“With your leg, you should be in bed,” Lady Winceslav said. “Are you sure you’re feeling well enough to be out?”
He looked her over once, noting her pallor, and wondered if he should ask the same.
“Of course, Lady. Never better.” Brave words, maybe, but the fact was his leg did feel better. He could almost feel it healing, his strength returning to him. He knew he had work to do, but damn it, none of it seemed to matter. For the first time since his wife’s death, he felt whole again.
Even Lady Winceslav seemed in better spirits. She’d braved the crowds despite her recent scandal with Brigadier Barat. She wasn’t directing the festival—that was all in Mihali’s hands now—but at least she was here.
“Do you think everyone will come?” she asked.
Tamas eyed the crowd. “I think the whole city is here, Lady.”
“I meant of the council.” She gave him a playful cuff on the arm.
“Ricard has been here since half past six,” Tamas said, “rolling out food and wine with the rest of his workers.” And under strict, but discreet, watch, until Adamat returned with evidence for or against his guilt. If the union boss knew anything about the attempt on Adamat’s life, he gave no sign.
“Has he?” She seemed surprised by this. “Incredible.”
“Ondraus is somewhere out there, yelling at his clerks,” Tamas said. “Olem says he saw the eunuch just an hour ago. Of Charlemund I haven’t seen hide or hair. And there”—he pointed—“is the vice-chancellor.”
Tamas watched Prime Lektor pick his way through the crowd. The birthmark spidering across his face looked darker than usual. The vice-chancellor eyed the food as he passed the serving tables, but he seemed to have something more important on his mind. He paused briefly at a stern look from Tamas’s bodyguards and then ducked under the parasol. He tipped his hat to Lady Winceslav.
“Seat?” Tamas asked, gesturing to one of the guards.
“Please,” Prime said. He observed the feast while waiting for a chair, and then took a seat next to Tamas. “You seem to be in unusually good spirits.”
“I do?” Tamas said. “I haven’t said two words.”
Prime cleared his throat. “I can sense it about you. It’s in the air. Like a first-year student who knows he’s going to be every professor’s favorite. It’s annoying.” Prime looked about again. He kept looking toward the serving tables and watching assistants bring out bowls and platters and everything else.
Tamas gave the vice-chancellor a sidelong glance. “Can’t you feel it?” he said. “It’s not just me. It’s the whole city. It’s… this.” He gestured to the feast, the tens of thousands gorging themselves on Mihali’s food without a care in the world. “The wealthy and the poor, the noble and the ignoble rubbing shoulders. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Prime gave the feast a long-suffering once-over. “You don’t believe this rubbish, do you?” he said. “About this chef being a god?” His eyes lingered on a pot of porridge.
Tamas hesitated, trying to read Prime’s tone. There was something off about it. Despite the gruff way he spoke, it almost sounded as if Prime wanted Tamas to say yes.
“Ha. A god? No. A powerful Knacked. A little mad, maybe. But harmless,” Tamas said. “But then again…” He raised a finger alongside his nose in a secretive gesture. “What does a god look like? What does a god do? Who am I to know one when I see him?” He shook his head with a laugh at Prime’s exasperated look. “Mihali is a gifted man. Greatly so. I don’t think a god, though. How about you? You’re probably the most qualified to know. You’ve every history of the Nine at your fingertips. Do any talk of Adom?”
“I realized a long time ago Kresimir would never return.” Prime fell quiet, and Tamas realized he had no idea how old the vice-chancellor was.
“And Adom…” Tamas prompted.
“He loved his food,” Prime admitted. “He’s the patron saint of chefs for a reason. He was a big man, strong, powerful, and”—he tracked one of Mihali’s female assistants with his eyes as she passed by, a platter of stuffed waterfowl balanced on one hand—“he was very popular with the women. He had over four hundred wives, and loved every one of them. Figuratively and literally.”
“Four hundred?” Tamas said. “I could barely handle one.” His throat caught on that, and he had to clear it. “You speak as if you knew him yourself.”
Prime said nothing.
“Sounds like Mihali is a pretty good candidate.”
“There are too many questions,” Prime said. “There hasn’t been a god on this earth for hundreds and hundreds of years. Kresimir left, off to resume his exploration of the cosmos. Novi and Brude went the same way just days after. The rest followed, or disappeared without fanfare. There was a rumor that one or two of them had remained behind…,” he said, trailing off.
Tamas exchanged a curious look with Lady Winceslav.
“Do you feel well?” Tamas asked.
Prime spared him a glance. “Would you believe me,” he said, “if I told you Mihali is a gifted sorcerer?”
“Without a doubt. Not a Privileged, though. A Knacked.”
Prime snorted. “A Knacked, my ass. What if I were to say, ‘the most powerful sorcerer in the world’? Or if I said that that’s all the gods ever were: immensely powerful sorcerers?”
“Hypothetically?” Tamas said, revealing his skepticism.
“The most powerful to ever live?”
“You’re joking.”
“It’s just a question,” Prime snapped.
“So what if he was?”
“The problem with logic,” Prime said, “is that sometimes you are forced to believe your own hypothesis, even if you don’t want to. What do you feel when you sense toward Mihali?”
“A Knacked, as I said. He has the soft glow to him. Less power than a Privileged by far.”
“Can you be sure?”
Tamas sighed. He opened his third eye and looked toward Mihali. There had to be many Knacked in such a large crowd, but Mihali was easy to find. Something about him stood out above the others. Yet his glow was no stronger.
“Yes,” Tamas said. He watched Prime’s face. The old man was frowning toward Mihali. “You don’t think it’s possible, do you? That he’s really a god?”
Prime closed his eyes and was quiet for several minutes. Tamas was beginning to wonder whether the old man had nodded off, when his eyes opened.
“Too many questions,” he said again.
“You said ‘the other gods,’ ” Tamas said, “I thought Kresimir was the only god.”
Prime shifted in his chair and watched a service-pressed clerk roll out a barrel of ale and gingerly move it down the front steps. “That’s not precisely true,” Prime said.
“It’s dogma,” Tamas said. “Charlemund reminded me so just the other day.”
“Just because something is church dogma does not make it true.”
“Well, certainly,” Tamas said, “any educated man…” He trailed off at Prime’s scowl.
“Educated men,” Prime said. “Bah. There were ten gods. Not one god and nine saints. Kresimir came initially, and then requested the help of his brothers and sisters to organize the Nine.”
“There’s ten gods?” Tamas said. He struggled to remember his history lessons. “I always thought Kez took Kresimir as their patron. Who is the tenth, then?”
Prime shook his head. “That’s the wrong question. You should be asking: If Mihali is a god, why is he here now?”
South Pike Mountain was hidden behind the House of Nobles, but they both turned in that direction. Tamas thought back to the warnings he’d received from Bo and Taniel. Ancient sorcerers trying to summon God. It was almost quaint, as if from a storybook. Fears generated from the stress of months of battle. Although, Tamas remembered, those first warnings came before the start of the siege. Tamas scratched at the top of his wounded leg. It began to hurt more, the pain returning like an ache long thought gone.
�
��Have you ever heard of Kresimir’s Promise?” Tamas said suddenly.
“Rubbish,” Prime said.
“Rubbish? You know of it? I was told it was a cabal secret, only known to the kings and their Privileged.”
“It is.” Prime mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.
Tamas was about to press him more when he heard a scream.
Another followed, and then another. A ripple of fear moved through the large crowd as a murmur of yells grew to a roar in moments. People rose from their places, their food forgotten, trying to see the source of the commotion.
“What’s going on?” Tamas snatched his crutch and struggled from his chair. “Find out what’s going on,” he told a guard. “Get inside,” he said to Prime. “Guards, take Lady Winceslav inside.” Tamas watched Mihali climb up onto a table, nimble despite his girth, and strain to see what was happening.
“Calm down!” Mihali shouted. His voice carried over the crowd with surprising force. “Please, return to your seats.” People paused, half-risen, unsure of what to do. Those in line seemed to hesitate, unwilling to lose their places but concerned by what could be happening. Everyone remembered the dragoons on Election Day.
Tamas could still see nothing. The commotion seemed to be coming from the far end of the tables. Some people ran, struggling against those who tried to get closer and see.
“My pistol,” Tamas said. He noticed Prime had gotten to his feet and was craning his neck for a better look. Lady Winceslav waited beside the door to the House of Nobles with her bodyguard.
“Get inside,” Tamas said again. “I don’t want you killed by a fear-stricken mob.”
Prime ignored him.
“Suit yourself,” Tamas growled, taking one of his dueling pistols from a guard. He checked that it was primed and loaded before scanning the crowd.
“There,” Prime said, pointing.
Tamas caught sight of a man several hundred paces away. The crowd had backed away from him. He looked to be holding something in his hand. Tamas bit into a powder charge and swayed as the full force of a powder trance hit him. He took a few shallow breaths and straightened, sharpening his gaze on the man.
The man was dressed as a Barber. He wore a white shirt and dark pants under a white apron. The apron itself was stained with blood. There was a body at his feet, with the long, blond hair of a woman. He wiped the blade of his razor on his apron and sprinted toward the crowd.
“The Black Street Barbers,” Tamas said slowly. “What the pit…”
More screams. Tamas swiveled his gaze. There were dozens of them. They dashed into the feast, throwing down platters of food, cutting down men and women and children with impunity, razors flicking the air like a master’s brush painting a bloody masterpiece.
“To arms!” Tamas bellowed. His first shot took a Barber between the eyes at a hundred paces. He didn’t need his sorcery for that. “Can you reload this?” Tamas said, dropping the pistol into Prime’s hands. “Bullets!” One of his guards paused in aiming to give him a handful of round balls and another of powder charges. Tamas flicked one bullet in the air and ignited a powder charge with a thought. Another Barber dropped, then another.
“Why the pit do you even need this?” Prime said, handing him the loaded pistol.
“Better accuracy,” Tamas said, surprised that an academic could reload a pistol so quickly. The crowd began to writhe and move, people moving like a panicked herd of cattle at the sound of pistol shots. Tamas steeled himself as he noted some of the crowd looking toward the open doors of the House of Nobles.
“Get those doors closed,” he told a guardsman. He raised his pistol. “Make sure Lady Winceslav is inside.”
“There!” Prime said. The old man nudged Tamas’s pistol toward Mihali. Tamas saw the Barber come out of the crowd near the chef. Tamas pulled the trigger. The man dropped like a stone.
“Novi’s frosted toes!” Tamas said. “Sabon was supposed to take care of the Barbers. Mihali! Get out of there!”
The chef did not hear him. He still stood on a table, waving his arms and shouting, seemingly unaware of the dead Barber nearby.
“Another,” Prime said, pointing. “They’re going for Mihali.”
“Why?” Tamas said. He handed the pistol back to Prime and flicked a bullet in the air. The shot glanced off a Barber’s shoulder and into the crowd, where a man clutched at his side. Tamas grimaced. “We’re too far. I can’t help him much without more weaponry.” He dug into his pockets for more bullets. He was out. “Shit. God or madman, he may be on his own now. Get me more rounds!”
“No.” Prime slowly shook his head. “We can’t leave him alone.”
“We damn well have to. We won’t get through that rabble.” The crowd was now on the move. They fled sluggishly, seemingly swayed by Mihali’s entreating them to remain calm, but his shouts could not fully quell the boiling fear of a mob.
“We have to try,” Prime said. “Come on, bring your guards.” He grabbed Tamas’s arm.
Lady Winceslav appeared on his other side. Tamas stifled a curse. “Lady, you need to get inside!”
“I won’t leave my soldiers out here alone,” Lady Winceslav said. She clenched her fists. “Get me a rifle. We’ll fight our way to the chef and—”
Prime’s gasp startled Tamas. “It’s him. Open your third eye!”
“How do you…” Tamas didn’t have to open his third eye. He felt the sorcery wash over him with the strength of the coming tide.
“Adom,” Prime said. “He’s dropped his disguise.”
“What is he doing?” Tamas felt numb, helpless. He’d never experienced sorcery like this before. If feeling a Privileged do magic was like the heat of a candle, this was as if he stood in a smith’s furnace.
“He’s channeling a spell!”
“I don’t understand.”
“Channeling! The few moments it takes a sorcerer to create sorcery, to pluck at the auras of the Else. He’s not tearing down a building or destroying a battalion. He’s been channeling all week! This food, these people. They are all part of it. He is weaving auras into the very city. If the Barbers reach him, it’ll destroy everything he’s worked for!”
“How do you know all this?”
“We haven’t time!” Prime let go of Tamas’s arm as the edge of the crowd moved toward them. One of Tamas’s guards was tossed to the ground, nearly trampled underfoot before he was pulled out of harm’s way. The crowd began to writhe like an animal. They’d all be swept away, guards or not. This was not something soldiers could tame.
“We need to get inside, sir.” Olem was at Tamas’s side, rifle in hand. He’d been out among the tables when the whole thing started.
Tamas glanced between Olem and Prime. They needed to retreat, let the panic die down. He would take care of the Barbers later. They were finished. He took a step back, gripping his crutch. What the pit was Prime blathering on about? Channeling spells? Tamas would have sensed it. “Bar the doors to the House. I don’t want this rabble getting in.”
“Sir?”
“We’re going after Mihali.”
“That’s suicide, sir.”
“Troop, form up!”
His bodyguard fell in around him. Soldiers joined them from the House of Nobles. He had thirty men within a few moments. Thirty men would do nothing against the mad rush of a hundred thousand.
“Lady, you should go inside,” Tamas said for the final time.
Someone had given Lady Winceslav a rifle. She looked like she knew how to handle it. Her eyes held no fear. Tamas respected that.
“No bayonets, men,” Tamas ordered. “Shove with the stock. Where’s Prime?”
“There,” Olem said.
Tamas looked over. Prime stood several feet outside his men, the packed rush of the mob only fingers from the front of his coat. “Someone get him!” Tamas snapped. “Old bastard will get himself killed.”
A soldier broke off and ran for the vice-chancellor. He grabbed Prime’s coat. The o
ld man shrugged him off with surprising force. Beyond him, far into the crowd, Mihali still stood on his table. He’d ceased to yell and now stood gazing down into the mob, a frown on his face. Despite the violence of the rush, no one came within ten paces of his table.
Until a Barber broke through.
“My pistol,” Tamas said. “Quickly!”
Another Barber stumbled from the crowd and into Mihali’s circle of calm. He shook his head, as if confused, and then exchanged looks with the other. A third joined them, and they began to advance on Mihali.
“Weapon!” Tamas yelled.
The soldier had no luck in dragging Prime toward the building. Tamas caught sight of the old vice-chancellor out of the corner of his eye. Prime’s shoulders slumped. Then he reached slowly into his pockets and removed a pair of white gloves with red and gold runes. He pulled them on and raised his hands.
Tamas looked on, astonished. The vice-chancellor, the spectacled old overweight professor of histories, was a Privileged? How had Tamas never known? Prime worked his fingers in the air like an orchestra conductor. An audible wump split the air and the crowd was divided in two. A pathway as wide as a carriage opened up. An invisible force pressed people away. Some clawed and thrashed as if at a glass wall, while others were crushed up against it like boats upon the rocks.
“Get your soldiers in there,” Prime said over his shoulder.
Tamas hesitated. “Go,” he said after a moment. He hobbled toward the vice-chancellor, grabbing his rifle from a soldier and aiming at a Barber. He only had one shot and no spare powder charges. It was too far to make the bullet bounce, and his men wouldn’t get there in time. The analysis lasted just a fraction of a second. He aimed at the biggest, most dangerous-looking of the Barbers and pulled the trigger.
The Barber evaporated. The bullet went through a fine red cloud of mist and hit a woman in the shoulder. Tamas felt his eyes widen. He pointed the pistol straight in the air and looked at the barrel. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He looked back toward Mihali.
The second Barber paused, eyes on the cloud that had once been his comrade, his mouth slightly open. The red mist disappeared like the smoke from a pipe in a stiff breeze. The third Barber charged toward Mihali, razor in the air. Tamas thought he heard a slight pop, and this one disappeared as well. No clothes, no metal blade remained. Nothing but the red mist, which was gone with the breeze. The second Barber turned to flee, and with a subtle pop—not imagined—he was gone. Tamas shook his head as more pops filled his ears. Someone screamed.
The Powder Mage Trilogy: Promise of Blood, The Crimson Campaign, The Autumn Republic Page 46