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

by McClellan, Brian

  “To everyone in the House?”

  “Of course.” Mihali’s eyes went wide, as if Tamas had suggested something idiotic. “Do you think a secretary deserves to eat any less well than a field marshal, or a soldier than an accountant?”

  “My apologies,” Tamas said. He shared a glance with Olem, trying to remember why he came down.

  “Please, Field Marshal, walk with me.” Mihali hurried away without waiting for an answer. When Tamas caught up, Mihali was adjusting the heat beneath a vat of soup by changing the airflow in the stove beneath it. He dipped one finger in the soup and popped it in his mouth, before producing a knife and a clove of garlic from his apron, deftly slicing a measure into the vat.

  “I heard about the attempt on your life,” Mihali said.

  Tamas stopped. He realized the pain of his wounds, the ache of the stitches on his chest, had faded to nothing when he entered the kitchen. They were a distant throb, as if from outside a powder trance.

  Mihali had a note of sadness to his voice. “I do not agree with what the sorcerers do to those Wardens. It’s unnatural. I’m glad you survived.”

  “Thank you,” Tamas said slowly. His suspicions that Mihali was a spy were slowly fading. His reputation and skills as a chef couldn’t be faked.

  “Mihali,” Tamas said, “I came to ask you about the asylum.”

  Mihali froze, a forkful of vegetable pie halfway to his mouth. He finished the bite off quickly. “More pepper,” he told an assistant, “and add a dozen more potatoes to the next batch.” He hurried on to the next station, forcing Tamas to catch up.

  “Yes,” he said when Tamas was alongside him again, “I escaped from Hassenbur. It was a vile place.”

  “How did you escape?”

  They had reached a portion of the kitchens where there weren’t any assistants. In fact, it was as if an invisible curtain had been drawn across it. The heat and steam had lessened, and the noise had become muffled. Tamas glanced over his shoulder to be sure that they were still in the same room. Behind him, the flurry of activity continued.

  “They gave me access to the kitchens when I wasn’t being treated.” Mihali shivered at a memory. “And though they said I was cooking for the asylum, I soon found out they were sending my meals to the manor homes of nearby nobles and selling my services for quite a bit of money. I baked myself into a cake and had my assistants send me to the next manor over.”

  “You’re joking,” Olem said. He rolled an unlit cigarette around between his lips and eyed a stove.

  Mihali shrugged. “It was a very big cake.”

  Tamas waited for him to say something else, perhaps his real method of escape, but Mihali remained quiet. This section of the kitchen, nearly half of the space of the whole, contained just as many cookpots and fired ovens as the other, but as Mihali moved from one dish to the next, it was clear he was the only one attending these. Mihali reached above his head and pulled down an enormous pot from its hook. It looked to weigh as much as Tamas, but Mihali handled it with ease, maneuvering it down onto a stove. He opened the fire chamber beneath the stove, checking the heat, before moving on to an open spit in the corner.

  Tamas followed him across the room. He paused beside the pot Mihali had just pulled down—steam rose from it. He stepped forward and blinked. The pot was full to the brim with a thick stew of potatoes, carrots, corn, and beef.

  “Wasn’t that empty a moment ago?” Tamas asked Olem quietly.

  Olem frowned. “It was.”

  They both looked about for the pot Mihali had just pulled down, but all the pots on this side of the kitchen were full and cooking. Tamas felt less hungry somehow, and more uneasy. Mihali was still at the spit. A whole side of beef roasted above the flames. Mihali lifted a small bowl and began pouring some kind of dressing over the meat. Tamas found his stomach growling again, his uneasiness gone with the advent of new smells.

  “Mihali, have you told other people that you are the god Adom reincarnated?” Tamas examined Mihali’s face intently, looking for signs of madness. There was no question that Mihali was a maestro of the kitchens. Tamas had heard that every genius was equal parts madness. He tried to remember his childhood theology lessons. Adom was the patron saint of Adro. The church called him Kresimir’s brother, but not a god like Kresimir.

  Mihali poked the side of beef with the tip of his knife and watched grease bubble to the surface and run down the meat, sizzling on the coals below. His frown slowly returned. “My relatives had me committed,” he said quietly. “My brothers and cousins. I’m a bastard son—my mother was a Rosvelean beauty whom my father loved more than his wife, and my brothers have therefore hated me since I was a boy. Father protected me and fostered my talents. Against custom, he made me his heir.” He prodded the side of beef once more. “My brothers sent me to the asylum the day he died. I wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral. My claims to be the god Adom were only an excuse.”

  Mihali stood up straight suddenly, as if stirred from slumber. “Bread, bread,” he muttered. “Another fifty loaves at least. These girls don’t work fast enough.”

  He moved to the counters in the middle of the room. There were lumps of dough beneath damp towels. He whisked away the towels with one hand and plunged the other hand into the great mounds of dough. “Risen perfectly,” he said to himself, a distracted smile on his face. He divided the dough into perfect portions, his hands working so quickly Tamas could barely follow. Two loaves at a time were loaded onto the bread paddle and scooped into a waiting oven, until all the dough was gone.

  When the last loaf was loaded in the oven, he immediately removed the first. It was golden brown, the crust crisp and flaky, though it had only been a minute or two since it went in. Tamas narrowed his eyes and began to count.

  “That’s not my imagination,” Tamas said, leaning toward Olem.

  “No,” Olem confirmed. “He put a quarter that many loaves into the oven.” Olem made the sign of the Rope, touching two fingers together and then to his forehead and his chest. “Kresimir above. Have you ever heard of sorcery that can create something out of nothing?”

  “Never. But I’m seeing a lot of new things these days.”

  Mihali finished removing the last of the loaves from the oven. He turned to Tamas and Olem. “Hassenbur has sent men for me,” Mihali said. “I would sooner flee to the far side of Fatrasta and cook for the savages than return to Hassenbur Asylum.”

  Tamas pulled his eyes off the loaves. He looked at the cooked side of beef and the pot of stew that had been empty not ten minutes before. He nodded at Mihali’s words and moved away slowly, Olem at his side.

  “A Knack,” Olem said. “That’s the only explanation. I’ve heard of Knacks stronger than any Privileged sorcery. His must have to do with food.”

  “Third eye?” Tamas asked.

  Olem nodded. “Just did. He has the glow of a Knacked.”

  “Well, he’s no god,” Tamas said. “But he thinks he is. And that’s a powerful Knack. His food alone is responsible for half the army’s morale. Now what do I do with him?”

  CHAPTER

  17

  I’m looking for Privileged Borbador.”

  Taniel stood in the entrance to a tavern. It was a big place, though very old. Half the roof had caved in and long since been badly repaired. It was called the Howling Wendigo. Its name came from the low whine of wind in the eaves, which now drowned out everything else, as conversation in the place had stopped.

  Fifty or more sets of eyes stared at him. He was alone; he’d left Julene and Ka-poel outside to wait. He wore his buckskins and his cap and he was glad of it. Spring or not down in the valley, Shouldercrown Fortress was still locked in winter.

  “What business does a powder mage have with our Privileged?”

  Our Privileged. Taniel didn’t like the sound of that. Bo had made friends with these thugs. Convicts and malcontents, the poor and the wretched—these were the members of the Mountainwatch. They didn’t trust easily, and th
ey welcomed strangers like a crowded city welcomes a plague. They were easily the toughest of the Nine.

  Taniel took a deep breath. He wasn’t in the mood for this. I’m here to kill him, he wanted to say. Get in my way and I’ll put a bullet in your head. Instead he said, “That business is mine.”

  A man stood up. He was younger than Taniel by a year or two at most. Scrawny, bearded, he wore a sleeveless shirt despite the cold, his arms corded with the muscles of a man who hauled timber and worked the mines. He scowled at Taniel.

  “That business is ours,” the man said.

  “Fesnik, don’t mess with a powder mage,” someone else said. “You want Tamas breathing down our necks?”

  “Shut up,” Fesnik called over his shoulder. “What if we don’t tell you?”

  “You the toughest one here?”

  “Huh?” Fesnik seemed taken aback by this.

  “Simple question,” Taniel said. “Are you the toughest, father-stabbing, goat-raping, inbred son of a whore in this place?”

  Fesnik turned away from Taniel, a half smile on his face. He came back around quickly, knife drawn. Taniel drew both pistols. One barrel went in Fesnik’s mouth, cracking teeth and bringing the man’s knife thrust up short. Fesnik’s eyes went wide. The other pistol pointed at the first Watcher to climb to his feet.

  “My name’s Taniel Two-Shot,” Taniel said loudly. “And I’m here to see my best friend, Bo. Tell me kindly where he is?”

  “Taniel Two-Shot?” a voice asked. “Why didn’t you damn well say so? Bo’s up the mountain.”

  “That true?” Taniel asked Fesnik.

  The man nodded, eyes crossed from staring at the pistol barrel in his mouth.

  Taniel holstered both pistols.

  “Sorry,” Fesnik said, checking his teeth. “Bo said not to let any powder mages know where he was. Nobody but you, that is. Said you might come looking for him.”

  Taniel tried to keep the scowl off his face. “Sorry about the teeth,” he said. Louder, “Drinks on Field Marshal Tamas!”

  A general cheer went up around the room. Taniel gestured Fesnik closer. “You say he’s up the mountain?”

  “He went up there almost two weeks ago. Right after an inspector fellow came up from Adopest to see him.”

  “When did he say he’d come back down?”

  “He didn’t.”

  Taniel scratched his jaw. He’d not shaved since starting his hunt for the Privileged in Adopest. The thick curls on his neck itched. “Why’d he go up?”

  Fesnik shook his head.

  Taniel felt a sharp fear run up his spine. Bo knew that Tamas would send someone to kill him.

  “And he told you to tell only me?”

  “Yeah. He’s told us a lot about you. Said you two have been chums for years.”

  That felt like a knife thrust to Taniel’s gut. He clenched his teeth and forced a smile on his face. Psychological warfare on Bo’s part? Or just drunken chatter? “That’s right. How long does it take to reach the top of the mountain?”

  “Well, he won’t have gone all the way to the top,” Fesnik said. “There’s a monastery up there for the pilgrims, a couple miles short of Kresim Kurga. He’ll have stopped there.”

  Kresim Kurga. The Holy City. It was a name out of legends. Taniel hadn’t heard the name since his nurse had taken him weekly to Kresimir’s chapel when he was a child. Even then, he’d never believed it really existed.

  Taniel brought himself back to the present. He couldn’t wait here. He would have to go up after Bo and leave him buried in the snow. Taniel would be back in Adopest before they discovered Bo was dead.

  “I’ll go up and see him,” Taniel said.

  “This time of year?” Fesnik shook his head. “Not even a seasoned Watcher will guide you up, and believe me, without a guide you’ll walk into a snowstorm and never come out. The roads are treacherous well up until early summer.”

  “My father mentioned a man named Gavril,” Taniel said. “Old friend of his. Said he was the best mountain man in the Nine. What?”

  Fesnik had started to laugh. “Gavril, he might do it. If he’s sober enough to see but drunk enough not to think straight. I’ll try to find him for you.”

  Fesnik went off into the barroom crowd. Taniel returned to the street, where he found Julene glaring at Ka-poel. Ka-poel was staring up at the mountain above them.

  “Bo’s up there,” Taniel said, pointing to the mountain. “We’re going up after him.”

  Julene’s eyes narrowed. “It’s probably a trap. He must know Tamas would send someone.”

  “He does. But he told the Watchers to let me know where he was if I came. No one else. That means he trusts me.”

  “Or he trusts himself to kill you before you can get off a shot.”

  “I know Bo. It means he trusts me.” He took a deep breath. “Worse luck for him.”

  “We’ll need supplies and mountain gear,” Julene said. “And winter clothing.”

  “You’re not coming.”

  “What?” Julene stared at him hard.

  “You almost got me killed more than once,” Taniel said.

  “How dare you.”

  “Shut up. I’m going up there with Pole; we’re going to do in my best friend and come right back down. Carefully, quietly. You start throwing around sorcery up there and not only will the entire Mountainwatch know what we’re doing but you’ll likely bring an avalanche down on us.”

  Julene sneered. “I don’t trust you. You’re weak. You won’t be able to pull the trigger.”

  “Killing Privileged is my specialty,” Taniel said. He took a hit of powder. A small one, just to calm his nerves. He took a second hit. “Bo’s a danger. I know how to deal with a danger. Now, shut the pit up and go find yourself a room to hole up in. There’s another reason I’m leaving you down here. If Bo gets the drop on me or slips by me somehow, I want you watching. Kill him on sight. Can you do that, lady?”

  Julene’s arms trembled. She looked as if she wanted to leap on Taniel and tear his throat out with her teeth. Without a powder trance Taniel might have been intimidated. With a powder trance, Taniel didn’t give a damn.

  “Well?” he asked. “Can you damn well do it?”

  Julene whirled and stalked away from him, down the street.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  The door to the tavern opened and Fesnik stepped out, shrugging into a knee-length deerskin coat. He was followed by one of the biggest men Taniel had ever seen. He wore thick leathers and furs soaked with sweat and beer, and he struggled to focus his eyes on Taniel even as he toppled against the side of the building. He shook his head and slurred, “I’m Gavril.”

  Taniel looked him up and down. “Fantastic.”

  Taniel paused to adjust the furs protecting his face as a freezing wind spattered him with snow. He flinched away from the biting cold, turning his face from the wind, even though Gavril had warned him that to do so could mean death—always one foot in front of the other, eyes on the snowbank ahead of you or you might step into a half-hidden fissure or off the edge of a cliff.

  Right now, Taniel didn’t much care. Ten thousand feet below them, farmers tilled their fields as the spring weather warmed. A few more weeks and it would be warm enough to go swimming in the Adsea. Yet here he was, nearing the top of the highest mountain in all the Nine—some said the world—with snowshoes strapped to his feet, armed with rifle and pistols that were probably too frozen to work, on his way to kill his best friend, with a drunk as a guide.

  He was tied to Gavril by a sturdy rope, though the wind had died enough that he could see the big mountaineer through the eddy, some ten paces up the slope. Their climb was steep, but bearable. After all, there was a road under there somewhere. This pass was well used in the summer—or so Gavril claimed. The wind swirling around them brought no fresh snow; it only kicked up the top layer from the recent storm. Taniel could have sworn he heard a child’s laughter every time more snow slapped him in the
face. The mountain was a cruel place, he decided.

  Another rope led off behind Taniel, where Ka-poel struggled slowly with her snowshoes, and behind her a small man named Darden trekked along in her wake. He was an old Deliv who had insisted on coming along. He said he had a cousin at the monastery who had been dying last fall, and he wanted to know if he had survived the winter. Taniel didn’t trust him. Was he one of Bo’s friends?

  Gavril was a jovial drunk, and had been surprisingly interested in the trip up the mountain. They’d set off within hours, and though Gavril had wobbled on his snowshoes the first half day, Taniel was certain he’d gotten dead sober by the end of the second.

  Taniel paused briefly to check the pistol at his hip. The flintlock was frozen, jammed with snow and ice. The powder still seemed to be dry, though, and the bullet was wedged firmly in place. That was all that mattered for a Marked. He could make his own spark to fire the bullet. Yet… Taniel examined Gavril. Would the man give him trouble when Taniel put a bullet through Bo’s eye? Or would any of the monks? Taniel checked his second pistol. Would he be able to make it back down the mountain without Gavril if it came to that?

  By the time they finally rose above the worst of the wind, Taniel had long since ceased being able to feel his legs. The swirls of snow died down, and the sun came through the eddy, nearly blinding him. The trail leveled out, and suddenly he saw ground; not just hard-packed trails of snow but real earth notched with shovel marks. This had been cleared recently. He blinked in surprise and tried to smile. His face was too numb.

  “How are you?” Gavril’s voice cut through Taniel’s thoughts. The words were a welcome change to the howling wind and the mountain’s mocking laughter after three and a half days of climbing. Taniel realized that they’d not said a word in that time, not even during their camps at night, when the four of them huddled together for warmth in Gavril’s small tent.

  “Hine.” Taniel came to a stop beside the big mountaineer, and they waited for Ka-poel and Darden. Taniel closed his eyes and worked at his mouth, trying to form words.