to a stop in a cloud of plaster dust.
Styke lay in a heap for several moments, the wind knocked out of him and his whole body aching. He tried to think through it, forcing his arms to move, to get them beneath his chest so he could get up to his knees and then, if nothing was broken, to his feet – where he might be able to fight. As he struggled, he could hear loud talking from several rooms over.
“Sorry I was late, my lord.”
“By Kresimir, Bierutka, why the pit did you do that?”
“Pure instinct, my lord. I wanted to get him away from you quickly. You saw what he did to your poor brother.”
Sirod gave a sigh, as if throwing his arms up. “Fine. Go kill the dog and get this over with so we can deal with the Lindet situation.”
Styke finally gained his knees. His eyes began to focus again, his breath returned, and he saw that he was in the kitchens. A single cook stared at him, her eyes wide and her apron dirty, and then gave a loud scream before fleeing the room. Styke crawled to the closest preparation table, using it as support to get to his feet.
He’d no sooner lifted his head above the table than he glimpsed Bierutka looking through the hole Styke’s body had made in the wall. The Privileged had a strong chest and a powerful frame, and he stretched his arms as he stalked around the wall and in through the kitchen door.
“Still alive, are you?” Bierutka asked. “Still moving. Very impressive.”
Styke fumbled for a butcher’s knife, flinging it at Bierutka. There was no real strength behind the throw, and it clattered harmlessly against the far wall to Bierutka’s left. Styke shook his head, still trying to clear his vision, and leaned heavily on the preparation table. “I heard you were a shitty Privileged.”
Bierutka paused, blinking in surprise. “Where did you hear a thing like that?”