“Please, please,” Mihali encouraged. He popped the wine cork and poured two glasses.
It was a little unnerving that Mihali watched him while he ate, but Taniel quickly learned to ignore the chef’s presence and was soon reaching for seconds.
“What,” Taniel asked, eyeing Mihali, who was on his third glass of wine, “is the occasion?”
Mihali poured Taniel another glass. “Occasion? Does there need to be an occasion to eat well?”
“I thought so.”
Mihali shook his head. “I heard they’d relegated you to quarters and were feeding you soldier’s rations. That qualifies as a war crime in my book.”
“Ah.” Taniel smiled, but couldn’t be sure that Mihali was actually joking. He leaned forward, taking his wineglass, and noted that the wine bottle was still full after, what, five glasses between the two of them? Perhaps Mihali had a second bottle hidden somewhere.
“I have a letter for you,” Mihali said, removing an envelope from his apron.
Taniel paused, a fork halfway to his mouth. “From?” he mumbled around a mouthful of quail’s egg.
“Colonel Etan.”
Taniel tossed his fork down and snatched the letter. He tore it open and ran his eyes over the contents. When he was finished, he pushed his chair back and took a deep breath. He wasn’t hungry anymore, not even for Mihali’s food.
“What is it?” Mihali asked.
“None of your…” Taniel swallowed his retort. Mihali had come all this way from the front with a full meal, and delivered a letter that would likely not have reached Taniel otherwise. The chef deserved his thanks, not his anger. “I asked Colonel Etan to pull the quartermaster records regarding black-powder use in the army.”
“Oh?”
“He also pulled requisition orders. They don’t match up. The army has requisitioned three times as much powder as they’ve used, and nearly twice what has actually reached the front line.”
“It’s getting lost somewhere?” Mihali asked.
“More likely stolen. Corruption’s not unheard of in any army, even ours, but Tamas cracks down on it hard during wartime. These records”—he tossed the envelope on his bed—“mean that the quartermasters are in on it. And at least one member of the General Staff. Someone is making millions off this war.”
“As you said,” Mihali responded, “it’s not unheard of.”
“But powder… we’ll run out quickly at this rate. The whole country, and then it doesn’t matter how much better our troops are, we’ll be ground beneath Kez’s heel. Damn it!” Taniel drummed his fingers on the silver platter in front of him. He wanted to throw it across the room, but there was still a bit of beef left. “Can you get me out of here?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think so,” Mihali said with a sigh. “As I told you before, the General Staff doesn’t listen to a word I say.” Mihali patted his belly. “Tamas—now he has an ear for good sense, even if he is mistrustful of the person giving it. These generals can’t see past the ends of their noses.”
Taniel leaned back and sipped his wine. Something about Mihali’s steady tone and unruffled attitude helped calm his nerves. “They’re some of the best in the Nine, believe it or not.” To his surprise, there was no grudge in his tone. “Though I can’t say that speaks well for Adro, or against the rest of the Nine.”
Mihali chuckled. “That certainly explains why we haven’t lost yet. Despite being so heavily outnumbered.”
“How is it going on the front?” Taniel asked. “I mean, I can see…” He gestured out the window, the memory of the wagons full of dead and wounded still fresh. “But I’ve had no real news for two days.”
“Not well. We lost almost a mile yesterday.” Mihali’s face grew serious. “You were about to change things, you know. Stopping that advance last week gave the men their first victory in months. They had heart. I could sense it. They would have charged after you, right down Kresimir’s throat.”
“Pit. I have to get out of here. Back on the front. And I need to find out who’s profiteering off our black powder.”
“How?”
“I’ll strangle every quartermaster in the army until one tells me. You’re sure you can’t get me released?”
“Most of the General Staff doesn’t even believe I’m a god. To them, I’m a mad chef. The only way you’ll get out of here, Taniel, is if you apologize to Major Doravir.”
Taniel stood up and went to the window. “Absolutely not.”
“Don’t pit your pride against General Ket’s,” Mihali said. “That woman makes Brude look humble.”
Brude. One of the saints—er, gods. Taniel watched Mihali down a fourth glass of wine out of the corner of his eye. It was easy to forget what Mihali was. After all, one would expect a god to look, and act, as grand as any king. Not dribble wine out of the corner of his mouth and then clean it up with a shirtsleeve.
“What can I do?” Taniel asked. He wondered if Mihali had given advice to his father. He couldn’t imagine Tamas soliciting advice from a chef, even if he did believe that Mihali was a god.
“Apologize to Doravir.”
Taniel blew air out through his nose.
“I can’t see much,” Mihali said quietly, looking into his wineglass. “The future is always moving, always blurry, even to those with the vision to see it. What I can see is that if you stay in this room, we’ll continue to lose ground every day. The Kez will push us out of the valley and surround us, eventually forcing a surrender. Or we’ll run out of powder, and the same will happen.”
Taniel scoffed. “I’m just one man. I can’t make that much of a difference.”
“One man always makes a difference. Sometimes it’s a small one. Other times, he tips a war. And you… you’re not human. Not anymore.”
“Oh? Then what am I?” Taniel asked. Mihali made less and less sense as he continued to speak.
“Hmm,” Mihali said. “I don’t think there’s a word for it. After all, you’re the first of your kind. You’ve become like Julene.”
Taniel heard his own sharp intake of breath. “I’m not a Predeii.”
“No. Not precisely. You’re not immortal, after all. Then again, neither is Julene. She’s just ageless. I don’t think your sorcery would ever let you become ageless. Even with Ka-poel’s help. But you’re the powder-mage equivalent of a Predeii.”
“This is ridiculous. Where is Ka-poel?”
“Hiding. I offered her my protection—with some reservations, of course. That girl makes my skin crawl. She didn’t accept it. I might need her help at some point, though.”
Taniel rubbed his temples.
“Another glass of wine?”
“I think I’ve had enough.”
“Suit yourself.” Mihali poured himself another one. His cheeks were flushed, but other than that there was no sign he’d drunk seven glasses. The wine bottle, Taniel noted, was still full.
“You said that you can see a little of the future,” Taniel said. “If I apologize to Major Doravir, what then?”
Mihali stared into his wineglass. “Motion. That’s what I see. It’s a small event, but it stirs things up. It makes the certain uncertain. And right now, the certain does not bode well for us.”
Taniel snatched a quill pen and took the back of Etan’s letter. Quickly, ink smudging the page, he scrawled out a note. “Can you get this to Ricard Tumblar?” he asked. “I can’t send it regular post. If someone on the General Staff is profiteering, they’ll have eyes everywhere.”
“I can send one of my girls,” Mihali said, taking the letter.
“Thank you. Do you know where can I find Major Doravir?”
“As it happens… yes.”
CHAPTER
23
Tamas watched the sunrise over the Adran Mountains to the east and wondered if it would be the last he would ever see.
The Kez dragoons had caught up with them late the day before. They made camp over a mile into Hune Dora Forest. He’d spent half the n
ight watching their campfires flicker in the night and listening to them sing cavalry battle hymns. Every so often a gunshot would punctuate the distant sound as one of their scouts got too close and met a powder mage’s bullet.
Now, the world was quiet but for the sound of the swift river on the rocks behind him. Tamas lay on the ground, leaning against his saddle about a hundred paces from the river. He held a powder charge in his hand, kneading the paper between his fingers.
In his mind he could see the dragoons climbing from their tents, stretching in the crisp morning air and preparing Fatrastan coffee over their cookfires. They’d be unhurried. Restful. They knew that their heavy cavalry wouldn’t be here for some time yet, and that Beon wouldn’t attack before he had his full force.
“Where are the cuirassiers?” Tamas asked. His breath fogged as he spoke. Despite the heat of the summer days, the mornings were still chill this close to the mountains.
Gavril stared sullenly toward the tree line as if he expected the dragoons to appear any moment. “Not more than a few hours away. I’d expect them here by noon.”
“They’ll be in formation by two o’clock. One, if Beon’s generals are organized.”
“Not long to get ready.”
“Long enough. Olem.”
The bodyguard stirred from his lookout position a few paces from Tamas’s side. “Sir?”
“Pull our pickets back from the forest. Are the rafts done?”
“Aye, sir. Three big ones.”
“Begin ferrying troops across the river. Start with the wounded, then the greenest troops. Take your time at it. I expect the Kez to attack between one and two o’clock. I want about a thousand of our men across the river by then. Enough to be convincing, but not enough to destroy our ability to fight.”
“Very good, sir. Anything else?” Olem’s tone was crisp. Ready for battle.
“Does everyone know where they are meant to be when the fighting starts?”
“Yes, sir. We drilled them half the night.”
“Make things chaotic. I want lots of milling about. Fistfights. If you have to ‘lose’ one of the rafts in the river, so be it. This has to be convincing.”
“I spoke to Colonel Arbor last night, sir. His men are going to hide their kits and rifles. Make like they’ve abandoned them.”
“Good. Dismissed. Wait. Find me Andriya and Vlora.”
Olem flinched at the mention of Vlora’s name. He saluted and was off.
The wind was blowing westerly, and Tamas could see a low cloud cover inching its way off the Adran Mountains. If rain was coming, it would make this a miserable fight. Beon might even delay his attack, making all of Tamas’s preparations be for nothing.
He wondered idly if Mihali had heard his prayer last night.
“What are you up to, Tamas?” Gavril asked.
“Kind of obvious from this end, isn’t it?”
“I’ve been ranging since you arrived yesterday. To me, it looks like a half-finished defense.”
“Perfect.” Tamas climbed to his feet. The camp was shaped in a square. To the north, the Big Finger raged along its banks. To the east, a scree slope leading up to the mountain prevented a flanking maneuver by Kez cavalry. To the west and south, a mound of earth about three feet tall had been piled all around the camp. It was a standard short defense, from behind which infantry could take easy cover.
It would barely slow a cavalry charge.
To the west, the mound had been topped with tree trunks, propped together to form giant Xs. Between them, sharpened stakes had been driven into the ground. It was a thick, deadly defense against cavalry. A few hundred men worked hard at adding to those stakes as the mound of dirt swung around to defend the south. It wasn’t nearly enough men. There would be a gap in their defenses about an eighth of a mile long. A gap through which ten thousand dragoons would charge.
“Sir.”
Tamas broke away from his examination of the camp. Andriya and Vlora stood at attention. Neither looked like they’d slept all night. Damned fools.
“Gather the powder mages,” Tamas said. “I’m sending you across the river.”
They stared back at him blankly. “Sir?” Andriya said. His hands twitched on his rifle. “You promised we’d be killing Kez.”
“You can do that from the other side of the river. I’m not risking any of my mages in the melee. I want you where you can shoot without being shot—or stabbed.”
“You want us to cross in shifts to keep the Kez scouts at bay?” Vlora asked.
Tamas hesitated. A chill wind cut through the camp and he noticed a low fog creeping its way down from the mountains and across the floodplain.
“No. I want the Kez scouts getting a good look at the camp now. They’re welcome to get as close as they dare.”
“Sir, I’d rather be on this side of the river,” Andriya said.
Tamas sighed. “Not today, Andriya.”
Andriya gripped his rifle. “Please, sir.” He bared his teeth. “You promised I would get to kill Kez.”
“From a distance.” Tamas clipped the words off firmly. “Besides, they’ll be watching for the Marked. They’ll feel more confident with you on the other side of the river.”
“You’re coming with us, then?” Vlora said.
Tamas frowned. “No. Why would I?”
“You’re one of the powder mages, sir.”
“No. I have to remain in close in order to command.”
“That’s not fair.” Andriya was livid. He stared toward the forest, straining like a hound that could smell its quarry. “I’ve got every right to put my bayonet through a Kez noble’s eye. I want blood on my hands.”
“ ‘Blood on my hands, sir,’ ” Tamas corrected. He didn’t need this. He had fifteen thousand cavalry about to rain down on him, and just when he thought he might have sorted things out with Vlora, Andriya was becoming insubordinate. “Cross the river. That’s an order, soldier.”
He turned away from Andriya to make it clear that the conversation was over. The two powder mages left him alone with Gavril. Tamas and Gavril remained silent for a few minutes, watching the organized chaos evolve in the camp. Men shouted. Tamas thought he saw a punch thrown. A little while later, the first raft was launched. It got away from the handlers and was pulled downstream with no one on it. A cry of dismay went up from the brigades, and Tamas didn’t think it was feigned.
“Where do you want me?” Gavril asked.
“On your horse,” Tamas said. “You and your rangers should take the eastern flank, in case some of Beon’s dragoons attempt the scree.”
“All right,” Gavril said.
“Here.” Tamas unhooked the cavalry saber from his belt and handed it to Gavril. “Better to swing from horseback.”
“You’re not going to be mounted?”
Tamas smiled, though he didn’t feel any mirth behind it. “I’m taking the center. If I’m not mounted, the men won’t see when I fall.”
Gavril seemed to think on the gravity behind those words before accepting the cavalry saber.
Tamas took the small sword from his saddle and hooked it to his belt.
“I’ll see you after the battle,” Gavril said.
Tamas clasped hands, then was surprised when Gavril pulled him into an embrace. Gavril held him for a moment, then headed off to join his rangers.
Olem returned an hour later.
“Any of the men eat this morning?” Tamas asked.
“Caught a lot of fish in the river, actually. Andriya bagged a pair of goats on the mountainside. There was a little leftover horse. Every man had a bite of something.”
“Let’s hope it’s enough,” Tamas said.
Olem looked up. “At least the buzzards will eat well.”
Tamas watched as the fog he’d seen earlier moving in slowly enveloped the entire camp. It wasn’t thick—barely two feet deep. Enough to obscure the ground but not the camp itself. The clouds had moved in from above. They threatened rain, but Tamas had seen
this kind of weather before. There’d be nothing more than a light mist.
Strange weather for a summer day.
At eleven thirty, Tamas caught sight of a pair of horsemen to the west, nearly a mile away at the bend in the river. He sprinkled some black powder on his tongue, and the men came into sharp relief. Tan-and-green uniforms under shining breastplates, and wearing plumed helmets.
The cuirassiers had arrived.
Adamat stood on the sixth floor of the Dwightwich bell tower with a looking glass at his eye. He was examining a fellow with shifty eyes who was wearing a faded red waistcoat and knee-length trousers and sitting on the stoop about a hundred paces from Lord Vetas’s headquarters.
“They have another lookout on the corner of Seventh and Mayflew Avenue,” Adamat said. He could hear the scratching of a pen behind him. He scanned the streets once more with the looking glass and then handed it to a young woman by the name of Riplas—the eunuch’s second-in-command. She took his spot at the window while he turned to the assembled group in the cramped bell tower room.
“You’re sure you have everyone?” the eunuch asked Adamat.
Adamat looked at the eunuch out of the corner of his eye. If he had any idea Adamat was blackmailing his master, he’d given no indication when he showed up the day before with forty of the meanest street scum Adamat had ever seen: boxers, gang members, dockworkers, pimps, and bodyguards.
“I’ve been watching them on and off for almost two weeks,” Adamat said. “They change their posts, but between your reports and mine I think we have everyone.”
He guessed that Vetas was employing over a hundred heads, based on the comings and goings from his headquarters. That was no small operation, and any thirty of them could be in the headquarters at any given time. The Proprietor had said Vetas had sixty enforcers.
Adamat looked over at Bo. The Privileged was down on his haunches in one corner of the room, his eyes closed, hands folded inside the sleeves of his jacket. He opened his eyes, as if he’d felt Adamat’s gaze upon him. Adamat shuddered. He was still unnerved by the casual murder of Manhouch’s headsman the day before.
The Powder Mage Trilogy: Promise of Blood, The Crimson Campaign, The Autumn Republic Page 81