Michel glanced at Tenik, hoping he’d step in with some excuse, and when no such help was forthcoming, attempted a furtive glance toward the closest exit.
“Michel Bravis, was it?” Ichtracia asked. She spoke in perfect Adran, catching Michel off guard.
Michel’s mouth was dry. “That’s me.”
Ichtracia let out a giggle—a damned giggle—and Michel realized she’d been the one to laugh when he called Forgula a horse eater. “I haven’t seen someone hit Forgula since I was a little girl.” She clapped her hands slowly, the grin on her face speaking volumes of both respect and pity. “I think the woman who struck her ended up strangled in the bath.”
Tenik cleared his throat. “Saen, we’re sorry for causing such a commotion. We—”
Ichtracia held up a finger toward Tenik without even looking at him. He snapped his mouth shut. “Michel,” Ichtracia said, “I won’t keep you any longer. I just wanted you to know that you made me laugh. Good afternoon.” She turned and swept down the hall without another word, leaving Michel with a hammering heart—and a good view of her hips as she walked away.
She was well gone when Tenik said in a low voice, “I warned you about catching her attention.”
“Believe me when I say I had no intention of doing so. Shit, shit, shit.” Michel got to his feet, trying to shake the numbness out of his arm and only receiving another jolt of pain for his efforts. Between Hendres and Forgula, his damned arm had taken a beating the last two weeks. He forced himself to put Ichtracia out of his mind and held up Forgula’s wallet. “Let’s go somewhere private and see what we can find out about our friend.”
CHAPTER 26
Vlora spent the next several days scouting up and down the numerous valleys that led into the mountains from Yellow Creek. They varied in size, from immense canyons big enough to march a field army through, to little crags and gullies that were hard to spot unless you were right on top of them. The biggest were filled to the brim with prospectors—larger mines up the side of the canyon belonging to either Jezzy or Burt—and the streams filled with independent panners hoping to make it rich on gold dust.
Vlora created a system in her head, starting with the largest and busiest canyon and then working clockwise around Yellow Creek. It was slow going, searching everywhere without looking like she was searching everywhere, and then doing the whole thing again with her sorcerous senses. So much time spent in the Else exhausted her, leaving her strung out at the end of each day with barely enough wits about her to keep an eye out for Jezzy and Burt’s goons, or for the powder mage Burt had warned her about.
She talked to a hundred prospectors each day under the guise of looking for a quiet, but well-paying job, and had heard enough gossip from them to fill an entire lifetime. Everyone had news of the distant war—that the loss of Landfall was enemy propaganda, that Lindet had been captured and hanged by the Dynize—and everyone had an opinion on Burt and Jezzy. Between the two, everyone agreed, Jezzy was the more heavy-handed but had more money. People seemed to like Burt, but in most Kressians’ eyes he was still a filthy Palo.
She returned from the hills on the fourth day with her eyes bloodshot and her feet hurting. Seventeen prospectors had offered her a job—most of them on behalf of the two big bosses—and no less than twice that many had offered graphic descriptions of what their sex life would be like if she followed them back to their tent.
She was irritable and coming up empty-handed, and it did not improve her mood when a man of about thirty fell into step beside her as she headed toward her hotel through the Palo district.
He was nearly six feet tall, with blond hair and blue eyes; a wide, pleasant face wrinkled from scars and smile lines; and a broad-shouldered build that made her think of Rosvelean sailors. He carried a pistol and sword, and wore a bicorn and red bandanna with a loose-fitting white shirt, sailor’s boots, and a long-tailed dressing coat that had seen better days. He looked like a damned storybook pirate.
But what caught Vlora’s attention was not the way he was dressed but rather the way he smelled—he reeked of black powder, and she barely had to touch her sorcerous senses to know that this man was a powder mage.
She kept walking, pretending she hadn’t noticed him, and let her hand fall on the pommel of her sword. She pushed away her exhaustion, senses prepared, her heart beating quickly. She’d never fought a powder mage before—not for real. She’d sparred and practiced, and she’d considered all the theories about what a fight between two mages would entail, but never before engaged in true combat. As she looked up from her thoughts, she found herself shocked that he was walking beside her instead of putting a bullet in her head from across town.
“It’s a lovely evening,” he said, clearing his throat.
Vlora stopped, turning toward him, putting her best card-playing face forward. “What do you want?”
He offered his hand. “My name is Nohan. Pleased to meet you.”
Hesitantly, expecting a trap, Vlora took his hand. He squeezed a bit too hard, with too broad of a smile, and Vlora snatched back her hand and watched him cautiously. “Verundish. What do you want?”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
It was not a question Vlora expected, but her immediate thought was to get this man off the street and out of the open. If this came to a fight, she would have to do things that would not easily be explained to onlookers. “Sure,” she said, nodding to a bar across the street. “There.”
The bar was obviously a Palo establishment, but it was small and nearly empty, and the proprietor didn’t question them when they ordered drinks.
“You’re Adran,” Nohan observed after they’d been served.
Vlora tried to guess his accent. “And you’re Starlish.”
He nodded. “Very good. I wouldn’t have expected to see an Adran powder mage in this part of the world. You here with those mercenaries down south?” His tone was light, even friendly, and Vlora tried to loosen the knot in between her shoulder blades. Tensing up would not help things if this came to a fight.
“Avoiding them, more like,” she answered.
“Understandable. That General Flint is a real bitch. You don’t want to cross her. She’ll try to recruit you, and kill you if she can’t.”
Vlora barely resisted laughing in his face. “Is that so? I’ve never met her.”
“I have,” Nohan said, using the opportunity to lower his voice and move a little closer. “Her goons chased me halfway across Adro a few years ago when I told them I wasn’t interested in joining her cabal.”
“No kidding?” Vlora’s mind raced, trying to remember if any such thing had ever happened. She’d never seen this man before in her life, but the name was vaguely familiar. Had one of her underlings gotten into a scrap with him?
“No kidding,” Nohan confirmed. He put money on the bar, enough for both their drinks, and clinked his against hers. “But I gotta stay independent, if you know what I mean. More money in that.”
Vlora fiddled with her drink, hoping that he wasn’t smart enough to plan ahead and have her poisoned. She had picked the bar, so she doubted that. “So you’re the other mage in town, eh?”
“Aside from you and your boyfriend, yeah.”
“He’s just my partner,” Vlora said. She realized her mistake too late as Nohan’s eyes moved up and down her body. His nose twitched, and he none too subtly removed a powder charge from his breast pocket and cut the end with his thumb, sniffing delicately. Vlora did the same, almost laughing at the thought of a powder mage after-dinner club where they all sat around drinking and running powder trances.
She could see the thoughts turning in his head, and decided to press her own questions before he could come on to her. “I’m told you’re working for Jezzy.”
“That’s right.”
“I spoke with Burt a few nights ago. I think he pays a lot more than Jezzy.”
“He might,” Nohan admitted. “I didn’t check. But Jezzy’s got the upper hand. I like to ge
t paid and end up on the winning side.”
“I’m guessing you know that I already turned Jezzy down, right?” Vlora asked.
Nohan barked a laugh. “Heard what you did to poor Dorner. Your partner did him a favor skewering him. Living a life with no tongue?” He clicked his tongue twice, then laughed again. The sound was tinged with cruelty.
“I turned down Burt, too, if that’s why you’re here. I’m not interested in working for either of them, so you can go back to your boss and tell her.” Vlora finished her glass and raised it to Nohan. “I appreciate the drink, but I’m not for sale.” She turned to go, deciding it was best to withdraw from this before he could get a chance to try for blood.
Nohan snatched her by the arm. “That’s not why I’m here, lover.”
“Excuse me?” Vlora felt her chest grow tight. His grip was too firm, his tone too familiar.
“I’m here to offer you and your partner something a little different.”
“Which is?”
Nohan leaned forward until their faces were almost touching and spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone. “We’ve got three powder mages here. Three of us, we could gut this whole damned town. Pick ’em off, cut ’em down. Doesn’t matter how, we’ve got the strength.”
“I’m not sure what you’re suggesting,” Vlora said, though she had an inkling. The sparkle in Nohan’s eye when he said “cut ’em down” was just a little too obvious.
“I’m talking a slaughter. We take out the big bosses, get their two armies fighting each other, and we set fire to the town and go a-hunting. We kill everything with two legs and there’ll be no one to stop us from loading up a mule train with gold and heading for the coast. We’ll be in Gurla, living like kings, before anyone knows what’s happened.”
Vlora’s fingers itched for her sword. “That’s … quite an offer.”
“I know,” he said with a grin.
“You already took Jezzy’s coin.”
“So?”
“If you’re willing to betray one partner, why the pit would I trust you?”
Nohan tightened his grip on her arm. “Because you’re strong. You’re a mage, like me. I’m not stupid. I won’t betray someone who can fight back.”
Vlora looked down at his hand on her arm for several long seconds. When she decided she’d calmed down, she jerked away from his grasp. “That’s about the most cowardly thing I’ve ever heard someone say.”
Nohan’s grin disappeared. His expression changed to baffled, then disgusted in an instant. “What are you, some kind of hero? Nobody gets anything in this life they don’t take with force. And we’ve got the force to take it.”
“I work for my money, thank you,” Vlora said quietly. “I’m not a cowardly dog, biting the hand and stealing the scraps.”
“Bitch,” Nohan snarled.
“I’ve been called worse by better.”
It didn’t surprise her when Nohan took a swing. Vlora caught his wrist, but was forced back a step by the power of the blow. He was running a powder trance just like her, and was physically much larger. Her sorcery wasn’t an advantage here.
He moved quickly, swinging his other hand with the glass still in it. She ducked, kicking out his leg, the glass catching her a glancing blow across the back of the head. She heard the sound of glass shattering and brought her fist up hard and fast, connecting with his chin with enough force to lift him off the ground and lay any grown man out cold.
He caught himself on a table, shaking off a daze, and came at her quick. Only preternatural senses allowed her to sense the movement of his sorcery, leaping out to set off her powder like a finger on a hair trigger. She fought back mentally, suppressing his ability to detonate powder with her mind while fending off a series of powerful blows that sent her retreating across the bar.
The bartender leapt into a backroom, slamming the door, while the few occupants cleared out. Nohan’s fingers went for her throat, and Vlora kneed him between the legs and grabbed the lapels of his jacket, swinging him around and into the beam holding up the roof with enough force that there was an audible crack.
Once again, Nohan shook it off. He regained his feet and fell into a boxer’s stance, one fist forward. “I gave you a chance,” he said, jabbing. Vlora jerked back from the blow, imitating his stance and slamming her fist into his gut three times before he could get an arm around her head and throw her away from him. She hit the bar headfirst, seeing stars, and barely recovered before he came at her again.
She held her arms up in defensive posture, taking a pummeling before getting an opening of her own and grabbing him by the throat. She lifted him over her head, powering forward, and slammed him through a table with all her strength.
She didn’t bother going for her pistol. Both of them could prevent powder from igniting a spark. Instead, she drew her sword and leapt toward him, intent on putting a blade through his eye. He was quick, snapping away from the thrust and rolling to his feet. He struggled to draw his own sword as he dodged Vlora’s thrusts.
Vlora became more frustrated. She’d fought a lot of quick people, and sparred with powder mages, but the frustration of having someone dodge your attack so easily mounted quickly. The irony, she realized in the back of her head, was not enjoyable.
She missed on a thrust, and Nohan kicked her hard in the chest, sending her reeling across the bar. He finally drew his own sword but made no motion to advance.
They both panted from the fight. “I was a member of the Starlish Cabal,” he said. “We could have worked well together, but you passed up a chance at real riches.” He spat at her feet. “Watch your back.” Without warning, he suddenly broke and ran, pushing his way out the door and into the street.
Vlora considered giving chase, but her leg hurt from a kick to her shin, and her vision was slightly blurry. She felt the back of her head where the glass had broken, only for her fingers to come away covered in crimson. Finding her hat in the ruin of the barroom, she limped out the door and into the street.
She was almost to her hotel when she spotted a face in the crowd. It touched something in the back of her memory, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. It was almost an hour later, when she’d cleaned herself up and retreated to her room, that the face suddenly attached itself to a name.
She swore loudly, feeling furious that she hadn’t recognized him earlier: Prime Lektor, former dean of Adopest University and onetime ally of Field Marshal Tamas, was a powerful, immortal Privileged who’d disappeared during the Adran-Kez War over ten years ago. What kind of terrible bloody luck did she have for him to show up here now?
Seeing someone like Prime Lektor in the same town as a godstone couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.
CHAPTER 27
Bellport is under siege.”
Styke jerked awake, realizing he’d been nodding off at the reins, and blinked the sleep out of his eyes. The Mad Lancers stretched down the road in a column behind and ahead of him, with Jackal and his banner a dozen paces back and Ibana nowhere to be seen. Celine and Ka-poel rode together nearby, the latter teaching Celine her sign language.
Styke yawned and turned toward the woman addressing him. He didn’t know her name, but she wore the crimson and blue of the Riflejack cavalry and she waited for an answer with a cool, professional air.
“How far out are we?” he asked, casting about for a landmark that he might recognize.
“Less than five miles.”
Styke considered his options. They could swing down south, skirting Bellport and the Dynize Army and be well past them by noon tomorrow. But Bellport was their last chance to rest and resupply before heading out onto the Hammer and it was a good place to recruit.
And there was the matter of the traitor Valyaine. Perhaps he should just get that over with.
“Take me to Gustar,” Styke told her.
Styke ordered a halt and rode ahead with the messenger, finding Gustar and a group of his dragoons hidden in a glen about two miles to the east of Bellt
ower. Styke left his horse and climbed to the lip of the nearest hill, where Gustar was crouched among the shrubbery with a looking glass in hand. He offered it to Styke as he approached.
Bellport was a coastal city located at the mouth of a small, swift-moving river. Its port was built behind a tall hill that effectively protected the city from a seaward attack, and the north side was watched over by a stone fortress built by the Starlish almost two hundred years ago. The gun towers were outdated but effective, forcing an enemy army to approach from the south.
This seemed to suit the Dynize just fine. They were camped just under a mile south of the river, bombarding the suburbs and old city walls with artillery and the sorcery of what looked to be a single Privileged. Styke guessed the army at about five thousand infantry with a few hundred cavalry support. They were camped on the sandy floodplain, and he amused himself with the thought of a torrential rain carrying them all into the ocean.
Unfortunately, the weather was sunny and the ground dry.
“I can’t imagine the garrison lasting much longer,” Gustar said. “A day, maybe two at best.” He pointed to a smoldering ruin in the corner of the city where the river let into the ocean. “That was their biggest south-facing guntower and it went down about two hours ago. Belltower has a few four-pounders on that hill over there”—he pointed again—“but nothing else outside the old fortress. Once they go down, the Dynize just have to cross the river.”
“So you think they’re done for?” Styke asked. From what he could see, he didn’t disagree.
Gustar nodded. “Unless we intervene soon, the smart option is to head around to the south and be past them by tomorrow night. They’ll be too busy securing the city to chase us—and they’ve only got a few hundred cavalry anyway.”
Styke twirled his lancers’ ring, considering. There was a lot of smoke rising from the southern suburbs, but the northern half of the city was still untouched and full of people he could save. “I don’t want to leave an enemy behind us,” he said. “The Dynize already have Swinshire. If we let them take Bellport, we’ll be completely cut off on the Hammer.”