Chapter
18
Tamas waited for the return of his night scouts and listened to the familiar sounds of his soldiers breaking camp.
There was a light chatter this morning – something missing over the last two weeks’ worth of march since the fall of Budwiel. Someone laughed in the distance. Nothing like a full belly to bring a man’s spirits up. Combine that with elation at the victory over the Kez vanguard, and Tamas could almost call his men happy.
Almost.
Tamas didn’t like eating horse. It reminded him of hard times in Gurla, of starvation and disease and the desert heat, when they’d been forced to slaughter their own healthy horses to stay alive. The taste was slightly sweet, and gamier than beef. Meat that came from cavalry chargers tended to be tough.
Then again, at least his stomach didn’t rumble.
“What is it, soldier?”
Vlora stood at attention on the other side of his cook fire. She snapped off a salute.
“Kez spotted, sir. Riding under a white flag.”
Tamas flicked a bit of fat into the fire and watched it sizzle. He stood up, wiping his hands on an already soiled handkerchief. Another problem they faced – no camp followers meant no laundresses. Both his uniforms were dirty and stained, and he smelled like a cesspool.
Adom forbid you do your own laundry, a little voice in the back of his head said. Tamas chuckled.
“Sir?” Vlora asked.
“Nothing, soldier. I’ll meet them on the edge of camp. Olem!”
“Coming, sir.”
Tamas was joined by Olem and a small bodyguard of Olem’s Riflejacks. Among the Ninth, stationed as the rear guard, the last tents were being rolled and stowed in packs and cook fires put out. They’d be on the march in twenty minutes. The advance elements of the Seventh were already half a mile down the road.
He passed a row of wagons. They’d been able to salvage them from the abandoned remains of Hune Dora. The bottoms were already stained from the blood of the wounded, and they smelled like death at ten paces. Today, they would carry the wounded that had survived the last two days.
“Have those washed out,” Tamas said to Olem. “In fact, I want bathing mandatory. There’s plenty of mountain streams in these woods. Organize it with the scouts. I want fifty men to stop and bathe in every mountain stream we pass. If we don’t look to ourselves, we’ll have disease rampant in the camp.”
“Yes, sir.” Olem rubbed at his dust-caked uniform. “I could use a little freshening up myself.”
They left the edge of the Adran camp and passed the rear pickets. The forest beyond was still, the only sounds that of chattering squirrels and the call of birds. Tamas welcomed the birdsong. It reminded him of peace, distracted him from the harsh call of the carrion crows and the memory of piled corpses that lingered behind his eyes.
Tamas saw the Kez riders before they saw him.
There were a dozen of them. They were still mounted upon their chargers in the middle of the road, watching the Adran pickets impassively. They wore the heavy breastplates of cuirassiers over tan uniforms with green trim. They dismounted as Tamas drew closer and one of them removed his helmet and approached.
“Field Marshal Tamas?”
“I am he,” Tamas said.
“I am General Beon je Ipille,” he said in Adran with a light accent. He extended his hand. “The pleasure is mine.”
Tamas took the general’s hand. Beon was a young man, perhaps in his late twenties. His face was boyish, touched by the same cabal sorceries that kept every king of the Nine looking young far beyond their years. That alone would have told Tamas that Beon was one of Ipille’s sons, if not for the name and reputation.
“The king’s favored son. Your reputation precedes you.”
Beon tilted his head modestly. “And you, yours.”
“To what do I owe the honor?” Tamas said. This was all a formality, of course. Tamas knew why Beon was here.
“I’ve come to inquire as to your intentions in my country.”
“Only to return to my own, and defend it from the aggression of a tyrant.”
Beon didn’t even blink at the insult against his father. Tamas made a mental note of that. He was more levelheaded than his older brothers, it seemed. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”
“So we are at an impasse.”
“Not an impasse, I think,” Beon said. “I’ve come to request your surrender.”
“An impasse. I will not surrender,” Tamas said flatly.
Beon nodded, as if to himself. “I was afraid you would say that.”
“Afraid?” Tamas knew Beon’s reputation. Fear didn’t enter into it. Beon was almost recklessly brave. He seized opportunities a lesser commander might balk at. His courage had served him well.
“I do not relish chasing the great Field Marshal Tamas. You’ve already seen to my vanguard – how do you say, sending them back with their tails tucked between their legs?” He looked over his shoulder at one of the other riders. The rider was a dragoon, with a straight sword and lacking the breastplate of a cuirassier. “Their commanders barely escaped with their lives.”
“You could just let me go on my way,” Tamas said jovially. “I’ll be out of your country in a few weeks.”
Beon chuckled. “And my father would have my head. Your men are hungry, Tamas. You have no food, other than the horsemeat you salvaged from my vanguard. I’ll be fair. I’ll tell you what you face, and then you can decide whether to surrender. Yes?”
Tamas snorted. “That is more than fair.”
“Good. I have ten thousand dragoons and fifty-five hundred cuirassiers under my command. My elder brother is about a week’s march behind me with thirty thousand infantry. I know you have eleven thousand men. We outnumber you four to one. You have no hope of escaping this country. Surrender now, and your men will be treated with respect as prisoners of war.” He paused and lifted his hand, as if swearing upon the Rope. “I’ve studied you, Tamas. You do not throw your men’s lives away in needless causes.”
“If you’ve studied me,” Tamas said quietly, “you’ll know that I do not lose.”
Beon’s expression was bemused. “You are a dead man, Tamas. Do you have any requests?”
“Yes. I have over a hundred wounded. If I hand them over to you, will they be treated with respect as prisoners of war?”
“So that you may travel faster? No. Any wounded that fall into our hands will be executed as criminals.”
Beon was a gentleman through and through. It was entirely likely he was bluffing. Did Tamas dare risk it?
“Then, General, I have no more to say to you.”
Beon gave a respectful nod. “I would wish you good luck, but…”
“I understand.”
The Kez remounted and were off down the road within minutes. Tamas watched them go. That general would be trouble. Incompetence was practically bred into the Kez army, where nobles could purchase their commission or find themselves a general at the whim of the king.
Once in a while, though, talent rose above the chaff.
“Olem,” Tamas said.
The bodyguard snapped to attention, but his eyes never left the direction the Kez had gone. Tamas knew he was itching for a fight.
Adamat found himself watching Fell, suddenly suspicious, and he wasn’t quite sure why. “Keep… keep talking,” Adamat said.
“Sir?” Fell asked.
“Have you found a stronger connection to Lord Vetas?” Adamat’s own knowledge about Vetas and Claremonte’s relationship came through the Proprietor’s eunuch, and through Vetas’s own admission. If he’d been misled in some way, it could derail his entire line of inquiry.
“None that we can find.”
“Why could he possibly want to be prime minister of Adro? Ricard, didn’t you tell me yourself that the prime minister will be a figurehead?”
Ricard shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “That is my vision of the prime minster, yes.”
“The truth is,” Fell said, without waiting for Ricard’s instruction, “the first prime minister will be the one to set the standard for every one to follow him. How much power the prime minister holds, and how he wields it, will depend entirely on how aggressive the first man to hold the office decides to be.”
Adamat smoothed the front of his jacket. What was bothering him so much about this woman? There was something about her mannerisms that he’d not noticed before… something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “So if Claremonte is elected, there is the potential for him to wield as much power in Adro as a king?”
“Not as much as a king,” Ricard said. “The design of the system has put parameters on that. However… quite a lot of power.”
“Pit,” Adamat said.
Fell crossed to Ricard’s side. “Sir, if I may…”
“That’s it!” Adamat stared at her.
“What?” Ricard asked.
Adamat reached in his pocket slowly, grasping the butt of his pistol. “You have the same way of speaking,” he said to Fell. “Some of the same cadence as he does. It’s not readily noticeable. Not like you’re family or anything, but as if you’ve been trained at the same finishing school.”
“As who?” Ricard asked.
“Lord Vetas.”
Ricard and Fell exchanged a look.
“This is bad,” Fell said.
Ricard agreed. “Very bad.”
Adamat’s gaze moved between the two. He found himself squeezing the butt of his pistol in one hand and the head of his cane with the other. He felt his jaw clench. What was going on here? What did they know that he didn’t?
Ricard said to Fell, “I’m going to tell him.”
“This isn’t common knowledge,” Fell said with a frown.
“What the pit are you two talking about?” Adamat asked.
Ricard leaned forward on his desk, leaning his chin on one hand. “Have you heard of the Fontain Academy in Starland?”
“No,” Adamat said. Neither Ricard nor Fell seemed unduly ready to leap at him, so he loosened his grip on his pistol and cane. “A finishing school?” he guessed.
“Of a sort,” Ricard said. “It’s a very exclusive place. Of every thousand students they have, only one graduates.”
“What makes it so difficult?” Adamat asked.
“The rigors,” Fell spoke up. “Eighteen hours of work every day for twenty years. Training of every sort: martial, sexual, memory retention, etiquette, mathematics, science, politics, philosophy. Exposure to every school of thought in the known world. No contact with friends or family for the rest of your life. The willingness to become beholden to one man or organization against bribery or threat of pain or death.”
“Sounds awful,” Adamat said. “I would have heard of such a place.”
“No,” Ricard said. “You wouldn’t have.”
Fell was looking at her fingernails. “Only prospective clients know about the Fontain Academy. It costs as much as thirty million krana to purchase a graduate.”
“Purchase? So it’s slavery?” Adamat rocked back in his chair. Thirty million krana. That was a kingly sum. There were less than fifty people in all the Nine with access to that much money, and he didn’t think Ricard was one of them.
Adamat wasn’t sure if he believed this. How could an organization like that exist? Certainly slavery was still openly practiced in the world, but in the Nine? Not for hundreds of years. “Are you asking me to believe that you and Lord Vetas are graduates of the Fontain Academy?”
“It appears that way,” Fell said. “I couldn’t confirm it for certain, but for you to make the observation you did transcends coincidence.”
“Then what can you tell me about him?”
“Every graduate has different specialties. But if he is a graduate, then he’s dangerous. He’ll be adept at blackmail and sabotage. He’ll be smarter than most of the people in this city, including you. Proficient with all weapons, but likely favoring knives and pistols.”
“What’s your specialty?” Adamat asked.
Fell gave him a thin smile but didn’t answer.
“Can we speak alone?” he asked Ricard.
Ricard nodded to Fell.
“Sir,” Fell said. “The Fontain Academy is not a secret, strictly, but we do not advertise ourselves. This information is to be kept private.”
“I’ll respect that,” Adamat said.
Fell left the room, leaving him alone with Ricard.
Adamat watched his friend for nearly a minute before he spoke. “You purchased a woman?”
“Adamat…”
“I didn’t think even you would stoop to that.”
“It’s not like that, I —”
“It’s not, is it?” Adamat raised his eyebrows.
“Well, maybe a little. But that’s not why I did it.”
“Then why?”
Ricard’s face grew grim. “I love this country. I love my union . I will not see either torn apart by the machinations of a foreigner. I’ll be the first prime minister if it kills me – or if I have to kill to do it.”
“When?”
“When what?”
“When did you… purchase… her?”
“I finalized it over the summer. She arrived four weeks ago.”
“And where the pit did you get thirty million krana?”
“She was ten million,” Ricard said. “About half my fortune. She’s only had ten years of schooling at the academy – it’s normally twenty years.”
Adamat shook his head. “Ten million for that girl. What were you thinking?”
“She runs my organization better than I can,” Ricard said quietly. “In one month – just one – she’s made me fifty thousand krana. She’s straightened my ministerial campaign. Before her I had some good ideas, but now I have a serious chance at being the prime minister of Adro. She’s worth every penny I spent on her.”
“Can you trust her? What’s to stop her from killing you and taking control of the union , if she’s so smart.”
Ricard said, “Loyalty. For the next thirty years of her life she belongs to me. It’s the price of schooling at the Fontain Academy. And reputation. If she were to turn on me in some way, the academy would kill her themselves.”
Adamat smoothed the front of his coat again. This was all too much. “That reminds me,” Adamat said. “I need to borrow money.”
“You still owe Palagyi money?” Ricard said, seemingly relieved to steer the conversation away from Fell. “I’m glad you finally got some sense into you. What the pit was that all about, refusing to let me pay him?”
“Palagyi is dead. And no, not that. I need fifty thousand krana. Now. In banknotes.”
Ricard blinked at him. “Fifty? I can write a check for fifty. I’d do it in a heartbeat for you.”
“It needs to be cash.”
“Can’t do it. No bank in Adro would let me take out fifty thousand all at once. I could have it for you in a couple of weeks.”
“That’s too long,” Adamat said. He rubbed his eyes. Ricard was his only hope of getting the money to pay Colonel Verundish to release Bo. How could he himself possibly come up with that sum in a week?
Well, perhaps Ricard wasn’t the only hope.
“You smell like the southbound end of a northbound ass,” Gavril said.
Tamas sat and watched his charger nibble on a bit of dry grass beside the road. The column had stopped for a short rest, and he was up near the vanguard.
In the distance Tamas could hear the crack of rifles. Another Kez scouting party close enough to engage. The Kez had been dogging their heels ever since Tamas’s meeting with General Beon. Their dragoons stayed close, traveling in groups of ten or twenty, flanking the rear guard and causing whatever mayhem they could.
Tamas was weary of it. He’d set a dozen traps, killed hundreds of Kez dragoons, but his men couldn’t even stop to scavenge or they risked finding themselves flanked by more than just a few squads.
Gavril sniffed at the wind, as if to punctuate his previous statement.
Tamas looked down at his uniform. The dark blue didn’t show stains badly, but the silver-and-gold trim had seen better days, and the linen shirt beneath the jacket was yellowed from sweat, the cuffs stained dark from powder burns and dirt. A thin crust of dirt covered his face and hands like a second skin, and he didn’t dare imagine how his feet might smell once he peeled off his boots.
“I smell fine,” he told his brother-in-law.
“First rule of bathing,” Gavril said. “If you can’t smell yourself anymore, it’s time to wash. We’re stopped for lunch. The last of the horsemeat is gone, so the least we can do is give the men an hour of rest. Follow that stream back there up a few hundred yards and there’s a waterfall. Might give you some privacy.”
“Are you going to give me your report?”
“After you bathe.”
Tamas examined Gavril for a few moments. He was a different man from the one Tamas had met so many years ago. Jakola of Pensbrook had been a svelte, dashing character with a clean-shaven chin and broad shoulders. Gavril had gained a lot of weight during his time at the Mountainwatch. He carried it well, but Gavril would still be here long after the rest of them had starved to death.
The morbid thought gave Tamas a chuckle.
“I’m serious,” Gavril said.
Tamas climbed to his feet. It couldn’t be helped. A sudden boyish impulse struck him and he flipped Gavril a rude gesture before heading down the column. Men lay about the road, their uniforms soaked with sweat. No one saluted him. Tamas didn’t make an issue of it. A ways down the resting column, two men broke out in a fistfight. Their sergeant broke it up quickly. People were growing hungry again, and tensions would only get higher.
He found the stream where a few dozen soldiers had stripped to nothing, washing themselves in the cold mountain water. Tamas passed them and headed upstream.
The stream cut through a gully, surrounded on either side by steep earthen walls. The trees rose even farther, towering hundreds of feet above him, giving Tamas the slight feeling of claustrophobia.
As the stream cut around a corner, Tamas could hear the rush of falling water. He stopped and examined the top of the gully. This was a horrible place to be. An army could come upon him, and he wouldn’t hear it over the sound of the waterfall.
Every stop had pickets out a quarter of a mile. No one would come upon him without warning.
Tamas rounded the bend to find Olem was there already, stripped down to his trousers, standing with his face up against the shower of falling water.
Tamas stepped toward him, and a word of greeting died on his lips.
Vlora stood under the waterfall with Olem. She was completely nude, her uniform discarded with the rest of her gear on the bank of the stream. Olem had his hands in her dark hair, pulling them through the knots and tangles. She said something and Olem laughed, and then she turned toward him. She pushed her body up against Olem’s. She opened her mouth, and Olem tilted his head down toward hers.
Her eyes flickered open. She stepped smoothly past Olem and turned her body away from Tamas. Olem said something, then stole a furtive glance at Tamas. He was suddenly washing his own hair vigorously.
“What’s wrong?” A hand thumped Tamas’s shoulder. “Haven’t seen a naked woman before?” Gavril passed Tamas, heading toward the waterfall, already stripping off his shirt.
Tamas’s heart leapt, and he said a silent prayer of thanks that he didn’t jump two feet in the air. He quickly grew conscious of his voyeurism. He could feel his face growing red, so he strode to the waterfall, stripping off his uniform.
Vlora left the water and gathered her knapsack, dressing quickly. A minute later and Tamas was alone with Gavril and Olem.
“You know,” Gavril said to Olem, tossing his uniform on the rocks beside the stream, “you’re supposed to take your pants off when you shower.”
Olem cleared his throat and gave an uncomfortable laugh. He glanced in the direction Vlora had gone.
Gavril gave a belly-shaking laugh. “That is a good-looking woman. I can see why you left ’em on.” He elbowed Olem in the ribs, nearly knocking him over. Olem gave him a lopsided grin. A glance at Tamas and his grin disappeared.
“Vlora was engaged to Taniel,” Tamas said. “Up until the beginning of this summer.” He stared at Olem. What had he walked in upon? Had this been going on long, or was it a chance thing?
If Gavril noticed the tension, he ignored it. “Not engaged to him anymore, is she?” He shrugged his big shoulders. “Fine-looking woman is a fine-looking woman. Her being unpromised is only a bonus.”
“I sometimes forget your… habits… with women.”
Gavril squared his body to Tamas, unashamed of his nudity. “You also forgot about that string of seventeen-year-old noble daughters trying to bag the most eligible bachelor in the Nine the year after Erika died… before we went to Kez. How many of those did you bed?”
Tamas had forgotten all about bathing. He clutched his jacket in one hand, jaw clenched. “Watch your mouth, Jakola.”
At some point Olem had left the waterfall and gathered his shirt, jacket, and pistol from the ground. He began to slink downstream.
“We’re going to have a talk, Olem,” Tamas said.
Olem froze. Drops of water hung in his sandy beard.
Gavril’s thick finger prodded Tamas in the chest. “You’ve had your share of women, Tamas. Including my sister. That means I can say what I want.”
Tamas looked down at Gavril’s finger, seriously considering snapping it off. Who the pit did he think he was, speaking to Tamas like that? If they’d been in public, Tamas would have had no choice but to call him out. As it were, he wanted to punch him in the nose. In a fight, Gavril had the strength and weight. Tamas had the speed, and if he had powder, it was no contest. He could…
He stopped himself. Here he was, deep in Kez territory, pursued by an army four times the size of his, and all he wanted was to feel clean again before the next battle. What was he doing? Gavril wasn’t his enemy.
Taniel took a small pinch of powder and snorted it off the back of his hand. He fought to clear his mind. There was a time when the tiniest bit of powder would allow him to focus and think, but it seemed harder and harder to do so.
Powder. That was the other thing bothering him.
“Do you have access to quartermaster reports?” Taniel asked.
Etan finished writing another missive and set it on the table beside his bed. “For my regiment, certainly.”
“I don’t need them for your regiment. I need them for the entire army. Can you get them?”
“I’d need to pull some strings…”
“Do it.”
Etan’s mouth hardened into a flat line. “Because I’m so disposed to doing you favors right now.”
“Please?” Taniel said, sketching Etan’s shoulders.
“Why?”
“Something that’s been niggling in the back of my mind. I just want to see how much black powder the army has been using.”
“All right,” Etan agreed with a sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.” He fell silent and for several minutes there was nothing but the sound of Etan’s feather pen scratching away at the paper. Etan seemed enthralled by his work. Since his paralysis, Etan had rushed headlong into the administrative duties of his rank. He’d spent the last three days checking on supply reports, reading recruitment numbers, and leafing through dossiers of men who might be considered for rank advancement.
Taniel was glad Etan had something to do to keep his mind off his injury.
The sound of Etan’s pen suddenly stopped. “How do the Kez have so many bloody Black Wardens?” he asked. “Didn’t – doesn’t – your father have a hard time finding them as it is?”
“Can’t say for sure,” Taniel said as he gave a little more shape to Etan’s chin in his drawing. He’d wondered the same thing himself. “The Kez purge their countryside of powder mages every two years and make regular sweeps in the meantime. Tamas always assumed the mages they rounded up were executed. His spies never reported anything else.”
Etan tapped the feather pen on the paper. “You think that maybe the Kez have been imprisoning them?”
“That’s my thought,” Taniel said. “Kez has a much greater population than Adro, which could partly account for their numbers. And I think Kresimir is the one turning them into Powder Wardens. It can’t be coincidence that these new bastards appeared at the same time as Kresimir.”
Etan began to write again, only to stop a moment later. “Oh,” he said. “I got something for you.”
“Eh?”
Etan produced a silver snuffbox and handed it to Taniel. “I heard you lost your old one on South Pike. Thought you’d like it.”
Taniel flipped open the lid. Inside, it was engraved with the words “Taniel Two-Shot, the Unkillable.”
“The Unkillable?” Taniel scoffed.
“That’s what the boys have taken to calling you.”
“That’s absurd. Anyone can be killed.” He held out the snuffbox. “I can’t take this.”
Etan began to cough. He fell back with a grimace, clutching his side. “Take it, you stubborn bastard, or I’ll start screaming at you for being a coward again. You and that girl of yours saved our asses out there.”
“She’s not my girl.”
Etan snorted. “Oh, really? Rumors are getting around, Taniel.” Etan looked down at his hands. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but the General Staff wants you two separated. Says it’s bad for morale, having a war hero gallivanting around with a savage.”
“You believe all that? Agree with it?” Taniel stiffened. He didn’t have to sit here and listen to this drivel.
Etan made a calming motion. “I see your face when you look at her. Same way you used to look at Vlora.” Etan shrugged. “I won’t judge. Just warning you about the rumors.”
Taniel forced himself to relax. The way he used to look at Vlora? This was almost as preposterous as the grenadiers calling Taniel “unkillable.” “What should I do? I’m not going to send her away.”
“Marry her?”
Taniel laughed, shaking his head at the absurdity of the statement.
“I’m not joking,” Etan said. “The General Staff can say anything they want about propriety, but if she’s your wife, they have to stuff it.” He began to cough again, harder this time.
“You need rest,” Taniel said. Etan’s face had turned as pale as Taniel’s sketch paper. In the hours of the afternoon Taniel had almost forgotten the severity of Etan’s injury. His sudden frailty brought it all back.
“I need to write out more orders.”
“Rest.” Taniel took the paper and quill from Etan and set them beside the bed. He put the snuffbox there with them and headed for the door.
“Taniel.”
“Yes?”
Etan plucked the snuffbox off his bedside table and tossed it to Taniel, who caught it in one hand.
“Take it,” Etan said. “Or I’ll have you shot.”
“All right, all right. I’ll take it.” He closed the door behind him.
Ka-poel was waiting in the hallway, sitting on the ground just outside the door with her legs crossed, one of her wax dolls in hand. She stowed it and stood up. If she’d heard what Etan had to say about her, she gave no indication.
“Can you do anything for him?” Taniel asked.
A slight shake of her head.
“Damn it, Pole. You practically brought me back from the dead, and you can’t…”
She held up a finger, her forehead wrinkling in a frown. Taniel thought she might go on, but instead she turned and walked away.
He followed her down and through the common room of the inn, where wounded soldiers talked and drank while they waited to be sent home or back to the front. There was a somber air to the room. A woman sat in one corner, alone, her leg amputated at the knee. She moaned to herself, a lonely keening sound that everyone tried to ignore.
The weather outside didn’t improve Taniel’s mood. The sky had threatened rain for a week now, every day a little cloudier. Yesterday there’d been a misting drizzle in the evening – just enough to make the grass slick and the fighting all the more treacherous.
Taniel stopped just outside the inn and wondered if he should have gotten a drink before heading back to the front.
A pair of provosts approached from the street. Both carried heavy steel pikes and wore Adran blues with green trim and the insignia of mountains crossed by cudgels.
Coincidence, Taniel wondered, or were they waiting for him?
“Captain Taniel Two-Shot?”
“What?”
“You’re to come with us, sir.”
Definitely waiting for him. “On whose authority?”
“General Ket’s.”
“I don’t think I’ll do that.” Taniel touched the butt of his pistol.
“We’re placing you under arrest, sir.”
Arrest? This had gone too far. “On what charge?”
“That’s for General Ket to say.”
One stepped forward, taking Taniel by the arm.
Taniel jerked away. “Get your hands off me. I know my rights as a soldier of the Adran army. You’ll tell me the charges or you’ll go to the pit.” Taniel’s senses told him that they didn’t have an ounce of powder. They’d come ready. For him.
Or had they? The provost jerked hard on Taniel’s arm, like he was some kind of unruly child. “Come quiet-like now. We’re to bring the girl as well. Where is she?”
Where had Ka-poel gone? Taniel looked around, pulling his arm away from the provost.
“Now, sir! Don’t make us —”
Taniel’s fist connected with the provost’s chin, sending the man to the ground. The other provost lowered his pike and stepped forward threateningly. Taniel shifted to one side, grabbed the pike by the shaft, and jerked the man off balance. The provost stumbled forward, and Taniel planted a fist into the side of his head.
The first provost came to his feet, already swinging. His ears were red, his face twisted in an angry grimace at having been sucker punched to the ground. The provost was easily a head taller than Taniel and weighed four stone more.
Taniel caught the provost’s fist and slammed his opposite hand into the man’s elbow. He heard the snap, saw the blood and the white bone sticking out of the flesh.
The provost’s scream drew more attention than Taniel wanted. He let the man fall to the ground and then started walking briskly toward the front.
Arrest him? General Ket had the gall to arrest him? It seemed like Taniel was the only thing left between the Kez and Adopest. He’d killed half of their remaining Privileged, giving the Wings a clear advantage on the field, and he’d run out of room for notches on his rifle, he’d killed so many infantry.
Ka-poel joined him a few moments later. One minute he was walking alone, trying to ignore the stares of anyone who’d seen him break a provost’s arm, and the next she was beside him, strolling along as if nothing had happened.
“Where the pit were you?”
Ka-poel didn’t respond.
“Well…” Taniel gritted his teeth. Pit. A general had an arrest warrant out for him. They’d come sooner or later, in force. What could he do? Break the arms of every provost in the army? “If they come again, disappear just like that. I don’t want them getting their damned hands on you.”
She nodded.
Taniel felt his steps grow in purpose as he headed back toward the front. He changed his course a little and went toward the cooking tents.
Taniel found his goal in the third mess tent he looked inside.
The master chef, Mihali, was alone inventorying barrels. He held a piece of charcoal in one hand and paper in the other. His long black hair was tied behind his head in a ponytail.
“Good afternoon, Taniel,” Mihali said without turning around.
Taniel came up short as the tent flap fell closed behind him. “Have we met?”
“No. But I’m friends with your father. Please, come in.”
Taniel stayed warily near the tent flap. Ka-poel had come inside behind him, and she seemed to have no reservations about plopping down on a barrel in one corner.
“Tamas is dead,” Taniel said.
“Oh, don’t be silly. You don’t believe that.”
“I’ve come to accept it.”
Mihali still hadn’t turned around. Even with his back toward Taniel, he had a kind of presence that made Taniel second-guess his decision to come there. There was something about him. A smell, maybe? No. Something more subtle. Just the slightest sense of familiarity.
“Tamas is very much alive,” Mihali said. His lips moved silently, finger wagging as he counted barrels in one corner of the tent. “Along with most of the Seventh and the Ninth. They’re being pursued heavily right now by three full brigades of cavalry and six brigades of infantry.”
Taniel snorted. “How can you know all that?”
“I am Adom reborn.”
“So. You do claim to be a god?”
Mihali finally turned around with a sigh, making marks on his paper. He had a pudgy, elongated face that spoke of a mix of Adran and Rosvelean ancestry. His white apron was stained with flour and blood, and there was a piece of potato peel stuck to the side of his clean-shaven chin. “Is it that hard to believe? You’ve attempted to kill one god.”
“I saw Kresimir descend from the clouds. I saw his face. I looked upon Kresimir and I knew with every bit of me that he was a god. You…” Taniel trailed off, watching the master chef for the anger that was sure to come.
“Not so much?” Instead of taking offense, Mihali laughed. “Kresimir was always so much better at appearing effortlessly grand. Your father needed to come to believe on his own. You, I think, need a more direct approach.” Mihali approached him and held a hand out toward his head. He stopped suddenly, recoiling. Taniel noticed that Mihali’s hand was trembling.
“May I?” Mihali asked Ka-poel.
Ka-poel returned his stare, her eyes daring him to try.
Mihali extended his hand once more toward Taniel. As it drew closer, it trembled harder and harder, as if affected by some unseen force. Finally, the chef’s fingers brushed Taniel’s skin.
Taniel felt a spark.
Then it seemed as if the universe flashed before his eyes. Countless years zoomed by, filling Taniel’s memories like they were his own. He saw Kresimir’s original descent from the heavens, and then felt Kresimir call to his brothers and sisters to aid him in rebuilding the Nine. He witnessed the chaos of the Bleakening, and the relentless march of the centuries. Lifetimes rushed past in a blink of an eye.
And then it was all gone.
Taniel staggered backward, gasping.
Ka-poel had done something similar to him once, several months ago. It had left him breathless in its emotion and magnitude, though it had only been a few moments’ worth of memories.
This was two thousand years’ worth.
It took him some time to recover. When he did, he said, “You are a god.” Not a question this time.
“‘God’ is a funny word,” Mihali said, turning back to his inventory. He made a mark on his paper and silently counted sacks of onions. “It implies omnipotence and omniscience. Let me assure you, I am neither.”
“Then what are you?” Bo had once said that the gods were nothing more than powerful Privileged. With memories like that, how could Mihali be anything but a god?
“Semantics, semantics!” Mihali threw up his hands. “For the sake of argument, let’s say yes, I am a god. I don’t think either of us has the time for a theo-philosophical argument right now. Please, have a seat.” Mihali picked up a wine barrel like it weighed no more than a couple pounds and set it beside Taniel, then went to get another.
Taniel tried to nudge the barrel over a few inches. He couldn’t. He frowned, then looked at Mihali as the chef fetched a barrel for himself and one for Ka-poel.
Ka-poel’s hand casually brushed Mihali’s arm.
“Now, girl,” Mihali said as a man might gently reprimand a daughter, “none of that.” He gently touched her fingers.
There was a flare of fire, and Ka-poel danced away, blowing on her fingertips and scowling at Mihali. Had she been trying to collect a hair from the chef?
Mihali deposited himself on his wine barrel. “Unlike my brothers and sisters, I decided to stay on in this world after organizing the Nine. Hidden, of course. But learning.” There was a far-off look in Mihali’s eye as he stared at something Taniel could not see. “Distant stars are beautiful and curious, but I found the people here so varied and enchanting I couldn’t leave.”
Mihali glanced at Ka-poel. “I’ve studied the Bone-eyes. Not in depth. Being in Dynize and Fatrasta, so far away from Adro, taxes my strength. I never knew how Kresimir and the rest left the planet. They always called me a homebody for not wanting to explore the cosmos. Anyway, the Bone-eyes have incredible magic. So very different from anything Kresimir or the others could imagine. You, my dear, are truly terrifying. So much potential.”
Mihali didn’t look terrified. If anything, he seemed intrigued.
The chef turned to Taniel. “And powder mages! Kresimir wouldn’t have expected that. After all, gunpowder wasn’t invented until hundreds of years after he left.” Mihali drummed a pudgy finger on his chin. “He’s going mad, you know. That Bone-eye bullet you put in his eye was never removed. It’s in his brain, causing him incredible pain every day.”
Taniel tried to work moisture into his mouth. Kresimir, a god, was going mad. All because of him. “Does he know who shot him?”
“I believe he knows. What you did on South Pike is barely a rumor in the Adran army, and the only two to survive that battle on the Kez side were Julene and Kresimir.” Mihali paused. “Of course, he has Julene. Then he must know.”
“He nailed Julene to a beam. Cut off her hands. Why would he do that?”
Mihali frowned. “Julene. Misguided child. She may or may not have deserved that, but I don’t think torture does anyone any good.”
Taniel noticed that Mihali had sidestepped the question about Julene. He decided not to press it.
“How can I kill him?”
“Kresimir? Hmm. What makes you think I’d tell you?”
Taniel rocked back. “But… you’re on our side. Aren’t you?” He felt his muscles tense, a bit of fear touching his heart.
“I defend Adro. It’s my country, after all. However, Kresimir is still my brother. I love him. I will not see him dead. I would, however, like to stop him. Help him. If I can get that bullet out of his brain, I might even be able to reason with him and end this whole thing.”
Taniel’s fingers curled into fists. “I’m going to kill him.”
“That may be your path.” Mihali examined his inventory paper. Once again, he seemed to be counting.
It was several moments before Taniel spoke again. “The generals. Do they know…?”
“Oh, Tamas told them. Most of them don’t believe it.”
“But they know you’re a powerful Privileged?”
Mihali nodded. “An uncomfortable truth. They asked me to participate in the fighting and I refused. After all, the Privileged with the Wings of Adom are doing a fine job keeping the remainder of the Kez Cabal in check.”
“Did you tell them that Tamas was alive?”
“Of course.”
Taniel blinked at this. “Then why haven’t they told me? Hilanska… surely he would have said something if there were hope.”
“Not even a god sees everything,” Mihali said. “I do not know. But I don’t trust the generals. I’m sure that most of them have Adro’s best interests at heart. But a few…”
“General Ket.”
Mihali shrugged. “The provosts are here, by the way.”
Taniel stepped to the tent flap and took a peek. Dozens of them had gathered outside.
“Pit. Can I get out the back way?”
“They’ve surrounded the tent. It’s probably best that you go with them.”
“I won’t let them arrest me. The bastards. I —”
Mihali cleared his throat. “As I said. It’s probably for the best. For now, anyway.”
Taniel’s mind raced. What to do? Run for it? Go out, dignified, and let them take him away? “Answer me this, first: What has happened to me? I’m stronger and faster than before. I’ve never felt this kind of power. It took enough mala to kill a horse just to get me buzzed. I know it’s more than just being a powder mage. Is it because of her?” He flung his finger toward Ka-poel, who raised an eyebrow in response.
Mihali hesitated for several moments. “You’ve been tempered,” he said. “This girl here has you wrapped in protective sorceries. Kresimir’s returning strike after you shot him was enough to bring down South Pike Mountain. It should have shattered your mortal body. That blow he gave you could very well have killed me, for all my knowledge of sorcery. But you…” Mihali chuckled, as if something was funny. “You, it just made stronger.”
“That doesn’t make any sense, it —”
“It’s time to go,” Mihali said.
Taniel took a deep breath. “All right. Ka-poel, stay here. I don’t want them touching you.” Without waiting for an answer, he stepped out of the tent and into daylight.
The provosts surrounded him quickly, their pikes leveled.
“All right, you bastards. Take me to General Ket, I —”
Someone brought a truncheon down on his head, hard. Taniel staggered forward, spitting blood from the blow. Another hit his stomach, then his knee. He collapsed to the ground. He was cursed and kicked and beaten, and when he thought he could take no more, he was pulled to his feet and struck about the face and head until he lost consciousness.