Ka-poel pointed out a pair of Privileged about ten paces from each other. They stood down beside the easy cover of the redoubts, some hundred paces away and protected by their personal shields. Taniel lined up the shot and pulled the trigger.
Both men dropped, taking the separate bullets to the chest. A third Privileged saw them fall. Taniel ducked behind the wall.
He signaled to Ka-poel to stay down. The Privileged would be watching for him now. He couldn’t stop shooting. He took a few deep breaths and loaded one bullet and pictured that third Privileged in his mind’s eye. Less than a second to aim and shoot. He crawled, rifle in hand, changing his position on the wall by five paces. A few quick breaths and he sprang up.
The Privileged had his hands up, fingers twitching. An arch of lightning sprang from the air above him as Taniel pulled the trigger. The lightning slammed into the spot Taniel had been a few moments before, the force of the impact powerful enough to knock Taniel, Gavril, Ka-poel, Fesnik, and a dozen Kez soldiers off their feet.
The bullet drifted high and ripped through the Privileged’s throat. He went down in a spray of blood.
Taniel breathed a sigh of relief.
A horn resounded across the mountainside. The sound of fighting tapered off as the Kez soldiers retreated back down the mountain.
Gavril pushed away a soldier he’d been grappling with. He held a fist above his head. “Cease fire!” The cannons silenced. Kez soldiers within the bulwark threw down their weapons. Gavril scowled at them. “We’re not taking prisoners,” he said. “Surrender your weapons and gear, and then down the mountain with you.”
Word passed throughout the bastion. Kez climbed back over the walls after being relieved of their muskets and powder, and began the long walk among their dead. Gavril found a Kez officer among the wounded and took him by the shoulder while Taniel watched.
“Tell Field Marshal Tine that he can send some unarmed soldiers up to collect your dead. And I suggest we all take a few days to tend to the wounded.” Gavril repeated the order in Kez to be sure he was understood.
The officer nodded wearily and, with the help of a Kez soldier, headed over the wall and down the mountain.
Taniel dropped down beside Bo.
“You OK?”
Bo gave him a long look.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“To the pit with all this,” Bo managed.
Katerine, Rina, and Alasin appeared as if from nowhere. All three of Bo’s women. They surrounded Bo, alternately scolding and fussing, and Bo was carried off toward the town.
Taniel and Gavril watched them go.
“I need to get me one of those,” Taniel said.
“What?” Gavril asked. “A harem?”
“Yeah,” Taniel said. Ka-poel punched him in the arm.
“I’ve tried juggling more than one woman at once,” Gavril said. “It’s a pain in the ass. Don’t know how Privileged do it.”
“They treat ’em like shit,” Taniel said.
“Bo doesn’t,” Gavril said. “I guess I should say, ‘I don’t know how Bo does it.’”
They turned and watched the retreating Kez in silence for a moment.
“You really saved our asses there,” Gavril said.
Taniel gave Gavril a surprised look. “Huh?”
“You didn’t know?”
Gavril slapped his knee and gave a loud guffaw. Watchers, tending to the dead and wounded, paused to give Gavril odd looks. “You mean you don’t know who you shot?”
“A Privileged?” He bent over, picked up a discarded bottle of St. Adom’s Festival wine. Somehow it had gone unbroken through all of this. He took a swig. After a moment’s hesitation he handed it to Ka-poel. She drank once and gave it back.
“At a hundred yards even I recognized him,” Gavril said. “That last one, the one that hit us with a lightning bolt hard enough to knock through the wards on the bastion. That was Brajon the Callous.”
Taniel choked on a mouthful of wine. “The head of the Kez Cabal?”
“The same,” Gavril said.
Taniel felt his knees weaken beneath him. He put a hand on the bastion wall for support. “I would never have stood up if I had known it was him. Brajon was in Fatrasta at the beginning of the war. He almost ended it himself. Wiped out an entire Fatrastan army—singlehandedly. The war would have ended there if he hadn’t been called back to Kez by Ipille himself.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t know,” Gavril said. “They almost had us there. Their Privileged were dressed in infantry colors and hiding their gloves. Blended right in. Bo was too busy tending his shields to notice.”
And Taniel hadn’t had his third eye open until it was too late. He scolded himself. Stupid. He’d almost gotten them all killed. Taniel watched as Gavril took stock of the damage to the bastion. “You know,” Taniel said, “we could have kept firing after they sounded the retreat. Would have wiped out thousands on the mountainside. The Kez did that to us in Fatrasta a few times.”
Gavril snorted angrily. “War has to have some decorum. Otherwise it’s back to the Bleakening for all of us, and Kresimir be damned.”
Gavril left him then. Taniel looked over the edge of the bastion. He thought to open his third eye to track their Privileged, but decided it would just give him a headache.
A thought troubled him. If that was their big push, then where was Julene? He searched the hillside for the entrance to the sapper tunnels. There was some movement there, and he thought he saw a man empty a wheelbarrow of dirt.
Tamas stared up at the ceiling of a small room, his vision blurry. There wasn’t much to see even had his eyes been clear. He could make out the slanted logs of a roof, plain wood with mud in the cracks to seal them against the weather. It was light, barely. His body told him it was dawn. The light was gloomy, indicative of a stormy day ahead. He heard the crow of a rooster, and the sound of hoofbeats, followed by a muffled conversation. The men outside spoke Kez.
He couldn’t feel his right leg. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, and combined with his blurry vision Tamas had to fight rising panic. Without a leg or good vision, what hope did he have of escape? He breathed deeply, calming himself, and assessed the rest of his body for wounds.
Both of his hands and arms still seemed to work. They moved when prompted. He could feel the stab of a straw mattress beneath him. His chest hurt when he took too deep a breath, but not enough for a broken rib. His side was tender, perhaps from a cut or a bruise. He touched it gently. A bruise, he decided. He was in short undergarments and nothing else, and years of instinct told him he was not alone in the room.
Tamas struggled to push himself into a sitting position. He’d been provided with neither blanket nor pillow, and lay upon a filthy straw mattress on a wooden frame. There was a window on his left, and stairs going down at the end of the bed. He rubbed his eyes, which improved his vision slightly. A Warden sat in the corner, his muscled, malformed body easy to recognize, though Tamas could not make out much more than the outline of the body.
“Where am I?” Tamas said.
The blurry mountain of flesh seemed to regard him for a moment, then mumbled something unintelligible in Kez.
“Where am I?” Tamas repeated.
The Warden left the room.
“Where am I,” Tamas shouted after the Warden. He pushed himself up farther. “Monster. Beast!” He lay back down, what little strength he had now gone. His head had begun to throb when he moved. He felt along the wrapping gingerly, grimacing. The slightest touch brought a jolt of pain, and he eventually left it alone. He’d been treated. They’d covered his wounds in strips of dirty linen. His leg was wrapped tight, but there was still circulation. He wouldn’t be walking on it any time soon. He heard steps from below, and two pairs of boots upon the stairs. The Warden returned, with him a smaller man.
“Field Marshal,” a voice said in accented Adran. Tamas felt his hackles rise at the sound of the voice.
“Nikslaus,” he spa
t. “I thought I threw you in the Adsea.”
The duke’s voice was genial. “My Wardens fished me out. How is your leg?”
“It’s fantastic,” Tamas said. “I’m going to dance a jig. Where am I?”
Nikslaus took the Warden’s seat in the corner of the room, while the Warden stood at the foot of the bed. “Deep in the King’s Wood,” he said. “Now, my surgeon said you’d hit your head hard when you fell. Are you having any problems with your vision?”
“No,” Tamas lied.
“Of course you are,” Nikslaus said. “I can tell that your eyes aren’t focusing. I’ll have the surgeon take a look at you before we go.”
Tamas did his best to glare at Nikslaus, but found it hard when he could barely see him. “Why the pit am I still alive? Where are we going?”
“To Kez,” Nikslaus said. “I advised against it, but after that first Warden didn’t kill you, Ipille decided that we should send a message. If everything goes as scheduled, you’ll face the guillotine beneath my king’s gaze on the final day of Saint Adom’s Festival.”
“You’ve planned this for a long time,” Tamas said.
“One of many contingencies. We need to be rid of you, one way or another, if we’re to take Adro. You’re the strongest of the powder mages and a tactical genius—I don’t mind saying it, it’s the truth. The mercenaries will give us some fight, but you’re the backbone of your army. Your soldiers will crumble without you.”
“You underestimate them,” Tamas said.
“Perhaps.” Nikslaus seemed unworried. “The dominoes will fall, Tamas. You’re only the first. Adro is outnumbered. With your head in a basket, we will whittle away at the Mountainwatch and hunt down your powder mages. We have every advantage.”
Tamas gazed at his hands, trying desperately to focus on them. “What happened to my leg?”
“My fault,” Nikslaus said. “The boulder you were hiding behind cracked in a particular way, and then exploded when I applied enough sorcery. A fragment glanced your leg. Shattered it, I’m afraid.
“But I wouldn’t worry much about it,” Nikslaus continued. “Our surgeon says it might heal, in time. He’s quite gifted. Put it back together and stitched the flesh up like no one would know.” Nikslaus stood up and approached the bed. He leaned forward, just out of Tamas’s reach. “You’re a few hundred krana richer, Tamas,” he said in a low voice. He tilted his head toward Tamas’s leg. “There’s a star of gold in there, right up against the bone. You’ve been cured.”
Tamas lurched forward and swung a fist at the blurry image of the duke. His body screamed at him, his leg sending a fiery needle of pain up his body that made his stomach lurch. Nikslaus danced out of the way.
“Cured.” That’s what Nikslaus thought of it. Gold in the bloodstream of a powder mage was anathema. It removed their ability to sense and touch powder, to enter a trance.
Nikslaus gave a chuckle. “You’re cured, Tamas, but it won’t help your cause. Your neck will rest beneath the same guillotine blade that took your wife’s head all those years ago. You won’t go to your death as a powder mage. You’ll go as the son of a poor apothecary.”
Tamas’s blood thumped hard in his ears and his hands shook violently. He wanted to reach out and take Nikslaus by the throat. He longed to have finished what he started on the docks. Yet he could do nothing. He was powerless.
It was not a familiar feeling. For as long as Tamas could remember, his magery had been there. Even when not in a powder trance, he could sense nearby sorcerers and tell where and how much powder there was within hundreds of paces. He could detonate charges or kegs, he could breathe in the acrid smoke and send his body into a berserk rage.
He had none of that now. Only his hands and a shattered leg, and vision blurred by a concussion. He sank back onto the bed and felt moisture roll down his face. He turned away from Nikslaus as best he could.
The duke left him in silence. Even the Warden was gone. It was plain to see that Tamas could do nothing, and from the growing noise outside the room there was plenty else to be done than watch one broken old man.
Nikslaus’s voice was louder than the others. He gave orders with the arrogance of the nobility. Tamas forced his hands to stop shaking. He lifted his good leg and put one foot on the floor. He pushed himself up.
He nearly collapsed there. It took all of his strength to keep from falling flat on his face. He put one hand on the wall, the other on a bedpost. He pushed himself over to the window, hopping on one leg. He stopped only to vomit, the pain finally overcoming his gag suppression, and then he was at the window.
Tamas sank to the floor, careful to avoid the puddle of bile, and put his head against the cool wall. He could hear Nikslaus almost as clearly as if he stood next to him. Nikslaus either didn’t count on Tamas eavesdropping or didn’t care.
“We’ll take the long road to Adopest,” Nikslaus said in Kez. “I don’t care what the scouts say, I’ll not risk encountering those fools from the hunt.”
Tamas heard the gallop of approaching hooves. They stopped outside the window.
“Well?” Nikslaus said.
“We tracked down four more, my lord,” a deep voice responded. There was a guttural quality to the voice, so Tamas knew it was a Warden.
“Is that the last of them?” Nikslaus said.
“No telling. With our man dead, we don’t know how many men Ryze brought with him. I suspect we have them all.”
“Don’t underestimate that brigadier,” Nikslaus snarled. “He was one of Winceslav’s best. He’ll have had outriders in case anything happened. Leave two Wardens to hunt.”
“We had to dodge patrols. They’re looking for Tamas.”
“We’ll be gone before they reach us. Go help the others. We leave within the hour.”
With powder mages on his trail, Nikslaus would be in a hurry to get away. Tamas’s mood began to rise, only to plummet as logic set in. They had been hours away from the hunt. Half a day from Adopest. Sabon might not even know he was missing yet. And that was all based on the possibility that Nikslaus let the others get away. How many Wardens did he have with him? Did Nikslaus send them after Olem, Charlemund, and the rest?
Tamas gave a weary sigh. Even if they were to find him, what was he? Just an old man now. No more a powder mage.
Chapter 26
Adamat spent nearly a week investigating Ondraus the Reeve before making an appointment to interview the man. He almost canceled the appointment due to wild speculation that had reached the city that morning: Tamas disappearing from the Orchard Valley Hunt the day before, a rogue brigadier, sorcery in the King’s Forest. None of the rumors could be confirmed, so Adamat went on with the interview, though he had an unsettling feeling that he might no longer be employed.
He arrived at the reeve’s home at five past the hour, late for his meeting because he’d passed the house four times without finding it. The house itself was behind a hedgerow, wedged between two manors and easily mistaken for some kind of servants’ quarters. There was a small garden between the hedgerow and front step, meticulously cared for, not a blade of grass or flower petal out of place. The house was utilitarian—a simple A-frame made of fine, but not expensive, brick.
The door opened as Adamat lifted his hand to the knocker. An old woman peered up at him. She wore a drab maid’s frock, a simple wool shirt that went all the way down to her ankles.
“I’m here to—”
“See the reeve,” she cut him off. “You’re late.”
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t find…”
The old woman turned and hobbled away in the middle of his sentence. Adamat trailed off. He swallowed his annoyance and followed her into the house.
The inside was as unremarkable as the outside. The mantelpiece was clear of knickknacks, the shelves freshly dusted and also empty but for two rows of bookkeeper’s volumes. A single chair sat before an empty fireplace. There were three doorways. One led to an alcove of a kitchen, where the only sign of us
e was a fresh loaf of bread on the table. The second door was closed—presumably the bedroom—and the third door was open, showing the reeve sitting at a small desk in the corner, spectacles balanced on the tip of his nose as his finger ran across the page of a book of numbers.
The housekeeper clucked to herself and went into the kitchen, leaving Adamat to show himself in to the reeve. Adamat watched her for a moment, and wondered if the kitchen was used at all—there was no smell of baking, or undue heat from a cooking fire, so she must have bought the bread somewhere else. She turned and caught him watching her and shut the kitchen door.
Adamat turned his attention to the little man sitting at a desk. He’s more than he seemed, Ricard had warned. Well, what did he seem? A dusty bookkeeper. An accountant—though admittedly the finest one in Adro. So what more could he be? Anything, Adamat supposed.
“You’re late.” The reeve didn’t bother to look up from his book as Adamat entered.
“My apologies. The streets are awfully full, with the festival and all.” Adamat didn’t bother adding how unusual it was to hold appointments on a festival evening. Something told him the reeve didn’t actually enjoy having fun.
“Save the excuses for someone else. Don’t waste my time, Investigator,” the reeve said. “I didn’t try to have Tamas killed. I have neither the patience nor time to answer your questions. The ledgers still need to be kept in Tamas’s absence.” He made a face, realizing that he had let something slip.
“So he is missing?” Adamat asked.
The reeve glared at him.
Adamat examined the reeve for a moment. Ondraus was a small man, bent from decades of leaning over a desk, shoulders hunched. His face was long, his cheeks sallow, shoulders narrow. Ondraus was one of the most well known men in Adopest. This was quite the feat, considering that he rarely showed his face in public, he had never sat for a portrait, and he reportedly tried to alienate everyone he met. Adamat could see that the last seemed to hold true. He could also see that Ondraus would not be talking about Tamas’s disappearance.