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

by McClellan, Brian

  Arbor gave a brisk nod and headed off, giving orders.

  “A battlefield burial, sir?” Olem asked.

  “Something we did on the march in Gurla. When another army pressed on us after a fight, we’d wrap our dead in their canvas tents with their names marked on the canvas and hope the enemy had the decency to give them a proper burial.” Tamas sighed. He didn’t like battlefield burials. The dead deserved more respect than that.

  “Did they?”

  “What?”

  “Did they give them a proper burial, sir?”

  “Four times out of five… no. They’d leave them to rot in the Gurlish sun.”

  Tamas swung out of his saddle and knelt down beside a wounded Adran soldier. The man stared into the sky, teeth clenched, his knee a bloody mess. A single glance told Tamas that the leg would most likely have to be amputated. Until then, how to move the man at all? Tamas drew his knife and held the handle to the wounded man.

  “Bite down on this,” he said. “It’ll ease the pain a bit. Olem, have a few boys check the city. Maybe there are some abandoned wagons. Gavril, have your men catch any of the unwounded Kez horses. We might need them.”

  He looked toward the southern horizon. Soon enough, fifteen thousand cavalry would breach that hill.

  It took four whole days of searching and over a thousand krana in bribes before Adamat found where Field Marshal Tamas had stashed Borbador, the last living Privileged from Manhouch’s royal cabal.

  It was funny, Adamat decided, that he was using the field marshal’s own money to try to undo his orders.

  Colonel Verundish stood beside him. She was a smart-looking Deliv woman in her fifties, her ebony skin a complement to the dark blue of her Adran uniform, with straight black hair tied back.

  “He’s here?” Adamat asked.

  “He is,” she confirmed.

  They stood on a bluff at the very northernmost district of Adopest, where the rows of houses abruptly gave way to farmland. Here, the streets didn’t smell so much like shit and soot. Here, there were fewer factories and people.

  Not a bad place to live. If Adamat survived long enough to retire, maybe he could move his family out here.

  Verundish nodded down to the manor below them. The grounds were overgrown, most of the windows broken, the walls vandalized. Like so many other manors belonging to the nobility, it had been gutted by Tamas’s troops of anything of value and then opened to the public after the execution of its former owner.

  Adamat followed Verundish down from the bluff and entered the manor grounds by a back gate. The sorry state of the place made Adamat sad. He had no love of the nobility, not by any stretch, but many of these manors had been architectural works of art. Some had been burned to the ground, some crushed to rubble for their stone. This one had got off lightly with mere vandalism.

  They entered through the servants’ quarters and made their way to the second floor. Adamat counted two dozen men and women, all soldiers by their look. They wore greatcoats over their uniforms, despite the summer heat, and each one gave Adamat a cursory glance as he went by.

  A glimpse of a chevron over a powder horn told Adamat that these were Riflejacks—more of Tamas’s best soldiers.

  Verundish stopped outside the last room toward the rear of the servants’ quarters. “You’ve got five minutes,” she said.

  “What will you do with him?” Adamat asked. “Now that Tamas is dead?”

  The colonel’s lips curled into a scowl. “If Tamas is dead—we’ll wait for his generals to return to Adopest and hand him over to them. They’ll decide his fate.”

  “Tamas isn’t in danger from him anymore.”

  “I don’t care what you think you know, Inspector,” Verundish said. “The field marshal slaughtered the cabal for a reason, and this man is its last living member. Now go on.” Verundish lifted a pocket watch in one hand and looked down at it. “Your five minutes is ticking.”

  Adamat opened the door and slipped inside.

  Privileged Borbador sat tied to a chair in the corner of the room. His feet were bound tight against the posts of the chair, his hands locked in stiff iron gloves that would prevent his fingers from moving. He looked comfortable, for all the tightness of the ropes. He was thinner than the last time Adamat had seen him, and his chin sported a full-grown beard. In front of him was a stand, like the kind that musicians used to hold their music. Bo looked up from it.

  “Bo,” Adamat said, taking his hat in his hands.

  Bo cleared his throat. “Yes?”

  “My name is Adamat. We met a few months ago at Shouldercrown.”

  “Inspector. Yes. I remember you. You’re the one who brought my gaes to Tamas’s attention.”

  Adamat grimaced. “I’m sorry. I was working for him.”

  “You’re not anymore?”

  “Well, the rumors are that he’s dead.”

  Bo stretched his neck out and tilted his head from side to side. It was about the only part of him he could move. He didn’t respond.

  “Bo,” Adamat said. “Has the necklace around your neck—the one supporting the gaes—loosened since his reported death?”

  Bo’s eyes narrowed. Not much, but just enough to give Adamat his answer. The gaes was still in place. Tamas was alive. And Bo hadn’t told the soldiers guarding him.

  “Interesting,” Adamat said aloud.

  “Think you could turn the page for me?” Bo nodded at the stand in front of him.

  Adamat moved around to see a book propped on the stand. He obliged by turning it to the next page and then smoothing the page out with one hand.

  “Many thanks. I’ve been staring at that one page for about half an hour now.”

  Adamat asked, “How strong is the compulsion to kill Tamas?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Could you resist it? He’s quite far from here. Could you resist the compulsion to go looking for him?”

  “For a time,” Bo said. “Yes. It’s only six months since Manhouch’s death. I think I have a year until the gaes kills me.”

  “Two minutes!” Verundish called from the hallway.

  Adamat lowered his voice. “If I get you out, will you help me?”

  “Help you do what?”

  “I need to rescue my wife and kill a man who is a threat to this entire country.” Adamat had no idea if Bo was a patriot of any kind, but the addendum sounded good.

  “What is this, some kind of pulp novel?” Bo smirked at him.

  “It’s very serious, actually.”

  Bo’s smirk dissolved. “Why do you need my help?”

  “The man I need to kill has over sixty men guarding him—one of them is a Privileged.”

  “Really, now? You work for Field Marshal Tamas—who is reported as dead—and you’re going after a man who’s kidnapped your wife and has the kind of resources to have sixty enforcers and a Privileged at his disposal?” Adamat could practically sense Bo’s desire to flex his fingers. “Have you ever thought of getting out of the investigating business?”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Adamat said.

  “Get me out of here and I’ll spend a week as a mime in the King’s Garden,” Bo said, “whatever you want.”

  Adamat regarded the Privileged for a moment. Was he in any shape to fight another sorcerer? Adamat knew a Privileged needed gloves to do his magic, to protect his hands from being burned by the Else, but there was no sign of Bo’s. Could a Privileged even be trusted?

  “All right,” Adamat said. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Verundish opened the door. “Time is up, Inspector.”

  Adamat followed Verundish back out of the servants’ quarters. She stopped him once they’d reached the edge of the manor grounds. “You can find your own way back?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Adamat examined her for a long moment. She watched him, her brown eyes unreadable. He would have guessed her as the military type even without the uniform—her back was straight, her hands clasped behi
nd her like a soldier at ease.

  This was a great risk he was taking, but he had no other choice if he wanted to free Borbador—and then Faye.

  “I need Privileged Borbador,” Adamat said.

  “Pardon?” Verundish was just turning to go. She stopped and looked back at him.

  “I need you to free him.”

  Verundish cleared her throat. “That’s not happening, Inspector.”

  “Name your price. Field Marshal Tamas is dead. Let Bo go and you and your men can join the defensive at Surkov’s Alley. Or leave the country. That might be the best idea, with what I’ve heard from the front.”

  “That”—her words were angry, clipped—“is treason.”

  “Please,” Adamat said. “Privileged Borbador is my only chance to save my wife—maybe even to save this country. Free, he’s of value. Under guard, he just ties up you and your men.”

  “You should go now, Inspector,” Verundish said.

  Adamat let out a small sigh. He’d half expected her to arrest him right then and there. He should be glad she was letting him go.

  “Inspector.”

  He paused. “Yes?”

  “Seventy-five thousand krana. Banknotes. You have a week.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  Taniel walked among the corpses on the battlefield and wondered how many had died that day.

  A few hundred? A few thousand?

  Surgeons, thieves, the families of soldiers—they all picked their way among the bodies, finding the wounded first and getting them back to their respective armies before bothering to stack the dead into carts like so much firewood, then taking them to be buried in mass graves.

  There were always far more wounded than dead. That’s how it always was, even when sorcery was involved. At least, that’s how it was immediately after a battle. Over the next week well over half of the wounded would die. Even more would end up crippled for life.

  He’d picked a horrid profession, Taniel reflected.

  Well. Not so much “picked.” There’s no picking your profession when Tamas is your father. Taniel couldn’t think of a time when he didn’t want to be a soldier. Vlora, the girl he’d thought was the love of his life, wanted to be a soldier, too. So Taniel had gone along with his father’s wishes and trained to be a powder mage. It was the only life he’d ever known.

  And now Tamas, Vlora, Sabon, and everyone else who’d ever influenced Taniel in his youth were all dead and gone.

  Taniel tried to shake the weight of that thought from his shoulders and kept walking.

  Soldiers weren’t supposed to come onto the battlefield after a skirmish like this. The temporary truce after each battle that allowed either side to collect their own dead and wounded was tentative enough without armed, hot-tempered men taking to the field.

  That didn’t stop some of them from coming. Taniel watched a fistfight break out between a sobbing Kez soldier and a wounded Adran sergeant. It was put down quickly by both Kez and Adran provosts, and the offending parties hauled off.

  “How long do you usually stay out here?” Taniel asked.

  Ka-poel knelt beside the dead body of an Adran soldier. She looked up at him briefly before lifting the dead man’s left hand and using her long needle to pick something out of the man’s chewed fingernails. What was it? Hair from a Kez officer? Blood of someone still alive? Only she knew.

  Taniel didn’t really expect an answer. She’d been less than communicative lately, even for her.

  She moved to the next body. Taniel followed, watching as she cut a bit of bloody shirt off a dead Kez officer.

  Taniel had left his jacket and weapons back at camp. No need for anyone to know he was out here. Regardless, some of the Adran surgeons gave him respectful nods. Others a respectful distance.

  He lifted his eyes to the Kez camp. Where was Kresimir? he wondered, a little thrill of fear working up his spine. The god was lying low. Unseen. Even when Taniel opened his third eye, there was no sign of the overwhelming glow of power that should surround a god.

  At this point, Taniel worried more about being killed by the Kez than about falling into the god’s hands.

  The Kez marched forward every day. Sometimes only a few hundred feet. Other times as much as a quarter mile, but always a little closer to Adopest. Eventually the valley would open up into the Adran basin and the Kez would use their hugely superior numbers to surround the Adran army and strike at several cities at once. They’d ravage the countryside, and Adro would be forced to capitulate.

  What would Tamas have done?

  Bah. Tamas would have held the damned line. That’s all the Adran army needed to do: keep from losing their front every damned day.

  All Taniel could do was fight. He couldn’t keep the generals from sounding a retreat, even when he felt the Kez about to break and run. He couldn’t hold the whole thing by himself.

  “That stuff you gather,” Taniel asked as Ka-poel rose to her feet, “is it just from men who are alive?”

  She nodded, depositing something into one of the tiny leather bags in her satchel.

  Even the living left a bit of themselves behind on the battlefield. Blood, hair, nails. Sometimes a finger or bit of skin. Ka-poel gathered it all up and stored it for later.

  Taniel jumped a little at the sudden crack of a musket, but it was just the sound of a provost shooting a looter. He licked his lips and looked at the Kez camp again. What if Kresimir was out here, walking among the dead? What if he saw Taniel? Knew who he was? What he’d done?

  “I’m going back to camp,” Taniel said. He looked over his shoulder several times on the long walk back, watching Ka-poel continue to pick her way among the bodies.

  Dinner was being served as Taniel worked his way through the camp. Quartermasters were returning to their companies with rations of meat, kettles of soup, loaves of bread. Far better fare than soldiers usually saw on the battlefield. Taniel could smell the food, making his mouth water. This chef, Mihali, god or not, created incredible dishes. Taniel didn’t know that bread could have the swirls of flavor and buttery softness that this stuff did.

  Taniel stopped at his room. General Hilanska had found him a shed to bed down in. It wasn’t much, but it was private. He snatched his jacket, slipping a few powder charges into his pocket, then hesitated at his belt. He should be able to wander his own camp without fear, but something told him to go armed. Perhaps just paranoia. Or maybe it was the idea that General Ket’s provosts were still looking for him. Why they’d not found him yet was anyone’s guess.

  Taniel buckled the belt, with two pistols, around his waist.

  He’d only taken a few steps from his tent when a soldier accosted him.

  “Sir!”

  Taniel paused. The soldier was a young man, maybe twenty-five. Still older than Taniel himself. A private in the Eleventh Brigade, by his insignia.

  When Taniel didn’t answer, the soldier went on hesitantly. “Sir, the fellows and I, we were wondering if you’d do us the honor of joining us for dinner. It’s all the same food, sir, and the company is good.” He held his flat-top forage cap in both hands, wringing it.

  “Where?” Taniel asked.

  “Just right over there, sir.” The soldier perked up a little. “We’ve got a fifth of Doubin rum, and Finley plays the flute something fierce.”

  Taniel couldn’t help but feel suspicious. He set a hand on one of his pistols. “Why are you so nervous, soldier?”

  The soldier ducked his head. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to bother you.” He turned to slink away, obviously distraught.

  Taniel caught up to him in just a few quick steps. “Doubin rum, you say?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Horrid shit. That’s the stuff sailors drink.”

  The soldier’s forehead wrinkled in a frown. “It’s the best we can do, sir.” There was a flash of anger in his eyes.

  They both stopped in the middle of the path, the soldier still holding his hat. He glared at Taniel
now. Taniel could imagine what was going through his head: Damned officers. Think they’re so high and mighty. Plenty of good stuff to drink at the officers’ mess. Won’t sit with a soldier, not for a moment.

  “What’s your name, soldier?”

  “Flint.”

  No “sir” on the end of that. Taniel nodded, as if he’d not noticed. “I got a taste for Doubin rum on the ship from Fatrasta. Haven’t tasted it all summer. I’d be honored, if you’d have me.”

  “You mocking me?”

  “No,” Taniel said. “Not a bit. Lead on.”

  Flint’s frown slowly began to slide. “This way, sir.”

  It wasn’t more than twenty yards to Flint’s fire. There were two men beside the fire, keeping Mihali’s soup warm in an old iron pot. One had a large nose, crooked off to the side from not being set after breaking, while the other was a short, round man practically bursting from his uniform. The one with the nose froze at the sight of Taniel, a spoon lifted halfway to his mouth.

  “Captain, sir,” Flint said, gesturing to the two men by the fire. “The one with the nose there is Finley. Ugliest man in the Eleventh. And that round bit of meat there is Faint, on account that she fainted the first time she fired a musket. Finley, Flint, and Faint. We’re the fellows of the Eleventh Brigade.”

  Taniel lifted his eyebrows. He’d not in a hundred years have guessed that Faint was a woman.

  “Fellows, this is Captain Taniel Two-Shot, hero of the Fatrastan War and the Battle for South Pike.”

  Faint seemed skeptical. “You sure this is Taniel Two-Shot?”

  “That’s him, all right,” Finley said. “I was with Captain Ajucare when we went after the Privileged at the university.”

  “I thought you looked familiar,” Taniel said. “I never forget a nose.”

  Flint laughed and punched Finley in the arm. Finley fell off his chair, and Taniel heard himself chuckle. It was a raspy, nasty sound, like an instrument desperately in need of tuning. How long had it been since he’d laughed?

  Flint fetched a folding cloth chair and brought it to Taniel. Finley poured them each a pewter tin of soup, and then bread and mutton was passed around.