Adamat’s weeklong investigation had turned up frustratingly little. The reeve handled the nation’s treasury—with the exception of the king’s purse, though there was a rumor that that had changed with Manhouch’s execution—from that little desk in the corner. He had an office on Joon Street, which he never visited, where a team of bookkeepers did most of the labor. Everything they did was double-checked by the reeve. He had no known hobbies, no known friends. His housekeeper had been with him for forty-some years, but no one considered them to be friends. He had one bodyguard, who went with him whenever he left the house, which was rare.
Rumor had it the reeve had ridden at the hunt, that he had been there when Tamas disappeared. Adamat couldn’t picture the man on a horse.
“You don’t seem the type of man to betray his country,” Adamat said. “As the city reeve you could undermine Adro from its very heart without Kez help. It’s not a question of money. My research indicates that you’re one of the wealthiest men in Adro. You receive two hundred thousand krana a year for services rendered, and you own three million acres of farmland in Fatrasta, half a million acres of Bakashcan coastline that includes a major port, a coal mine in Deliv, and half of a trading company in Kez. I do wonder at all the foreign stock. Do you not have faith in your country?”
“You’d know if you were more thorough,” Ondraus said. “I own three gold mines and twelve Mountainwatch toll roads. I own three hundred and twelve thousand acres of vineyards, and I finance a merchants’ guild in the north.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Ask your friend, Ricard Tumblar, if you want to know more. I personally employ three thousand of his union workers in my ironworks.”
“Among other factories,” Adamat said.
Ondraus’s eyes narrowed. “You knew.”
“I was just curious what you’d catalog as the most valuable.”
“If you don’t suspect me, then why are we having this conversation?”
“I never said I don’t suspect you. I’ll admit you are low on my list. I want to know, sir, what the books tell you.”
“I don’t get your meaning.”
By the way Ondraus’s hand tightened on his ledger Adamat suspected he understood perfectly. “Money. You track everything. Even things a reeve shouldn’t know you have cataloged.” Adamat pointed at the ledger with his cane. “I’ve taken a look at your books on Joon Street. Very thorough. Very impressive.”
“Those aren’t for public eyes,” Ondraus snapped.
“I’m not the public. I had to bully my way past your clerks. They’re very loyal to you. Now, tell me, what does the flow of money tell you?”
Ondraus watched him through those bespectacled eyes for several moments before he responded. Calculations were being made, thoughts sliding into place.
“If the motive is money,” Ondraus said, “which it almost always is, then you have nothing to suspect of either the Proprietor or Lady Winceslav. I’ve had access to the Winceslav books for months now and there is absolutely nothing irregular about them. The Proprietor—well, criminal or not, he pays his taxes. Every penny of them, even that made on illicit gains. A man who pays his taxes like that is not concerned with the day-to-day of the government. He wants nothing more than a stable world in which to expand his influence slowly, assuredly.”
“War can mean a great deal of money for an opportunist.”
“Opportunists do not pay their taxes,” Ondraus said.
“And the other councillors?”
Ondraus sniffed. “Prime Lektor is a mystery. The man’s finances do not exist. Very strange, that. Aside from the occasional grant from the university, it’s as if money does not even go through his hands. Ricard Tumblar is a businessman. He cooks the books as well as he can. He’s received very large sums of money lately from Brudania and from banks in Fatrasta and Gurla.”
“Brudania is a major ally of Kez.”
“And the banks in Gurla are owned by the Kez.”
“Fatrasta is not an ally,” Adamat said. “And I’m not sure if I can trust what you say about Ricard. The unionization of your workers must have infuriated you.”
“Did it?” Ondraus raised an eyebrow. “His unions have organized production in a way even I couldn’t. Revenue has increased three hundred percent in my ironworks and gold mines since the unions came in. Ask Ricard. I did not bar them. I welcomed the unions.”
Ondraus made a dismissive gesture, moving on. “Then there’s the arch-diocel. As a man of the cloth his movements are completely shrouded in secrecy. No one outside of their order may so much as glance at their books. Yet he spends enough to make a king weep. Far more than his allowance as an arch-diocel. I often wonder at that.”
“And yourself?”
“I am to suspect myself?”
“Is there any reason you’d want Tamas killed?”
“Tamas is spending too much on the army and too much on spies. This is wartime, however, so his expenditures are practical. He’s increased public rations higher than I would like, but that came about from a previous agreement of ours. A ferret could run this country better than Manhouch did. At least Tamas listens to my advice.”
Ondraus went on without prompting. “If Tamas were to die, the military leadership would not be up to the task of holding off the Kez. The Kez would conquer Adro, and Adopest would be taxed. The Kez have a long history of excessive tax on their colonies in Fatrasta and Gurla. We would be no different, and the city coffers would be even worse off than they were under Manhouch.”
Adamat considered, not for the first time, Ondraus’s singular position of power. If he wanted to thwart Tamas, he could be far more subtle than by having him killed. He could just tell Tamas there was no money to pay the army or feed the people. Tamas would have riots within a month and be completely undone within two.
What he’d said about Ricard bothered Adamat. Ricard may have been the head of the Warriors of Labor and received a great deal of money, but he was not wealthy in the way that people like Ondraus or Charlemund considered wealth. He was no king. The Kez had the money to make him one.
Adamat said, “Thank you for your time. I think I’m done here. I may return if I have further questions.”
The reeve turned back to his ledger without another word.
“I’ll show myself out,” Adamat said.
Nikslaus, whether he feared Tamas or not, was taking no chances. Tamas sat facing backward in the carriage. He wore wrist and ankle irons, both of them bolted to the floor by thick chains in the style of a prison wagon. A Warden sat next to Tamas, his twisted bulk pushing Tamas against the side of the wagon. Tamas’s skin crawled being so close to one of the creatures.
Despite the irons, the carriage was fit for a duke. Nikslaus sat opposite Tamas upon a velvet cushion, which left plenty of room for his legs. The wall covering and window hangings matched the cushion and did a little to muffle the sound from outside. The carriage had recently ceased its rocking motion and now moved upon a cobbled thoroughfare. From the sound of increasing traffic they were getting close to the city.
Nikslaus appeared deep in his own thoughts. His fingers danced in his lap, sheathed in white, runed Privileged’s gloves. Tamas wondered whether he was doing some sort of unseen sorcery, or simply passing the time. Tamas lifted a finger to the curtains and glanced outside. There was nothing of interest to see. At the sound of his chains jingling, Nikslaus glanced at him. He nodded to the Warden, who reached out and firmly moved Tamas’s hand from the window.
Tamas sighed. At least his vision had cleared. They’d left the farmhouse late in the afternoon the day before. Something had calmed Nikslaus and he seemed no longer worried they’d be caught. Tamas sent his senses inward, then probed out. He tried to open his third eye.
Powder mages were the only kind of sorcerer whose power could be disrupted like this. Tamas didn’t know how it had been discovered, or when, but gold in the bloodstream could render a powder mage’s power completely null. It even blocked their ability to
see the Else. Removal of a Privileged’s hands at the wrist was said to keep them from manipulating the Else, but not from seeing it.
“I’m not a bad man,” Nikslaus said suddenly.
Tamas gave him a glance. The duke stared at him, a troubled look on his face.
“I don’t revel in your discomfort, or smile at the thought of your doom,” Nikslaus said.
Tamas said, “Such knowledge would not keep me from choking the life out of you, given the chance.”
Nikslaus gave him a distracted smile. “I’ll be glad not to give you such a chance.” He paused. “I was thinking, just now, what it would be like if I couldn’t use sorcery. If my hands were struck from me and my ability to touch the other side was gone. It was a harrowing thought.”
“You’ll not win any goodwill from me,” Tamas said.
“I simply want you to know,” Nikslaus responded, “that I don’t do any of this out of pleasure. I act on the whim of my king. I am but a servant.”
“Were you a servant when you delivered the head of my wife in a cedar box?” Tamas said. The sentence began calmly. By the time he finished it, he was snarling, his anger bared. It had come upon him like a rogue wave. His chains jingled and clanked. The Warden gave him a dangerous look.
Nikslaus calmed the Warden with a raised hand. “Yes,” he said. “I was a servant.”
“You enjoyed it,” Tamas said through gritted teeth. “Admit it.” Bitterness dripped from his voice. “You enjoyed ordering the headsman’s blade, you enjoyed bringing her head to me and seeing my sorrow, and you enjoy seeing me incapacitated now.”
Nikslaus seemed to think on this. “You’re right,” he finally said.
Tamas fell silent, shocked that Nikslaus would admit such a thing. It was beneath a duke.
“When you put it that way… I did enjoy it, and I still do,” Nikslaus said. “But not for the reasons you think. This isn’t personal. Powder mages are a stain. A black blot on sorcery. I don’t take relish in another person’s suffering. I take pride in seeing a powder mage struck down, as I did when Ipille ordered the death of your wife.”
“It makes you no less a beast,” Tamas said. He glanced sideways at the Warden. “No less a beast than the ones who made this.”
Nikslaus’s eyes narrowed. “Says the powder mage. Your kind are more monstrous than Wardens by far.” He looked at the ceiling. “I’ll never understand the minds of such as you, Tamas. We’ve both got our prejudices, I suppose.” He snorted. “Had you been born a Privileged, you would have made a formidable ally.”
“Or opponent,” Tamas said.
“No,” Nikslaus said. “Not an opponent. Our antagonism toward one another is based solely upon your being a powder mage.”
“I’m Adran,” Tamas said quietly. “You’re Kez.”
“And the Adran Cabal would have been enfolded into the Kez Cabal, had the Accords been signed. As they should have been.”
“Does Ipille really expect to rule Adro?”
Nikslaus blinked at Tamas. “Of course.”
Tamas could see in Nikslaus’s eyes that there was no doubt there. What arrogance.
“I’ve wondered,” Nikslaus said, “ever since news came of your coup, what finally did it? Is it simply revenge? Or do you honestly think you have the best interests of Adro at heart?”
“Do you honestly think it is in Adro’s best interest to bow to Kez?” Tamas countered. “No, don’t answer. I can see it in your face. You’re as blind a nobleman and monarchal stooge as any of those that I sent to the guillotine. Do you not read the papers? Do you not hear of uprisings in Gurla? I know you felt the sting of rebellion when Fatrasta rose up and threw your armies out.”
“Fools, all of them,” Nikslaus said.
Tamas persisted. “The world is changing. People do not exist to serve their governments or their kings. Governments exist to serve the people, so the people should have a say in those governments.”
Nikslaus scoffed. “Impossible. Decisions should not be left to the rabble.”
“One people should not be ruled by another,” Tamas said.
Nikslaus steepled his fingers. The gesture was often one of significance when a Privileged was involved—especially when he wore his gloves. “You’re either playing me, or you’re a naïve fool. You served in Gurla, in Fatrasta, and half a dozen other savage countries where members of the Nine have claimed land. As did I. The peasants and savages need to be tamed. As Adro and the powder mages need to be tamed.”
“We learned two different things from our experiences, you and I,” Tamas said.
Nikslaus wore a look that said he wasn’t that interested in hearing what Tamas learned.
“Who betrayed me?” Tamas asked. He had answers of his own to find.
Nikslaus gave him a glance. “Do you think I’d risk telling you?” He shook his head. “No. Perhaps when the guillotine blade is about to fall, I’ll whisper it in your ear. Not a moment before that.”
Tamas opened his mouth, about to taunt Nikslaus with the knowledge that Brigadier Barat was a traitor. He stopped himself. Was Nikslaus really worried he’d escape? Did he really think Tamas had a chance? Tamas was bereft of his abilities, his leg unusable. How could he possibly escape?
Nikslaus shifted in his seat. He moved the curtain enough to look out, then sat back, an annoyed look on his face.
“Are we being followed?” Tamas asked, his voice as casual as he could make it.
“You know,” Nikslaus said, ignoring Tamas’s question and glancing out the window again, “many in the royal court are happy about your coup.”
“I’m sure,” Tamas said. “If you take Adro, you’ll split the land we confiscated from the nobility.”
“Confiscated?” Nikslaus said. “Stole. Land and possessions will return to any living relations of the nobility. Titles will be restored. There will be a tax, but a hand of brotherhood must be extended to the ravished nobility.”
“So Ipille is not as big a fool as I thought,” Tamas said. “Nor greedy.”
Nikslaus looked for a moment as if he’d strike Tamas. He seemed to think better of it, simply raising his nose. “What mistake of breeding gave you such disrespect for your betters? Such disdain for the God-chosen king?”
“A god didn’t choose Ipille,” Tamas snorted. “Or that god is a fool.”
“I draw the line at blasphemy,” Nikslaus said. “This conversation is over.”
The day drew on, morning giving way to afternoon and the carriage grew very warm. Tamas loosened the collar on his sweat-stained riding shirt. His riding coat had been discarded for an inconspicuous brown overcoat. It was hot and close in the tight quarters, and he wished Nikslaus would open the window. The Privileged and the Warden alike seemed unaffected.
He could tell when they crossed the canal. The bridge was stone on steel over a long, tall span, and the wagon wheels rolled over easily. They were getting close to the harbor. He could smell it.
Nikslaus kept glancing out the window. Tamas wondered what Nikslaus sensed with his sorcery. Was Sabon on their trail? Or was Nikslaus simply nervous about their proximity to the city garrison? Tamas took a deep breath and studied Nikslaus. Nervous? Yes. Near to panic? No, not even close. And panic he would, if he thought any of the powder cabal were getting close.
Tamas listened to the sounds outside the carriage, trying to place their location. Somewhere near the docks and the canal. If they had taken the Roan Bridge, they were very close indeed. They could take a smuggler boat out of any of the pier warehouses. Nikslaus wouldn’t wait for anything fancy. He’d want to be off with his prize as quickly as possible.
The carriage rolled to a stop. Nikslaus lifted the curtain and smiled at what he saw. Tamas’s heart fell. They were here.
Tamas didn’t know which startled him more: the explosion, or the screaming horses that followed it. The whole carriage rocked, slamming Tamas against his chains. He bit his tongue against a scream as his weight—and the weight of the Warden—thr
ew his bad leg against the side of the carriage.
Nikslaus kicked open the door. “Kill him if they take me,” he told the Warden as he leapt from the carriage. The echo of sorcery clapped the side of the carriage, shaking it more than the explosion had.
Tamas shared a glance with the Warden. The Warden positioned himself in Nikslaus’s seat, drawing a knife.
More explosions followed. People screamed. Women and children’s voices were mixed in. Tamas felt ill. People were dying out there. Bystanders, caught out on their weekend errands by a crossfire made in the pit. A volley of gunfire erupted, followed by the nearly inaudible pops of the Wardens returning fire with air rifles. A bullet shattered the window and left a hole in the other side of the carriage, passing right between Tamas and the Warden. The Warden’s eyes grew just a little bit wider.
“Clear the way!” Tamas heard the driver yell. “We’ll make a run for it.”
Tamas gritted his teeth. He wanted to strike, to reach out and wrestle the knife from the Warden’s hands. He’d have lost without powder, but at least he’d have done something. With both hands and legs chained and his magery gone, he could do nothing but sit and listen, grimacing when sorcery or explosions rocked the carriage.
They began to move suddenly. Whatever obstacle had obstructed the road—probably a burning carriage, one filled with Wardens—was now gone. The driver whipped the horses into a frenzy, galloping down the street to the sound of yells. Gunfire and sorcery fell away behind them. The carriage rocked violently. The Warden held on to the sides with both hands, steadying himself without expression. Tamas jolted back and forth, unable to do the same in his chains, and listened to his own whimpers every time his leg jolted.
The Warden watched out the window. “Almost there,” he said. He produced a key, and despite the violent thrashing of the carriage, managed to unlock Tamas’s chains. He left the wrist and leg irons on. He brandished the knife, and said in heavily accented Adran, “You give me any trouble and I’ll bury this in your chest.”