Powder Mage Trilogy 01 - Promise of Blood

  “Yes, damn you. I didn’t know, I swear.”

  Lord Vetas loosened his grip. “I trust you discovered the traitor? Tamas is on his way to arrest Ricard Tumblar?”

  Lord Vetas had little reason to think the traitor was Ricard unless he’d been helping frame him all along. “What interest does Lord Claremonte have in all this?” Adamat said. “Why care at all about the politics here? He’s not even Adran.”

  “Lord Claremonte’s interests are those of the Brudania-Gurla Trading Company,” Lord Vetas said. “And they rest upon the fortunes of the Nine.”

  “Where does he stand?”

  “Neutral,” Lord Vetas said. “A nudge here. A push there. That is all you need know. Now, when will Tamas arrest Ricard Tumblar?”

  “Never.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s on his way to arrest Charlemund, the real traitor.”

  Astrit cried out as Lord Vetas twisted her shoulders viciously. “All the evidence points to Ricard,” Vetas said. “Why do you think it’s Charlemund?”

  “He was named in front of Tamas’s powder mage. What could I have done?” Adamat stepped forward.

  “Back!” Lord Vetas snapped. His goons came alert and shot menacing looks toward Adamat.

  “Harm her and you’re a dead man.”

  “Along with the rest of your family,” Lord Vetas said.

  “Vetas,” Adamat said. “I swear on all the Nine that I will destroy you and your house if you harm my daughter. I will bring down Lord Claremonte as if he were a dog for me to kick in the street.” He felt something cold quiver in his bowels.

  Lord Vetas inhaled sharply. His grip on Astrit’s shoulders loosened, and the girl pulled away. Adamat caught her with one hand, pushing her behind him.

  The coal-shoveler goon produced a knife, the other goon a pistol. Lord Vetas stayed them with a warning hand. “This can still be salvaged. You’re too good to lose, Adamat. We won’t kill you… yet. When will the arrest take place?”

  “As soon as Tamas gathers his men.” Did Vetas mean to warn Charlemund?

  “Where?”

  “His villa,” Adamat said.

  “You’d better be telling the truth,” Lord Vetas said. “Kale,” he said.

  The coal shoveler turned his head.

  “Go to the villa. Warn the arch-diocel. Tell him you were sent by the Madman. If the good duke is still there, they should be able to construct an easy trap for Tamas.”

  The coal shoveler nodded his head once. He gave Adamat a warning look and then pushed past him and was out the front door at a run.

  “Why is Claremonte working with the arch-diocel?” Adamat asked. “And if he is, why did Charlemund try to kill me? I’m supposed to be working for Claremonte as well.”

  Vetas regarded him coldly. “One hand does not know what the other is doing—such a strategy has its price, which you almost paid. Charlemund’s task was simply to kill the imposter god, Mihali. He became too zealous. And know this: Charlemund is nothing more than a hand. Claremonte uses people like him to his own ends.”

  “No one uses an arch-diocel.”

  “Claremonte does.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “Beyond your comprehension,” Lord Vetas said. “You’ve disappointed me, Adamat. The girl was going to be a show of good faith, a gift to you for doing what you’re bidden. Now, though, I think she’ll come back with me. I’ve got men who enjoy that sort of thing.” He stepped forward, gesturing to his man with the pistol.

  Adamat squeezed his hands into fists. “All right!” he said.

  Lord Vetas paused.

  “They’re not going to arrest him at his villa. He’s at the cathedral, leading an afternoon prayer service. Please, just leave my daughter here.”

  Lord Vetas’s eyes flashed. “You lied to me?”

  “That’s the truth of it, I swear it!”

  “Pit! You”—he gestured at the other goon—“stay here. If they try to leave, kill Adamat, and then the boxer and the girl.”

  Lord Vetas swept out of the room, shouldering Adamat hard as he passed. Adamat grunted. Lord Vetas reached the street and broke into a run, coattails flailing behind him. Adamat watched him disappear from view through the window. He let out a long breath.

  “Are you OK, Papa?” Astrit said.

  “Yes. I’m glad you’re safe. How’s your mother?”

  “Worried. She screamed when they took me away.”

  “Did they hurt her? Your brother, is he OK?”

  “They took Josep’s finger. He didn’t even cry out.”

  “He’s a very brave boy.”

  “What happens now, Papa?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  Adamat couldn’t be there when Vetas returned. It would mean death for them all. SouSmith looked like he could barely walk, and Astrit was just a girl, but Adamat had to warn Tamas.

  “Stay here,” he whispered to Astrit.

  “Hey!” the other goon said as Adamat headed toward the other side of the room.

  Adamat stopped, raising his hands. The goon waved his pistol between SouSmith and Adamat. SouSmith’s eyes were closed, his hands held over his wounds. He was breathing shallowly. Judging SouSmith to be less of a threat, the goon pointed his pistol at Adamat.

  “I just want a drink,” Adamat said.

  The goon narrowed his eyes.

  “Please,” Adamat said. He held out his hands to show they were shaking.

  “Right,” the goon said. “I’ll just be watching to make sure you ain’t got a weapon stashed here.”

  “What?” Adamat said. “A loaded pistol in the liquor cabinet? You’re mad. If you think I’m going to pull a knife, stand over there.” He gestured to the sofa.

  The goon shuffled away from Adamat until he was near the sofa. “I’m watching you.”

  Good. Adamat removed a bottle from the cabinet. “Wine?”

  The goon shook his head.

  Adamat pulled the cork with a corkscrew and took a moment to unwind the cork, tossing it down on a shelf. He poured two glasses, the neck of the bottle clinking against the rim of the cup as his hands shook. He stepped toward the goon. “You sure you don’t want some?”

  “I’ll let you drink first,” the goon said. “I know the tricks.”

  “No tricks,” Adamat said, shaking his head. “You think I’d poison a two-hundred-krana bottle of wine? Besides, poison doesn’t work fast enough. You’d still have time to shoot me while you died. SouSmith? Wine?”

  The boxer nodded weakly.

  “Pardon,” Adamat said, lifting the two glasses to show he meant no harm as he stepped by the goon.

  He dropped both glasses at the same time. One hand diverted the pistol, the other jabbed the goon’s neck with the corkscrew. The pistol went off, deafening Adamat. A window shattered, and Astrit screamed. Adamat grappled with the goon with one hand, shoving with the other. They both landed on top of SouSmith.

  The boxer gave a loud grunt. He snaked a ham-sized forearm over the goon’s head, holding him in place. Adamat remained on top of the goon until long after he’d stopped struggling. He grabbed the lapels of his jacket and lifted the goon off SouSmith and dropped him on the floor. SouSmith moaned, writhing on the sofa.

  “Coulda given me warning,” he said, feeling his wound. “I’m bleeding again.”

  “You big baby,” Adamat said. He made sure the goon was dead, and looked up. Astrit was watching from the hallway. He said, “Go to your room.”

  Astrit stood there, shaking.

  Adamat climbed to his feet and stripped his bloody jacket off, tossing it on the floor. He lifted Astrit into his arms. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Papa.” Her voice quavered.

  “Good girl. I need you to be strong, love. I need you to go with SouSmith. You have to hide with him.”

  SouSmith pulled himself off the sofa slowly, grimacing with pain. “No wet nurse,” he said. “W
here you going?”

  “I have to go warn Tamas.”

  “Like shit,” SouSmith grunted. “I’ll go…” He stumbled, catching himself on the sofa arm.

  “Take Astrit,” Tamas said. He led the little girl over to SouSmith and put her hand in his. “Hide. Protect her. Please.” He took a deep breath. “You’ll know soon enough if I fail. Just… keep her away from Lord Vetas.”

  SouSmith considered Adamat a moment, then gave a brief nod.

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  “You don’t pay me enough,” SouSmith grunted.

  “Tales will be told of your sacrifice,” Adamat said. He went to his office and opened a long, nondescript chest in the corner. He removed his smallsword from its sheath and checked the blade and hilt. The sword was nothing special—it had been issued to him in the army, before he’d become an inspector. It was undecorated, with an oval shell of a guard over the hilt. It was in good condition. He heard footsteps behind him.

  “I haven’t touched this for a decade,” he said. “It looks to be in good shape.”

  “Better hope,” SouSmith said.

  Adamat turned around.

  SouSmith held out a pistol, along with extra shot and charges. “Luck to you.”

  They clasped hands, and Adamat was out the door.

  Chapter 38

  How are you going to explain this to the Church?” Olem asked.

  “Easy,” Tamas said with a conviction he didn’t feel. “The Church doesn’t like to be played any more than we do. Charlemund will provide us with what we need to oust him in their eyes. He’s pomp and bravado. He’ll not stand up to more than a few hours with our questioners.”

  The carriage rocked heavily as they approached Charlemund’s vineyard. Tamas eyed Olem. He was a soldier, through and through. He would carry out Tamas’s orders. Yet he was no fool. Olem wanted to be certain he wasn’t charging blindly to his death.

  “Torture an arch-diocel?” Olem asked. He finished cleaning and loading Tamas’s long-barreled pistol. Tamas was grateful he didn’t smoke around gunpowder. Olem handed the weapon to Tamas and started on his own. “You really think he’ll tell us what we need to know?”

  “Yes,” Tamas said, hoping that there was enough confidence in his voice. Arresting the arch-diocel was insanely risky. If Adamat didn’t really have enough evidence; if the Church decided to ignore the evidence; pit, if the Church didn’t care, Tamas’s world would come crashing down around him. No one, not even Kez’s immense armies of spies and assassins, could destroy someone’s life as thoroughly as the Church.

  The carriage came to a jolting stop. Tamas glanced out the window. A dragoon rode by, then another. Sabon came to the carriage window.

  “We’ve taken the gatehouse. No sign of movement inside the villa.”

  “Very good,” Tamas said. He lifted his pistol and saluted Sabon with the barrel. “Let’s go in.”

  The carriage rocked forward and through the villa’s front gate. A pair of guards in purple-and-gold Church doublets stood between two of Tamas’s soldiers, hands on their heads, glaring at the carriages as they went by.

  “I hope you’ll have the good sense to let us go in first, sir,” Olem said.

  “And miss the look on Charlemund’s face when you tell him the charges? Bloody pit, no. I’ll hobble my ass up those front steps with the rest of you.”

  “He may put up a fight,” Olem said.

  Tamas fingered his pistol. “I hope so.”

  “You’re willing to risk his bodyguard having a few air rifles?” Olem said. “It only takes one.”

  “You ruin my fun, Olem. You really do.”

  The carriage stopped again after a few minutes. Sabon opened the carriage door. “The house and yards are surrounded. Our men checked the chapel and most of the outlying buildings. His carriage is in the carriage house. He is likely inside.”

  Sabon did not look happy.

  “And?” Tamas said.

  “No sign of workers anywhere. It’s a nice day. They should be in the vineyards working the fields, exercising the horses. The place is like a ghost town. I—”

  Sabon’s next words were cut off by a bullet as it entered his left temple. He fell without a sound, blood spraying across the inside of the carriage.

  The popping sound of air rifles was followed by the shouts of ambushed soldiers. A bullet ripped through the carriage over Tamas’s head. A horse screamed. He struggled toward the door.

  “Oh no, sir,” Olem said, grabbing his coat.

  Tamas pushed Olem away and leaned over the edge of the carriage. Sabon lay in the mud, dead eyes staring up blankly.

  “Bugger that,” Tamas said. He swung out the door, analyzing the villa in a second. It sprawled across his view. The whitewashed stucco front was immaculate and the high, narrow windows and thick brick of the ancient style gave the defenders the advantage. There were at least fifty windows on the front of the building. The air rifles could have been firing from any—or all—of them. Tamas caught sight of the barrel of an air rifle and fired his weapon at that window. He pulled himself in, the sound of bullet impacts and ricochets too loud for comfort. He began to reload. “What the pit…?”

  Olem leapt from the carriage. He turned around and grabbed Tamas by the coat, pulling him after, onto his shoulder, and ran toward the vineyards.

  “To the pit with you!” Tamas said. He grunted as he was thrown to the ground and felt the pain lance up his leg. Olem dropped down beside him, panting hard, rifle in one hand. They were in a ditch, mud squelching under Tamas’s boots. His leg burned horribly, the pain wrecking his mind. Tamas snatched a powder charge from his pocket and tore it open, emptying the contents into his mouth. He crunched down, chewing the grit with rage, ignoring the taste of sulfur and the pain in his teeth.

  “What was that?” Tamas demanded.

  Olem glanced over the edge of the ditch. “Carriage has taken seven or eight hits since we left,” he said.

  Tamas didn’t reply. The powder trance was coming on quickly. The world spun for a moment and he gripped the grass to keep from falling off. His senses righted themselves. The crack of rifle shots reached him as his men began returning fire. The sound was chased by the smell of black powder. Tamas gasped it in, deepening his powder trance, willing away the pain in his leg.

  “They have more than a few air rifles,” Olem said. He sneaked a peek over the edge of the ditch, then brought his rifle up, aimed, and fired. “At least twenty. Probably more,” he said, dropping down. “And Wardens.”

  “You sure?”

  “Just saw an ugly brute in the window.”

  Tamas finished reloading his pistol. The pain from his leg had begun to fade to the back of his mind. “Wardens,” he said. “I hate Wardens.” He looked over the hill. The front of the villa looked normal enough, but the windows were open, rifle barrels sticking through. He could see the grotesque shape of Wardens within, aiming down their rifles, as well as the bright colors of Charlemund’s bodyguard. He fired his pistol, burning half a powder charge to nudge the bullet where he wanted. One of the rifles fell inside.

  “Who tipped them off?” Tamas snarled. “There’s a spy among my own men. Among my elite!”

  “We should worry about whether we brought enough men,” Olem said. “We have less than a hundred. If he’s got any number of Wardens in there along with his own bodyguard, we could be in trouble.”

  Vlora suddenly dropped down beside him. “Sir,” she said. “We need to retreat. We’re taking heavy losses. I lost two from my carriage just trying to get to cover.”

  “Pit,” Tamas said. They didn’t have enough men to take Charlemund. If they retreated, however, he’d be gone within an hour. There was no way they could get back quickly enough with more soldiers. “We’ll button him up. He can’t get out. They don’t know whether we have a hundred men or a thousand. Vlora, I want you to get out of here. Get back to the garrison. No, get to Lady Winceslav’s estate. It’s closer. I want two thousand
men from the Wings of Adom here within an hour.”

  “Sir, I’ll send someone.”

  “No, go yourself.” Tamas squeezed his eyes shut and saw Sabon take the bullet to the head all over again. He would not lose another friend this day. He slapped her on the shoulder. “That’s an order, soldier. Go!”

  Vlora took off running away from the house. Tamas risked another look at the villa.

  One of the carriages had overturned when a wounded horse bolted. The animal had been cut free, and four soldiers huddled behind the carriage, reloading desperately. “That’s a bad place for them,” Tamas said. “We need to get some cover fire, have them pull back to a ditch or the vineyard.”

  He’d barely finished the sentence when sorcery ripped through the overturned carriage. He turned away, the flash blinding him as men screamed. The carriage was cut in two, the pieces tossed to either side as if discarded by the hand of a god. The soldiers were shredded, thrown through the air like ribbon. One landed near Tamas’s ditch.

  Tamas dropped his pistol and dragged himself over the bank.

  “Sir!”

  The powder trance pumping through his veins, Tamas barely noticed the feel of cobbles cracking against his knees. He was next to the soldier in just a second, pulling himself along the ground with his arms. He grabbed the soldier by the leg. A rifle shot went off not far over his head. Olem stood over him, teeth gritted, presenting himself as a better target in order to draw enemy fire. He reached down, snatched Tamas by the back of his jacket, and pulled both Tamas and the soldier back into the ditch.

  “What the pit, sir!” Olem said. “Are you trying to die?”

  “How is he?” Tamas could see now that the soldier had been cut through directly by the sorcery. His chest was in tatters. It was impossible to tell where the flesh ended and the bloody uniform began. Olem put an ear next to his mouth and shook his head.

  Sorcery erupted again. Screams came from the vineyard, where a number of soldiers had found a spot to hide. Tamas gritted his teeth. “It has to be Nikslaus,” he said. He reloaded his pistol and looked out of the ditch. “Where are you, you arrogant son of a whore?” He opened his third eye, pushed away the dizziness with anger, and scanned the villa.