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

by McClellan, Brian

  “I’ve also received reliable word that your husband has been imprisoned by Tamas. It seems that he confessed to being blackmailed, and the field marshal plans on having him executed for treason.” Vetas’s voice droned on, as if he were talking about the weather. “My contacts within Sablethorn are few enough, but I should have better information within a week or so.”

  “Where”—the table rattled as if someone had pounded it with a fist—“is my son?”

  Vetas said, “With your husband arrested, you and your son are of no use to me anymore. I’ll keep you around for another couple of weeks, but I’ve sold your son to the Kez. He’ll be smuggled—”

  There was a sudden scream and then a crash. The walls rattled once, and then there was silence. Nila held her breath. Had Faye attacked Vetas? Had she succeeded?

  The silence dragged on. Nila thought she could hear the labored sound of heavy breathing coming from the dining room.

  “That,” Vetas said, “was not very smart.” The dining room door opened, and Vetas spoke to one of his men. “Take her downstairs. I’ll join you shortly.”

  Heavy footsteps entered the dining room. The sound of a struggle resumed.

  “I’ll kill you, bastard!” Faye said. “I’ll take your eyes! I’ll take your tongue! There won’t be anything left when I’m done!” A slew of curses and screams followed Faye out of the dining room and soon became muffled as she was carried into the basement.

  Nila listened for several minutes before hearing Vetas leave the dining room. His soft, measured footfalls traveled down the hall, and the basement door opened. Nila counted to one hundred before she descended the servants’ stairs into the kitchen.

  She looked around quickly. The kitchen had been rearranged since she was last here. She brought a stool over to the washbasin and got on it, rummaging around in the high cupboards. Nothing. She swore under her breath and got back down. There, under the sink. Back in reach of children.

  She snatched the large jar of lye and set it on the kitchen table. It didn’t take long to find an empty spice pot. She blew the leaves of spices out of the bottom and poured half a cup of lye into it.

  “What are you doing?”

  Nila nearly dropped the lye jar. She looked up.

  Privileged Dourford stood in the doorway. His height and Privileged’s gloves made him imposing, and all the house staff knew his temper.

  “Just getting some lye, my lord,” Nila said.

  “For what?”

  “Some of the sauce got on my sleeve from dinner.” She pinched one sleeve of her dress, hoping he wouldn’t actually look closely. “I want to wash it before it stains.”

  “I thought Lord Vetas made it clear you’re not to be doing any of the laundry anymore.”

  “It’s just a small stain, my lord.” Nila smiled in a way she hoped would be shy and tucked her shoulders forward, squeezing her breasts together to accent her cleavage. “I didn’t want to bother any of the house staff.”

  Dourford’s eyes lingered on her bust. “All right. But make sure that boy is asleep. That damned harpy is going to get what’s coming to her tonight, and it’ll be hard to keep her quiet.” Dourford rummaged in the cupboards until he found half a loaf of bread and left the room, chewing thoughtfully.

  Nila put the large lye jar back and tucked the spice pot into her dress pocket. She returned to her room, wondering how hard it would be to poison both Vetas and Dourford at the same time.

  CHAPTER

  17

  Adamat was wary as his hackney cab pulled onto the long suburban street that led to his house.

  He hadn’t been there for almost two months—not since the day he told Vetas that Field Marshal Tamas was on his way to arrest Arch-Diocel Charlemund. Adamat had been forced to trick Vetas and still almost gotten Tamas killed. Vetas would want Adamat back—either dead or alive.

  Adamat was willing to bet that Vetas was having the house watched.

  He kept an eye on the street on the approach to the house. No suspicious men, no figures lurking in windows with an undue interest in his home. Foot traffic was minimal in this part of town, just a family heading to the market and a single old man strolling briskly in the sun.

  The carriage rolled to a stop three houses down from his own. Adamat checked the snub-nosed pistol in his pocket. Loaded and primed.

  He flipped the collar of his jacket up around his face, pulled his hat low, and stepped into the street. Handing a few krana to the driver, Adamat headed warily toward his house, his cane held firmly in one hand.

  The shutters were closed, the blinds drawn as he’d left them. Adamat searched the front of the house for any sign that things had been touched or tampered with. Nothing.

  Adamat opened the gate to the alleyway between houses and went back to his garden. Another short inspection showed him nothing out of order. He waited for several minutes, examining the house again and again. No new scratches on the lock, no footprints in the garden.

  It slowly began to dawn on him that perhaps he wasn’t as important to Vetas as he thought. Lord Vetas was playing some kind of larger game on behalf of his master, Lord Claremonte. Did Adamat matter anymore? After all, as far as Vetas knew, Tamas had had Adamat quietly executed for treason. What if Vetas had written Adamat off entirely? Maybe Faye and Josep were already dead, buried in a shallow grave somewhere.

  Adamat clenched and unclenched his fists. No. He couldn’t think like that. Faye was alive. Vetas still held her. And Adamat was going to get her back.

  Adamat unlocked the back door and stepped into the house. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The rooms were warm and stuffy with the windows closed up, but it still smelled like old wood, books, dust, and a slight hint of lavender from the incense Faye used to burn. He drew his pistol and carefully searched each of the rooms.

  Everything was just as it had been left: the bloodstains on the sofa and carpet from one of Lord Vetas’s men, a bullet hole in the ceiling. Another in the hall and one in the floor, along with the rest of the unrepaired damage done in the fight with the Black Street Barbers.

  Pistol in one hand, cane in the other, Adamat climbed the stairs to the second floor. Here was where the Barbers had attacked him. There was SouSmith’s blood, almost black on the dark hickory stairs.

  No one upstairs. No sign anyone had gone through his belongings or searched the house.

  Adamat sighed and lowered the pistol. He was almost disappointed. It was as if Lord Vetas had forgotten him entirely.

  He put his cane in the umbrella stand by the front door and headed to the kitchen. There might be some canned beans or something to eat in the pantry. Get some food, then find his shovel, and then…

  Adamat was not nearly fast enough to react as something swung around the corner and took him full in the nose. Pain blossomed all over his face and he was suddenly blinking up at the ceiling through tears.

  Someone towered over him. He was grasped by the lapels of his jacket and lifted off the ground and a moment later slammed into the wall. Adamat swallowed a mouthful of his own blood and tried to breathe through his nose, only to utter a whimper.

  Adamat was held against the wall by two strong arms. He batted at them to no effect, then lifted his hand to wipe his eyes. He looked into the face of a man with coal stains on his cheeks and shirt. Adamat recognized this man—one of Lord Vetas’s goons.

  Adamat cleared his throat and tried to sound casual. “Kale, was it?”

  “That’s right.” The coal shoveler’s mouth twisted. “Been waiting for you for a long time.”

  Adamat’s whole head hurt. His nose had to be broken. He probably looked an absolute mess. The second set of clothes ruined in a week.

  “Lord Vetas wants a word with you,” Kale said. “You come along quietly now, or I start breaking your teeth.”

  Where the pit had he come from? Adamat had checked the whole house. Man must have been hiding in the cellar. And what on earth had he hit Adamat with? A cudgel?

>   “Right,” Adamat said.

  Kale’s grip loosened. Adamat felt himself slide down the wall until his feet were touching the ground. This man was fast. And strong. Pit, what Adamat would have given to have SouSmith here now.

  “Clean yourself up,” Kale said. He let go of Adamat’s jacket.

  Adamat felt his knees give out from beneath him and he collapsed to the floor. He’d landed on something. Just under his chest—his pistol. He wrapped his fingers around the butt blindly.

  He felt a strong hand on his back. “I’m all right,” Adamat said. “Just. Hurts. I’ll get another shirt from my bedroom and then I’ll come, no fight.” His words were gurgled and nasal.

  He pushed himself to his feet with some struggle. Pit, the pain in his face. It would take more than three fingers of whiskey to dull this. Adamat took three steps down the hall and turned, lifting the pistol, and pulled the trigger.

  The sound of the gunshot made his head—somehow—hurt even more.

  Kale regarded the pistol, then looked at Adamat.

  Adamat looked at the pistol, then at Kale. Then at the floor.

  The bullet was on the ground. It must have fallen out of the barrel when Adamat dropped the pistol.

  Kale crossed the space between them in two long strides, knocking the pistol out of Adamat’s hand and grabbing Adamat by the throat, lifting him into the air and slamming him against the front door. The walls rattled from the impact.

  Adamat struggled to breathe. He kicked. He punched. Nothing he could do would loosen Kale’s grip.

  “That’s going to cost you a thumb,” Kale said.

  Adamat flailed around with his right hand. He had to do something, he had to… he felt his hand touch the head of his cane where it sat in the umbrella stand. He gripped the cane as far down as he could, lifted it, and slammed it into Kale’s temple.

  Kale staggered to one side, letting up on his grip. Adamat shoved him away with one arm and brought the cane down as hard as he could.

  The coal shoveler caught the blow with one hand even as he stumbled away from Adamat. He grabbed the end of the cane and jerked.

  Adamat found himself in a sudden tug-of-war. Kale jerked again, almost pulling Adamat over. Adamat could see the coal shoveler’s eyes tighten at the corners and knew he’d not keep ahold of the cane the next time.

  So Adamat twisted the head of the cane. There was a quiet click.

  Kale yanked hard on the cane. He tumbled to the ground and looked with some surprise at the end of the cane in his hand.

  Adamat threw himself forward, cane-sword-first, ramming the short blade into Kale’s stomach. He pulled back and rammed again, then again. Adamat stumbled to one side after the final thrust, staring at Kale.

  The coal shoveler stared back. He held both arms across his stomach, whimpering from the pain.

  “He’ll know,” Kale said. “Lord Vetas will know you’re back, and he’ll kill your wife.”

  Adamat stood up straight and leveled his cane sword at Kale. “She’s still alive?”

  Kale didn’t respond.

  “And Josep? My boy?”

  “Get me a doctor,” Kale said. “Do it now and I’ll tell you about your boy.”

  “My next-door neighbor is a doctor. Tell me and I’ll fetch him.”

  Kale let out a long, anguished sigh. “Your boy… your boy is gone. They took… I don’t know where, but he’s gone. Your wife is there… she…”

  “She what?”

  “Get me a doctor.”

  “Tell me.” The pain in Adamat’s head seemed to climb to a crescendo. It was agonizing, and by the look of his soaked shirt and jacket he must have lost a great deal of blood from his nose.

  “Vetas… he’ll know. He thought maybe Tamas took you in… that you were arrested, or shot… but now he’ll know you’re alive.”

  Adamat gritted his teeth. “Not if they don’t find the body.” He barely trusted himself to thrust straight and true, but his cane sword went into Kale’s eye and only stopped when it hit the back of his skull. He pulled it out and waited until the body stopped twitching before he cleaned the blade on Kale’s coat.

  Adamat stripped to the waist and and tossed his bloody clothes onto Kale’s body. He hunted about the house for any other sign that the coal shoveler had ever been here, then went and found his shaving mirror.

  His bleary eyes and bloody face stared back at him. He barely recognized himself.

  Adamat’s nose was bent nearly perpendicular to his head. Every gentle touch as he probed his face forced him to choke down a scream.

  He put one hand on either side of his nose and stared at himself in the eyes. It was now or never.

  He grasped his nose and straightened it.

  Adamat woke up on the floor of his kitchen to the sound of someone pounding on his front door. He slowly got to his feet and glanced in the mirror. Through all the blood and grime he could tell his nose was straight again. He wondered if it was worth the excruciating pain that even now made him want to collapse.

  It took him a full minute with shaking hands to reload his pistol. When it was primed, he went to the front door and peeked out the window.

  It was one of his neighbors. An older woman, stooped from age and wearing a day dress with a shawl hastily thrown over her head. He didn’t think he’d ever learned her name.

  Adamat cracked the door.

  The woman nearly screamed at the sight of him.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “Are you… are you all right?” she asked in a trembling voice. “I thought I heard a gunshot, and then not five minutes ago came the most terrible scream.”

  “Gunshot? No, no gunshot. I’m terribly sorry at my appearance. I fell and broke my nose. I was just setting it. Probably the scream you heard.”

  She stared at him like he was some kind of specter. “Are you sure you’re fine?”

  “Just a broken nose,” Adamat said, gesturing at his face. “An accident, I assure you.”

  “I’ll run and fetch the doctor.”

  “No, please,” Adamat said. “I’ll go myself soon. No need to do that.”

  “Now, now, I must insist.”

  “Madame!” Adamat made his voice as firm as he could. It made his nasal passage vibrate, and the pain nearly dropped him to the floor again. “If you mind, I will attend to myself. Do not, under any circumstance, summon a doctor.”

  “If you are certain…?”

  Damned busybodies. “Quite, thank you, madame.” Adamat closed the door and surveyed the mess in his hallway. Blood everywhere. The rug, the floor, the walls. All over the door behind him.

  It took Adamat several hours and quite a lot of Faye’s spare linens to clean up all the blood. He worked urgently—no telling if another of Vetas’s goons would arrive at any time. But he had to have the house cleaned out. There had to be no sign that he’d ever been here.

  When it was done, Adamat finally cleaned himself. A full bottle of wine, and the pain in his head was a dull hum instead of a constant hammering. Night had fallen. He wrapped Kale’s body in the soiled linens and dragged it out the back door, thinking how furious Faye would be once she found out what he’d used the linens for.

  In the corner of Adamat’s small garden was a toolshed, and under the toolshed an unused root cellar no larger than the inside of a small carriage. Adamat entered the root cellar and felt around in the dark for several minutes before he found what he was looking for: a rope on the cellar floor in a layer of loose dirt. He grabbed the rope and hauled, pulling free a stout wooden box.

  He took the strongbox into the garden and returned to drop the body inside the root cellar. He rearranged the tools so it looked like no one had been in there for some time and closed the door behind him.

  Inside the lockbox was every krana he’d saved since he first found out he owed Palagyi for the loan that had started Adamat and Friends Publishing. Adamat didn’t trust bankers anymore. Not since his loan had been sold to Palagyi.


  The sum came out to a little under twenty-five thousand. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

  Adamat spent another several hours cleaning the house of all traces of blood and then gathered a travel case full of children’s clothes, the strongbox, and his cane and pistol before he headed out into the street to look for a hackney cab.

  Taniel lay against the earthen battlements and glanced up at the overcast sky.

  Mountainous white clouds moved ponderously through the sky, rolling like foam on top of a wave as it crashed upon the beach. Bits of gray mixed into the clouds, here and there. Rain, maybe? He hoped not. The earthworks would turn to mud and the rain would foul powder on both sides.

  Taniel could hear the distant drumming of the Kez. It seemed far away, from where he lay against the cool, hard earth. The shouts of the Adran commanders—those were closer. He wanted to tell them to stuff it. Every man on the line knew they’d likely die today. Every man on the line knew that the Kez would succeed in their attack, taking the earthworks again like they did yesterday, and the day before that.

  Morale wasn’t just dead; it had been hanged, shot, then drawn and quartered and buried in a rocky grave.

  “Well?” Taniel said.

  Colonel Etan stood a few feet back from the edge of the earthworks, waving his sword and lending his own reassurances to the meaningless chatter of the officers. He wore a bearskin hat with a purple plume, befitting an officer of the Twelfth Grenadiers. His eyes were fixed on the approaching Kez infantry, still well beyond the earthworks.

  “Coming,” Etan said.

  Taniel scanned the clouds. “Wake me when they get here.” He closed his eyes.

  Some of Etan’s grenadiers chuckled at that. Taniel opened his eyes to see who’d laughed, and flashed them a grin. He surprised himself at how easily he smiled. Just a few days ago the very act had seemed foreign. Now…

  He caught sight of Ka-poel back behind Etan. She sat on the earthworks, her knee raised up, chin in her hand. She was watching the Kez advance. Even the grenadiers—the strongest, bravest men in the Adran army—had a wild, nervous look in their eyes. They knew what it meant to be on the front. But Ka-poel’s eyes were thoughtful, piercing. Not a hint of fear. She looked as deadly as a Fatrastan wildcat.