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

by McClellan, Brian

  Ricard nodded. “Of course. Anything.” He reached to take the card.

  Adamat stopped him, clutching Ricard’s hand. “This is deadly serious. The lives of my wife and my son depend on it. If you don’t think you can trust your people, just tell me now and I’ll find him myself.” Remember what happened with the Barbers, Adamat said silently.

  Ricard seemed to get the message. “I have some people,” Ricard said. “Don’t worry. This will be safe.”

  “One more thing,” Adamat said. “There are two people involved in this somehow that you might blanch at crossing.”

  Ricard smiled. “If it’s not Tamas, I can’t imagine who.”

  “Lord Claremonte and the Proprietor.”

  Ricard’s smile disappeared. “Lord Claremonte doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “The Brudania-Gurla Trading Company has been trying to move in on the union since our inception. He’s tricky, but he doesn’t scare me.”

  “Don’t be so quick to dismiss him. Lord Vetas works for him.” And Vetas was holding Adamat’s wife and son hostage. Claremonte, as far as Adamat was concerned, might as well have been holding Faye and Josep personally.

  Ricard made a dismissive gesture. “You say that the Proprietor might be involved? I don’t trust him, of course, but I thought you cleared him of treachery yourself.”

  “I never cleared him,” Adamat said. “I just found out that Charlemund was the one trying to kill Tamas. One of the Proprietor’s boxers was holding my family hostage. You know how he is about his boxers finding work elsewhere—no one works for someone else without the Proprietor’s permission.” Which meant that the Proprietor may be in league with Lord Claremonte.

  “Tread carefully on this, my friend,” Ricard warned. “Vetas may be trying to use you, but the Proprietor will cut and bury your entire family without so much as a thought.” He glanced at the card Adamat had given him and put it in his vest pocket. “I’ll look into this, don’t worry. But I need a favor from you.”

  “Go on.”

  “Do you know Taniel Two-Shot?”

  “I know of him,” Adamat said. “Everyone in the Nine does. The newspapers were saying he was in a coma after a battle of sorcery on top of South Pike Mountain.”

  “He’s not in a coma anymore,” Ricard said. “He woke up a week ago, and he’s disappeared.”

  Adamat’s first thoughts went to Lord Vetas. The man was working actively against Tamas. He would leap at the chance to capture the field marshal’s son. “Any sign of violence?”

  Ricard shook his head. “Well, yes. But it’s not like that. He left his guard duty of his own volition. Tamas had his own men guarding him, but my people were keeping an eye on him as well. That he slipped both our nets is rather embarrassing. I need him found quietly.”

  “Do you want him returned?” Adamat said. “I’m not about to make a powder mage do something he doesn’t want to do.”

  “No, just find out where he is and let me know.”

  Adamat stood up. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “And I’ll look into this Lord Vetas.” Ricard held up a hand to forestall Adamat’s protests. “Discreetly. I promise.”

  Tamas entered Budwiel’s biggest mess hall and was nearly knocked over by the swirl of enticing smells wafting from inside.

  He swept past the tables where hundreds of his men were having their evening repast and headed toward the kitchens, trying to ignore his hunger pangs.

  The man he was looking for was hard to miss: big, fat, taller than most, with waist-length black hair tied behind his head and his olive skin showing just a touch of Rosvelean ancestry. He stood in one corner of the kitchens, on his toes to be able to see into the highest row of ovens.

  Mihali was, officially, Tamas’s chef. He and his cadre of assistants provided food of the highest caliber for Tamas’s entire army, and even for the city of Budwiel. The people loved Mihali; the men worshipped him.

  Well, perhaps they should worship him.

  He was Adom reborn, patron saint of Adro, and brother to the god Kresimir. Which made him a god in his own right.

  Mihali turned to Tamas and waved across the myriad of assistants, flour going up in a cloud around him.

  “Field Marshal,” the chef called. “Come over here.”

  Tamas stifled the annoyance at being summoned like a common soldier and made his way through the tables of bread.

  “Mihali—”

  The god-chef cut him off. “Field Marshal, I’m so glad you’re here. I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you.”

  Great importance? Tamas had never seen Mihali so distressed. He leaned forward. What could possibly worry a god? “What is it?”

  “I can’t decide what to make for lunch tomorrow.”

  “You git!” Tamas exclaimed, taking a step back. His heart thundered in his ears, as if he’d expected Mihali to announce that the world would end on the morrow.

  Mihali didn’t seem to notice the insult. “I haven’t not known what to cook for decades. I normally have it all planned out but… I’m sorry, are you mad about something?”

  “I’m trying to fight a war here, Mihali! The Kez are knocking at Budwiel’s front door.”

  “And hunger is knocking at mine!”

  Mihali seemed so out of sorts that Tamas forced himself to calm down. He put a hand on Mihali’s arm. “The men will love whatever you make.”

  “I’d planned poached eggs with asparagus tips, filet of salmon, lamb chops glazed with honey, and a selection of fruit.”

  “That’s three meals you just named there,” Tamas said.

  “Three meals? Three meals? That’s four courses, barely enough for a proper lunch, and I did the same thing five days ago. What kind of a chef serves the same meal more than once a week?” Mihali tapped flour-covered fingers against his chin. “How could I have messed up? Maybe it’s a leap year.”

  Tamas counted to ten silently to keep his temper contained—something he’d not done since Taniel was a boy. “Mihali, we’re going into battle the day after tomorrow. Will you help me?”

  The god appeared nervous. “I’m not going to kill anyone, if that’s what you’re asking,” Mihali said.

  “Can you do anything for us? We’re outnumbered ten to one out there.”

  “What is your plan?”

  “I’m going to take the Seventh and the Ninth through the catacombs and flank the Kez position. When they try to attack Budwiel, we’ll smash them against the gates and route them.”

  “That sounds very military.”

  “Mihali, please focus!”

  Mihali finally stopped casting about the mess tent as if searching for tomorrow’s menu and gave Tamas a level stare. “Kresimir was a commander. Brude was a commander. I am a chef. But since you ask: The strategy sounds very high-risk with an equally high payoff. It suits you perfectly.”

  “Can you do anything to help?” Tamas asked gently.

  Mihali seemed to think on this. “I can make sure that your men remain unnoticed until the moment you charge.”

  Tamas felt a wave of relief. “That would be perfect.” He waited for a few moments. “Mihali, you appear agitated.”

  Mihali took Tamas by the elbow and pulled him into one corner of the tent. In a low voice, he said, “Kresimir is gone.”

  “That’s right,” Tamas said. “Taniel killed him.”

  “No, no. Kresimir is gone, but I didn’t feel him die.”

  “But the whole of the Nine felt it. Privileged Borbador told me that every Knacked and Privileged in the world felt it when he died.”

  “That wasn’t him dying,” Mihali said, waving the lump of bread dough still in one hand. “That was his counterstroke against Taniel for shooting him in the head.”

  Tamas’s mouth was suddenly dry. “You mean Kresimir is still alive?” Privileged Borbador had warned Tamas that a god couldn’t be killed. Tamas had hoped that Borbador was wrong.

  “I don’t know,” Mihali said, “and that’s
what worries me. I’ve always been able to sense him, even when half the cosmos separated us.”

  “Is he with the Kez army?” Tamas would have to cancel all his plans. Rethink every strategy. If Kresimir was with the Kez army, they might all be swept away.

  “No, he’s not,” Mihali said. “I would know.”

  “But you said that…”

  “I assure you,” Mihali said. “I would know if he was that close. Besides, he wouldn’t risk an open confrontation between us.”

  Tamas balled his fists. The uncertainties were the worst part of planning for a battle. It always put him on edge, knowing he couldn’t plan for everything, and this was a god-sized uncertainty. He’d have to go forward with his plans and hope that Mihali’s help in concealing the troops would be enough.

  “Now,” Mihali said, “if we’re quite through with that, I need help with tomorrow’s menu.”

  Tamas poked the god in the chest. “You are the chef,” he said. “I am the commander, and I have a battle to plan.”

  He left the mess hall and was halfway to his command tent when he cursed himself for not snagging a bowl of Mihali’s squash soup.

  Less than twenty-four hours after Ricard sent him looking for Taniel Two-Shot, Adamat found himself sitting back in Ricard’s office near the docks.

  Ricard chewed on the end of a rough-cut pencil and stared across at Adamat. What little hair he had left stuck up from the top of his head like a wind-blown haystack, and Adamat wondered if he’d slept at all in the time between their meetings. At least he was wearing a different shirt and jacket. The room smelled of incense, burned paper, and foul meat. Adamat wondered if there was an uneaten sandwich beneath one of the stacks of records.

  “You didn’t go home last night, did you?” Adamat asked.

  “How could you tell?”

  “Besides the fact that you look like the pit? You didn’t change your boots. I haven’t seen you wear the same pair of boots two days in a row since I met you.”

  Ricard looked down at his feet. “You would notice that, wouldn’t you?” He wiped fatigue from his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve already found Two-Shot?”

  Adamat held up a piece of paper. On it, he’d written the address of the mala den where he’d found the hero of the Adran army wallowing in his own self-pity. He held the note out to Ricard. When Ricard reached for it, he pulled it back at the last second, as if suddenly changing his mind.

  “I read something interesting in the newspaper this morning,” Adamat said. When Ricard didn’t respond, he took the newspaper in question from under his arm and threw it on the desk. “ ‘Ricard Tumblar to Run for First Minister of the Republic of Adro,’ ” he said, reading the headline out loud.

  “Oh,” Ricard said blandly. “That.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You seemed to have a lot on your plate.”

  “And you’re vying to become leader of our new government. What the pit are you doing business down at the docks for?”

  Ricard perked up. “I’ve built a new place. Moving into it tomorrow, actually. Still in the factory district, but it’ll be fantastic for entertaining dignitaries. Would you like to see it?”

  “I’m a little busy now,” Adamat said. When Ricard’s face fell, he added, “Some other time, I’m sure.”

  “You’ll like it. Gaudy. Grand. But stylish.”

  Adamat snorted. Knowing Ricard, “gaudy” only began to describe it. He tossed the paper on Ricard’s desk. “Either you had less people looking for him than you made me believe, or your people are idiots.”

  “I don’t recognize the address,” Ricard said, grinning so hard it made his cheeks red.

  Adamat wasn’t in the mood for the enthusiasm. “After a battle, soldiers go straight for one of two things: either home or vice. Taniel Two-Shot is a career soldier, so I guessed vice. The quickest place to find that near the People’s Court is to head northwest into the Gurlish Quarter. He was in the sixth mala den I checked.”

  “You got lucky,” Ricard said. “Admit it. He could have gone anywhere. You just looked in the Gurlish Quarter first.”

  Adamat shrugged. Investigative work depended more on luck than he cared to admit, but he’d never tell that to a client. “Any chance you found the record for the address I gave you yesterday?”

  Ricard sifted through the papers on his desk. A moment later he handed Adamat back Vetas’s card. It had a name and address written on it in pencil.

  “Fell checked herself,” Ricard said. “The warehouse was bought by a tailor—of all things—two years ago. There are no records to indicate it had been sold after the tailor bought it, which means it didn’t fall into the hands of the union. Must have been purchased privately. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more to help.”

  “This is a start,” Adamat said. He stood up and retrieved his hat and cane.

  “You’ll be taking SouSmith with you, won’t you?” Ricard asked. “I don’t want you going after this Vetas alone.”

  “SouSmith is still laid up,” Adamat said. “He took some bloody damage from the Barbers.”

  Ricard grimaced. “He could go see Lady Parkeur.”

  Lady Parkeur was an eccentric middle-aged woman who lived with thousands of birds in an old church in High Talien. She always had feathers in her hair and smelled like a henhouse, but she was also the only Knacked in the city with the ability to heal wounds. She could knit together broken tissue and bone with the force of her will, and she cost more money than a Privileged healer.

  “I spent every penny I had left to get myself healed by her after the beating I took from Charlemund,” Adamat said. “I had to so I could go after my family.”

  “Fell!” Ricard yelled, making Adamat jump.

  The woman appeared a moment later. “Mr. Tumblar?”

  “Send a message to Lady Parkeur. Tell her I’m calling in that favor she owes me. There’s a boxer, name of SouSmith, who needs mending. Tell her she needs to make a house call today.”

  “She doesn’t do house calls,” Fell said.

  “She bloody well better for me. If she gives you any lip, remind her about that incident with the goat.”

  “Right away,” Fell said.

  “Incident with a goat?” Adamat said.

  Ricard looked around. “Don’t ask. I need a bloody drink.”

  “Ricard, you don’t have to call in favors for me,” Adamat said. He knew by experience how much Lady Parkeur cost for healing. The wait to see her was usually weeks. Adamat had only gotten in through a personal request from Field Marshal Tamas.

  “Think nothing of it,” Ricard said. “You’ve saved my ass more times than I can count.” He recovered a bottle from behind a stack of books and drained the last finger of cloudy liquid from the bottle, then made a face. It was another moment before he ceased his search for more alcohol and dropped into his seat. “But don’t think I won’t ask you for more favors. This ‘First Minister’ business is going to be a rough time.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Good. Now go find out about Lord Whatshisname. I’ve been thinking of a really big gift for you and Faye for your anniversary next year. I’d prefer that you’re both around to give it to.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  Taniel cut the last silver button off his jacket and handed it to Kin. The stooped Gurlish examined the button closely in the light of a candle before sliding it into his pocket, just like he had all the others, and set a ball of mala on the table next to Taniel’s hammock.

  Despite the greed apparent on Kin’s face, he had a worried look in his eyes.

  “Don’t go through it so fast. Savor. Taste. Enjoy,” Kin said.

  Taniel pushed a large piece of mala into his pipe. It lit instantly off the embers of the old mala, and he breathed in deep.

  “You smoke more in a day than any man does in twenty,” Kin said. He settled back on his haunches, watching Taniel smoke.

  Taniel lifted his silver powde
r-mage button and rolled it between his fingers. “Must be the sorcery,” he said. “Ever had a powder mage in here before?”

  Kin shook his head.

  “Never known a powder mage who smoked mala myself,” Taniel said. “We all take the powder. Never need more to feel alive.”

  “Why the mala?” Kin busied himself sweeping the center of the den.

  Taniel took a deep breath. “Powder doesn’t make you forget.”

  “Ah. Forget. Every man takes mala to forget.” Kin nodded knowingly.

  Taniel stared at the ceiling of his niche, counting the hammock swings.

  “Going to bed,” Kin said, setting his broom in one corner.

  “Wait,” Taniel reached out with one hand, only to draw it back when he realized how pathetic he must look. “Give me enough to get through the night.”

  “Night?” Kin shook his head. “It’s morning now. I work through the night. Most smokers come then.”

  “Give me enough for that, then.”

  Kin seemed to consider this, looking at the ball he just gave Taniel. From what he said, a ball like that should have lasted four or five days.

  “Give me the powder keg, and I’ll give you as much you can smoke for three weeks.”

  Taniel clenched the powder-keg pin in his fist. “No. What else?”

  “I’ll give you my daughter for the whole three weeks, too.”

  Taniel’s stomach turned at the thought of the Gurlish mala man pimping his daughter to his customers.

  “No.”

  “You like art?” Kin picked up the sketchbook and pencil Ka-poel had brought for Taniel.

  “Put those down.”

  Kin dropped the sketchbook with a sigh. “You no have value. No money.”

  Taniel checked the pockets of his coat. Nothing. He ran his fingers over the silver embroidery.

  “How much for my coat?”

  Kin sniffed and touched the fabric. “Tiny bit.”

  “Give me that.” Taniel set his mala pipe on the table and wriggled out of the coat, handing it over to Kin.

  “You’ll die of cold, and I won’t pay for funeral.”