If he was cautious, he could continue to use Blackhat resources. He could moonlight with Hendres and spend his days tracking down this Dynize informant. Once he found her, he’d have to deal with convincing her to leave. Getting her out of the city – as long as his escape routes were still open – would be the easy part.
“Right,” he said, returning to Taniel. “I’ll do it. What help can you give me, and what can you tell me about this woman?”
Taniel produced an envelope and handed it over. “These are the addresses of my personal safe houses. Memorize them and burn the paper. You’ll find money, gold, weapons, food, and a safe place to sleep. Some of them may have been destroyed or compromised during the riots. I don’t know which ones. There are also a handful of names in there – loyal agents of mine who have remained behind. I suggest using them … sparingly, and only in an emergency.”
“This will help,” Michel said, taking the envelope. “And the woman?”
“Her name is Mara. I don’t know what she looks like, beyond the fact that she’s Dynize. She’s embedded with the Dynize higher-ups, so reaching her might be difficult.”
“In what way?”
“She’s attached to the retinue of one of their ministers. I don’t know which one.”
“Anything else?”
Taniel clearly hesitated. “That’s all I know that can help you.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
Michel knew Taniel well enough to know when he was holding something back. And that he wouldn’t spill the beans if he didn’t want to. “Right. I’ll see what I can do.”
Taniel stood up, adjusting his gloves and cuffs and straightening his jacket. “Be cautious, my friend. If the Blackhats find out what you are, they’ll torture and kill you. The Dynize will do worse.”
Michel scoffed outwardly, while his stomach twisted in a knot. What could possibly be worse than torture and death?
Taniel offered a hand, and Michel shook it. Without another word, Taniel picked his way through the ruins of the hotel and disappeared into the street. The warning echoed in Michel’s head, raising goose bumps on his arms. How the pit was he supposed to find this woman, let alone convince her to leave Dynize? He might have to resort to a kidnapping, which posed its own set of problems.
This was going to get him killed, and he knew it. Taniel probably knew it, too.
Michel took his time returning to the safe house. He stopped by one of the few remaining coffeehouses in the city and traded a few coins for a pitifully small amount of coffee that didn’t even have ice. He drank it slowly, considering, trying to come up with a plan to accomplish this impossible task Taniel had just asked of him. He would have to widen his operation, recruiting other Blackhats and old contacts – perhaps even risk contacting the remaining Gold Roses that Taniel had warned him about. That would be a last resort, of course, but the option was there.
Michel finished his coffee. He would have just enough time to reach the safe house before curfew. He’d get a couple hours of rest and then there’d be another night of smuggling families out of the city. He could meditate on the problem during the mission.
A short time later he walked down the street toward the safe house, tipping his hat to a passing Dynize soldier, who told him, in broken Adran, that the curfew was fifteen minutes away. As he rounded the last corner, he felt his feet slow involuntarily, his senses responding to the long instinct of a spy rather than any particular stimuli. He came to a stop, eyeballing the street, looking for something out of place, and then stepped onto a nearby stoop to continue his examination.
It took him several seconds to see what his instincts had responded to: Three Dynize soldiers loitered near the entrance of the tenement containing the safe house. Michel focused on them for a moment, trying to decide if their presence was a coincidence, when a movement caught the corner of his eye.
Another Dynize soldier peeked over the rooftop of the tenement, his face barely visible beneath the morion helm. Michel felt his pulse quicken, and now that he knew what to look for, he quickly spotted the extra soldier at the opposite intersection, and then another lurking in the window of the apartment two doors down from his safe house. Michel’s mouth went dry, his legs twitching with the desire to run.
The safe house was compromised. Hendres was either dead, captured, or had gone underground. Michel ran through a checklist of items he’d left in the safe house to make sure there was nothing he couldn’t abandon, then cursed himself for a fool. He should have realized earlier; if Taniel could find him, so could the Dynize.
Chapter 7
Vlora stood on the dark slopes of the Hadshaw River Valley with a half-empty skin of watered wine dangling from one hand. She hugged herself, Olem’s jacket thrown over her shoulders, and stared into the darkness. The garment, smelling of Olem’s sweat, cologne, and favorite tobacco, had a comforting effect that allowed her to think about the last few weeks without becoming overwhelmed.
Two days had passed since what the soldiers had taken to calling the Battle of Windy River. Two days since the Second Dynize Army had been spotted, and two days since a Fatrastan colonel had served her with a warrant of arrest from Lady Chancellor Lindet.
It was a stupid gesture, of course. Both Vlora and Lindet knew she wasn’t going to accept the warrant and come along quietly. The colonel had given her the papers and returned to his own army, and Vlora suspected that the paper was simple ceremony – something to tell the Fatrastan soldiers that the mercenary defender of Landfall had done something to lose Lindet’s favor.
Vlora sipped her wine. She’d not slept well for almost a month. Her eyes were tired, her body sagging. She refused to take powder until she actually needed it, forcing her body to accept the fatigue rather than give in to addiction. The last thing she wanted was powder blindness.
“Are you all right?” a voice asked through the darkness.
Vlora felt Olem’s hand slip into hers and gave it a little squeeze. He came to stand beside her, wearing the same blood-soaked shirt he’d had on since the battle, an unlit, half-smoked cigarette hanging from his lip. He wore a bandage around his left forearm to protect the stitches of a deep cut he’d received from a Dynize bayonet.
“Not really,” she answered.
Olem stared off into the night for a few moments. “Normally, people just lie and say yes when they’re asked that question.”
Vlora took a half step closer to him and put her head on his shoulder. “They’re burying another forty-three soldiers.” She let her gaze fall to a small gathering of torches about a hundred yards down the side of the valley, where her men threw the last few shovels of dirt on the graves of soldiers who’d given in to their wounds during the course of the day.
“Still bothers you, does it?” Olem asked.
She looked up at him, barely able to see his bearded profile in the darkness. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“I …” He was silent for a few moments. “One of the women they just put in the ground has played cards with me for twelve years. I’m going to miss her. But I’m a soldier, and I can’t stop and think about all the death or I won’t be able to function tomorrow.”