The Powder Mage Trilogy: Promise of Blood, The Crimson Campaign, The Autumn Republic

by McClellan, Brian

  Olem had been thrown to the floor and a bookshelf had crashed down over him. Tamas’s legs wobbled unsteadily as if he’d been at sea for months. He crossed to the bookshelf and lifted it up.

  Olem lay on his back, rubbing at his forehead with one hand, using the other to clear away the books that had fallen on him. He took Tamas’s proffered hand.

  “You’ve blood on you, sir,” Olem said.

  Tamas touched his forehead. His fingers came away crimson. “Don’t even feel it,” he said.

  “Must have caught a piece of plaster,” Olem said.

  Tamas looked up. There were several good-sized holes in the ceiling, one right above the command table. “Just a bump,” Tamas said. “I’m fine.” He surveyed the room, feeling dizzy. It would take hours to get things returned to order. His maps had been scattered. He swayed.

  “You sure you’re all right, sir?” Olem asked. He put out one hand to steady Tamas.

  Tamas waved him away. “Fine, fine. Let’s have a look at the damage outside.”

  The street was in chaos. People emerged from their houses, yelling for help. Mercenaries tried to right field guns that had been tossed on their sides like they weighed nothing. Cobbles had popped from the street as if the ground had flexed beneath them. Whole rows of tightly packed apartment housing had crumbled, spilling bricks out into the road.

  One of the Wings of Adom mercenaries paused before Tamas.

  “There’s been an earthquake, sir,” the man said.

  “Thank you, soldier. I gathered as much.”

  The man rushed off, his eyes looking a little dazed. Tamas exchanged a glance with Olem. “We don’t get a lot of earthquakes here,” Tamas said.

  Olem shook his head. “Not in my lifetime.”

  Tamas turned around, assessing the damage. There would be parts of the city where things were worse, and parts where they were better. Tamas didn’t even want to think of the chaos this had caused at the docks.

  “Does Sablethorn look like it’s leaning, sir?” Olem asked.

  Tamas looked. The black spire, rising over the buildings to the west, did indeed look a little off. “At least it didn’t fall outright. Olem.”

  “Sir?”

  “Find some runners. I want damage assessment from the entire city. I want to know about the barricades. If some holes have opened up, it may be our chance to punch through them.”

  “Now?”

  “Definitely. General Westeven will take advantage of the chaos to move up his barricades and reinforce them with rubble from the quake. We need to take advantage as well.”

  “You sure you’re unhurt, sir?”

  “Positive. Go.”

  Olem hurried off. Tamas waited until he was out of sight before he sagged against the wall behind him. His head throbbed from where he’d been hit. He could see figures scurrying over the barricade down the street, rushing out beyond them to snatch up bricks and masonry and throwing them back over.

  “Ryze!” Tamas said.

  The mercenary brigadier picked his way through the rubble to Tamas.

  “Any of those guns operational?” Tamas asked.

  “Axles are bent, wheels broken. We’ll need to call in some smiths to fix them.”

  Tamas indicated the barricades. “Pass word among your boys to move up within firing distance. Don’t let Westeven reinforce his barricades.”

  Ryze snapped a salute and spun off, barking orders to his men.

  Tamas went back inside. He found a chair and righted it, and then rummaged through the mess until he found a spare coat. He wadded it up and pressed it against his head. He sank into the chair.

  “You’ll have a nasty bump on your forehead.”

  A man stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, surveying the damage within. He had long black hair, pulled back in a braided ponytail that hung over one shoulder, and a thin mustache. He was a big man, twenty stone or more, and a head and a half taller than Tamas. His skin had a slight yellow tint, hinting at some Rosvelean ancestry, but he spoke with the accent of a native Adran. He wore the brown pants and long, dirty white shirt of a city worker underneath a frayed jacket.

  “Yes,” Tamas said, tenderly pressing his fingers to his temple. “I think I will. Are you a surgeon?”

  The man looked down at his hands, surprised. “No, I think not. These pudgy hands have only one calling: the kitchens.”

  “A cook?” He sent Olem away for just a minute and now any kind of riffraff just wandered in to his command center. “If you need help, I’m sure the soldiers outside are setting up a field hospital.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “Cook?” he snapped. “Do I look like a cheap purveyor of watery soup and half-cooked meat? I’m a chef, damn it, and you watch who you call a cook in the future. Feelings are liable to get hurt.”

  Tamas lowered his hand from his injured head and stared at the man. Who the pit did he think he was? Amusement turned to annoyance as the man entered the room and set a chair back on its legs near Tamas, taking a seat.

  “Do you know who I am?” Tamas demanded.

  The man waved a hand, using the other to adjust his big belly comfortably into his lap. “Field Marshal Tamas, unless I’m mistaken.”

  The gall. “And you are?”

  The man removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. “It’s bloody hot in here. Where are my manners? I’m Mihali, son of Moaka, lord of the Golden Chefs.”

  The Golden Chefs sounded familiar, but Tamas couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  “Moaka?” Tamas asked. “The na-baron?”

  “My father preferred to think of himself as a culinary expert above all else, Kresimir rest his soul.”

  “Yes,” Tamas said. He touched his head gingerly. It seemed to have stopped bleeding, but his headache was getting worse. “I attended one of his galas once. The food was unparalleled. He passed on last year, didn’t he?” Even the son of a na-baron didn’t belong here. Where the blazes was Olem?

  “He always cooked it all himself.” Mihali hung his head. “A pity. His heart gave out when he tasted my lamb soufflé. He was so proud of me, finally besting him.” Mihali stared off across the room, exploring memories.

  “Pardon me,” Tamas said. The pounding inside his head began to increase. “Why the pit are you here?”

  “Oh,” Mihali said. “Many apologies. I’m the god Adom reincarnated.”

  Tamas couldn’t help it. He began to chuckle, then to laugh. He slapped his knee. “Saint Adom, eh? That’s a good one. Ow.” He clutched at his head. Laughing had not been a good idea.

  “Saint,” Mihali grumbled. “I give order to chaos alongside Kresimir and these people relegate me to sainthood. Oh well, can’t win them all, can you?”

  Tamas managed to stifle his chuckles. “By Kresimir, you’re serious?”

  “Of course,” Mihali said. He put one hand over his heart. “I swear by my mother’s squash soup.”

  Tamas stood up. Was this some kind of joke? Was it Sabon? Maybe Olem. Olem was far cheekier than he should be. “Olem,” he called. There was no answer. Tamas swore under his breath. He’d told Olem to send runners, not inspect the whole city himself. “Olem!” He stuck his head out into the hallway. There was no one around.

  He turned about, face-to-face with Mihali. Mihali glanced out the door. “I don’t really want to meet anyone yet, thank you,” he said. “I don’t want to cause a fuss. Meeting a god is an awfully big thing. I think.”

  “What are you, an actor?” Tamas said. He poked the man in the belly, checking for a stuffed shirt. It was all fat. “A mighty good show, but I’m not in the mood.”

  Mihali pointed at Tamas’s forehead. “You were hit quite hard,” he said. “I know it’s a lot to take in. Maybe you should sit down for a moment. My memories are imperfect in this body, but I will do my best.” He cleared his throat. “Did the dying Privileged warn you as they were supposed to?”

  Tamas froze in the act of feeling his head wound. He gr
abbed Mihali by the lapels of his jacket. “Warn me about what?”

  Mihali looked truly puzzled. He gave an apologetic shrug. “As I said, my memories are not what they should be.” He seemed to perk up. “They will improve over time, though. I think.”

  “No more jokes now,” he said. “Who the pit are you?”

  Tamas flew against the doorjamb, hitting his shoulder hard, then was tossed to the floor. For a moment he thought Mihali had hit him, but then realized it was another earthquake. His heart in his mouth, he gripped the doorframe, watching more plaster fall to the floor and praying the whole building wouldn’t come down this time. It was over in seconds.

  He climbed up and dusted himself off, searching the room. The man was gone. Tamas gritted his teeth and looked out into the hallway. Olem was there, steadying himself up against the wall.

  “Where the pit have you been?” Tamas asked.

  “Finding runners,” Olem said. “Everything good, sir?”

  Tamas eyed him suspiciously. Not even a smirk. No one could play a joke that well.

  “Fine. You see someone pass by here?”

  Olem glanced at him, looking back and forth down the hallway. He reached down into the rubble at his feet and fished out a still-smoking cigarette. “No, sir.”

  Tamas stepped back into the command post. There was a back door to the house, he was sure, but no one could have crossed the room with the ground shaking like that.

  How hard did I hit my head?

  CHAPTER

  10

  Adamat stopped by his home for his pistols. Five days since he’d hired SouSmith, and the cordon around the center of the city had left no opportunities for them to sneak into the Public Archives. That had changed with the quake. The whole city was a mess. Buildings were down, roads filled with the homeless. Adamat had taken the opportunity to scout the royalist positions for a way to get to the Archives. He’d had no such luck.

  There had been rumors Tamas would bring his entire army into the city and push through the barricades, but it seemed he’d turned his soldiers and mercenaries alike to helping the citizens rather than taking the barricades. Once the fighting began in earnest, it would be very dangerous in Centestershire. Then there was the rumor that Tamas’s powder mages were still hunting a rogue Privileged through the streets of Adopest. Being out and about in the city was not for the faint of heart.

  Every three days, Adamat received a messenger from Tamas. Every three days, he was forced to report he’d made no headway. It was frustrating having the field marshal breathing down his neck and not being able to report any kind of success.

  Adamat stooped just inside the front door to pick up the post. At least Tamas kept that running. It was hard not to admire him for that. Adamat waited for SouSmith to come inside, then pushed the door closed with his foot. SouSmith tapped his shoulder.

  The back door through the hallway and past the kitchen was ajar. He dropped the post on a side table and removed a cane from the holder near the door. SouSmith headed to the sitting room. Adamat came around the corner behind him, cane held high. He lowered it slowly.

  “You saved me a trip,” he said.

  Palagyi sat in Adamat’s favorite chair, next to the fireplace, hands folded in his lap. He had the same two goons with him as last time. The lockpick lounged on the sofa, boots on, and the big one with the coal-stained arms studied his family portrait above the mantle. A fourth man sat behind Adamat’s desk, hands folded serenely in his lap.

  Palagyi’s eyes grew wide at the sight of SouSmith. “You were coming to see me?” he said.

  “Yes, I just was.”

  “I can’t imagine why. There’s no way you have the money you owe me.” Again, he eyed SouSmith nervously.

  Adamat took a deep breath, gathered his composure. “No, but I have some of it. You said you’d leave me be until my time was up.”

  “And I have,” Palagyi said.

  Adamat looked around the room. “I’ve got well over a month left.”

  “You gave me the wrong address for your family,” Palagyi said.

  “I gave you my cousins’ address,” Adamat said.

  “Your cousins are a family of brawlers?”

  “Seven sons, all take after their father,” Adamat said. “Very successful prizefighters.”

  “Yes,” Palagyi said, “Well, that may be, your family wasn’t there.”

  “Really?”

  “And when my boys pressed the question, they were forcibly removed from the town,” Palagyi said. “In tar and feathers.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Adamat said. He smiled inwardly but kept his expression flat.

  Palagyi worked to control himself. “I’m willing to let this go.”

  Adamat froze. Palagyi was up to something. “Why?” he said.

  Palagyi examined his fingernails. “I want to introduce you to my new friend,” he said. He gestured to the man sitting at Adamat’s desk. “This is Lord Vetas. He’s a man of various talents. And he has powerful friends.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Adamat gave the man a curt nod and a quick inspection. He had the dusty, yellow skin of a full-blooded Rosvelean. He wore all-black clothes but for a scarlet vest and the gold chain of a pocket watch visible at his breast pocket. He sat in Adamat’s chair like a schoolboy with perfect posture and his eyes traveled around the room with the steady inspection of someone who sees everything.

  “You knew about the coup,” Palagyi said, bringing Adamat’s attention back to him. “Even before the papers. The night before, you were gone half the night. Summoned somewhere. My man saw you leave. You returned and immediately put your family in a carriage to—”

  “Somewhere safe,” Adamat finished.

  “Somewhere safe,” Palagyi continued. “And then you wrote a lot of letters. Sent them who knows where? You practically ran up to the university, skipping the execution—which seems strange, because not another soul in Adopest did. Since then you’ve been prowling around Adopest, hiring carriages to the north and east, writing more letters. You’ve been to every library in southern Adro.”

  “I see you’ve hired better people to follow me,” Adamat said.

  “Yes, I did.” Palagyi polished his fingernails on his waistcoat.

  “Even so, it took you this long to add things up?”

  “I won’t let you spoil my mood,” Palagyi said. “You’re working for Tamas. I know you are. And Lord Vetas knows as well. Along with his master.”

  Adamat studied the man behind his desk. “And who might that be?”

  “Someone with a vested interest in the affairs of Adro and the rest of the Nine.” It was the first time Lord Vetas had spoken. His voice was quiet, measured with the enunciation of a man educated at the best schools.

  “A criminal?” Adamat said. “Palagyi rarely deals with people who aren’t. The Proprietor, perhaps?”

  Lord Vetas gave a dry chuckle. “No,” he said.

  “Stop trying to change the subject,” Palagyi snarled. He stood up. “You work for Tamas now, don’t you?”

  “Sit down,” Lord Vetas said. Palagyi sat.

  “And if I do?” Adamat said.

  Palagyi opened his mouth.

  “Quiet,” Lord Vetas said. He spoke the word softly. Palagyi’s mouth snapped shut. “You may go now, Palagyi. You’ve made the introductions.”

  Palagyi glared at Lord Vetas. “Don’t think you’ll take the credit for this yourself. I discovered this. I told Lord—”

  The garrote came up around Palagyi’s throat and snapped tight from behind. Adamat drew his cane sword, SouSmith his pistol. Lord Vetas held up a single hand. Adamat froze. He watched in morbid fascination as Palagyi struggled against the strong hands of his own goon, the coal worker with the quick reflexes. Palagyi’s face turned purple, and the goon kept his garrote tight around Palagyi’s throat until long after the life was gone from him. Adamat lowered his cane sword.

  Lord Vetas folded his hands back into his lap. “I’ve just t
aken over your loan from the late Palagyi. It’s in your interest to work for me now.”

  “Doing what?” Adamat’s mind raced. Palagyi had been a predictable thug. Adamat could deal with him. This Lord Vetas, however… he was a dangerous man. Dangerous like the Proprietor: the kind that made policemen retire early.

  “I want to know everything about Tamas. Everything he does, everything he says to you. What he has you looking for.”

  “My loyalties are not for sale,” Adamat said.

  “You’ll have to change your loyalties, then.”

  “I don’t know who you are, or who your master is,” Adamat said. “I’m loyal to Adro and I will not change that.”

  “My master has the Nine’s best interests at heart, I assure you,” Lord Vetas said. His quiet, sibilant voice was beginning to irritate Adamat. He almost had to strain to hear the man.

  Adamat said, “The Nine is not the same as Adro. For all I know, you work for the Kez. The newspaper says they’re sending ambassadors and that they still want Tamas to sign the Accords.”

  “I don’t work for the Kez.”

  “Then who?”

  “That is of little consequence to you.”

  “You aren’t endearing yourself,” Adamat said. “You come into my home, kill a man in my very living room, and threaten me? How do you know I won’t send for the police this instant?”

  A shallow smile flitted across Lord Vetas’s face. “I am not the sort of man one summons the police on,” he warned. “You of all people should know that.”

  “Yes. I’d already realized that.” Adamat gritted his teeth. “You’re the type of man who gives face to evil.”

  Lord Vetas seemed taken aback. “Evil? No, good sir. Just pragmatism.”

  “I know your kind,” Adamat said. “And you seem to know me. Or you think you do. Now, get out of my home.”

  He glanced at SouSmith. Palagyi had been strangled by his own man. Would the same thing happen to Adamat? Was SouSmith really a friend? The boxer looked troubled. He watched both the goons and Lord Vetas all at once and cracked his knuckles like he did when he was ready for a fight. “I will pay you your money,” Adamat said, “if you have indeed taken over the loan. Or I will face the streets when you kick me out. I will not betray a client or my country.”