She began to make a circuit of the area, checking each of the nearby streets. Surely there were lookouts, or… or… someone!
Nila found nothing. Lord Vetas’s men, the Adran soldiers, the cabal Privileged; they’d scattered to the wind.
She widened her search.
It wasn’t until five streets over that she caught sight of a man with ruddy muttonchops and a pressed suit of clothes walking along the thoroughfare with a wide rug, rolled thick enough that it might have a body inside, over his shoulder. He wasn’t wearing any Privileged’s gloves, but Nila knew it was the same man—the cabal Privileged.
She ran to catch up with him. He walked slowly under the weight of the rug and he was whistling loudly to himself. Surely this couldn’t be the same man?
He turned a corner.
Slowly, Nila crept up to the edge of the building. Maybe it wasn’t him. Privileged didn’t carry things themselves. They had servants for that.
She rounded the corner and nearly screamed.
About ten feet down the alley, the man was sitting on his rolled rug. He had his feet up on an old wine barrel as if he’d been there all day.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Nila glanced into the street. Surely he wouldn’t harm her. Not on a busy street in broad daylight.
“Sir,” she said. How to talk to a Privileged? She’d spent some time with Rozalia when she was with the royalists months ago, but that had made her just as uncomfortable. Privileged were not to be trusted. “My lord?”
His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t correct her. This was the same man, all right. And he didn’t like someone noticing that he was a Privileged. She braced herself, ready to run.
“Yes?” he asked, his voice amiable.
“You’re a Privileged,” she said. “From the Adran Cabal.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”
“I saw you splatter Lord Dourford across the cobbles about an hour ago.”
“That was his name?” the Privileged said. “I thought he looked familiar. That pompous prick was a member of the Kez Cabal. Bah, I’m surprised they let him in. Less talent than a Knacked.” He looked her up and down. “Now what can I do for you? Make it good, because I’ll have to kill you after.”
Kill her? Nila had no doubt he would, given the need. Members of the royal cabals were notoriously cruel. She cleared her throat and straightened her back. “Due to your duty as a member of the royal cabal, I will give into your protection Jakob Eldaminse, next in line for the crown of Adro.” She let out a sharp breath, only now realizing that she’d been holding it.
The Privileged’s eyebrow remained cocked. Slowly, as if realizing that she was serious, the eyebrow lowered. He threw his head back and laughed.
Nila felt a nervous smile dance upon her lips. Had she said something funny? “You’ll do it, then?”
“What? Oh, pit no. You think I want some noble brat hanging on my hip? That kid is, what, four?”
“Six.”
“Six. Right.” The Privileged stood up. “The Adran nobility is dead. They’re not coming back.” He paused and looked around. “Where is the boy, anyway?”
“Hiding.”
“Smart.”
“Sir,” Nila said. “My lord, you have to. He has no one else to protect him.”
“He seems to have you.”
“I’m just a laundress.”
“You dress like a waiter.”
“The apron? No, I’m a laundress.”
“I’m pretty sure that you’re a waiter,” the Privileged said.
It took her several moments to realize that she was being teased.
“My lord!” she said in a voice that she hoped was commanding, “you have to protect Jakob Eldaminse.”
“No, I don’t.” The Privileged sighed as if suddenly tired, and though he’d looked to be in his midtwenties just a moment ago, he suddenly seemed elderly. “I’m done with the Adran nobility.” He blinked and then seemed to look more closely at her. “Have we met before?”
She shook her head.
“Oh well. I should be off. This rug won’t keep all day.”
Nila felt a rising panic inside her. It hadn’t worked. The Privileged wouldn’t protect Jakob. It wasn’t as if she were trying to hand the boy off, she told herself. It was that he needed better protectors than she. “You’re not going to…”
“Kill you? No. You’re trying to hide one of the last living members of Manhouch’s extended family. You’re not going to tell anyone about me anytime soon.”
“I will,” Nila said.
“Excuse me?”
“I will tell them. Unless you swear to protect Jakob.”
“You’re adorable.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m sure you are.” The Privileged bent and lifted one edge of the rug, tipping it upward against the wall and examining it for a moment as if figuring out the best way to get it back on his shoulders.
Nila felt numb. What would she do now? Sure, she could get ahold of some money, but what then? “Your rug is bleeding.”
“So it is,” the Privileged said, glancing at the dark stain soaking through the fabric. “I thought I cauterized those wounds.”
A cold finger crept its way up Nila’s spine. “Who is that?” she asked.
“Him? Some idiot named Vetal or something.”
“Vetas?”
“Yeah. Him.”
Nila stormed over to the rug and kicked it. Then again, then again.
The Privileged grabbed her by the arm, pulling her away. “He’s unconscious,” he said, “and I want him alive so that I can torture him some more. For information,” he added.
Nila stumbled away from the rug and leaned up against the wall of the alley. She felt like she was going to be ill. Everything had been so clear in her mind as she’d escaped Vetas’s grasp. Now it was full of questions. Part of her wanted to cry. She quelled the feeling and stared at the wall, trying to come up with some kind of plan.
She was surprised to find the Privileged still standing there a few moments later.
“Don’t you have something to do with that?” she said, jerking her chin at the rug.
The Privileged stepped closer. Nila refused to step back.
“My name’s Bo,” he said.
Nila sniffed.
“Look, I won’t keep the boy,” Bo said. “I’m not in any position to protect him. I’m a hunted man myself. But I can give you two a few days of safety while you figure out what to do.”
“Why?”
Bo chuckled. “Because you’re brave enough to demand things of a Privileged on your own, and from what I gather, you know this fellow”—he tapped the rug with his toe—“and because you’re rather attractive. A few days is all, though.” He pulled a pencil and paper from his breast pocket and scribbled something on it. “I have to go put my rug into storage. Gather the boy and meet me at this address. For Kresimir’s sake, make sure you’re not followed.”
CHAPTER
27
You have to hold still, sir.”
Tamas resisted the urge to twitch away from Olem’s needle. Olem had shaved the side of Tamas’s head and cleaned the bullet gash with frigid mountain water and now he made tight stitches with catgut. The wound ran almost the entire length of the side of Tamas’s head. It was an eerie feeling, knowing that had the path of the bullet been an inch to one side, it would have turned Tamas’s head into a canoe.
“Sorry,” Tamas muttered.
The air reeked of death as the corpses of thousands of men and horses stank in the midmorning sun. His soldiers had labored the entire rest of the day after the battle and all this morning in an effort to dig all the bodies from the trench. The men had been laid out, their kits and supplies stripped from them, while the horses were prepared for eating.
War may need decorum, but his army needed food and supplies.
The moans and cries of the wounded reached him. Both Kez and
Adran were being treated to field surgery in an impromptu hospital. Neither army had a proper team of doctors beyond the rudimentary skills of soldiers who’d seen countless wounds.
Tamas watched as Gavril picked his way through the camp toward him.
All signs of the chaos and disorganization they’d used to lure in the Kez cavalry were gone. A team of engineers was hard at work making a proper bridge over the Big Finger. Cook fires everywhere smoked with horsemeat. Quartermasters took stock of supplies they’d stripped from both Kez and Adran dead. There were piles of boots, kits, blankets, and tents, along with rifles, ammunition, even powder horns and charges.
Gavril reached Tamas and sat down on the ground beside him. “General Cethal is dead.”
Tamas bowed his head for a moment of silence, further frustrating Olem’s attempts at stitching.
“I’m surprised he lasted this long,” Tamas said. “Tough old dog. What reports?”
“Based on the bodies so far, we’re guessing about two thousand dead on our side. Another three thousand wounded. About a quarter of those will join the dead within a week. Half our wounded are incapacitated.”
Thirty-five hundred casualties to this battle. Over a fourth of Tamas’s fighting force. It was a heavy blow.
“And the Kez?”
“Based on bodies alone, we can guess that only twenty-five hundred of them got away. The rest are either dead or captured.”
Tamas let out a long breath. A decisive victory in anyone’s book. Most of the enemy, including all of their high officers, either killed or captured.
“Give our boys a rest,” Tamas said. “Any Kez who can stand, put him to work burying the bodies.”
“What are we going to do with all these captives?” Gavril asked. “We can’t take them with us. Pit, we can’t even carry our own wounded—don’t forget that Beon’s brother is still coming on hard with thirty thousand infantry.”
“When will he reach us?”
“Our prisoners are being sketchy about time frames, but piecing things together, I’d guess they are about a week behind us.”
Close enough that if Tamas allowed himself to be slowed by wounded and prisoners, the Kez infantry would catch him before he could get to Deliv.
“How is Beon?”
“Asked to see you,” Gavril said.
“Right. Olem?”
Olem wiped the needle off on his jacket. “All done, sir. Doesn’t look pretty, but the stitches are tight. Try not to do any strenuous thinking in the near future.”
Tamas held up a field mirror. “I look like a bloody invalid. Bring me my hat.”
“It’ll rub against the stitches.”
“Wrap it in a handkerchief. I’m not going to parley with the enemy looking like this.”
Olem wrapped Tamas’s head, and Tamas gingerly sat his bicorne hat on top of it.
“How does it feel, sir?”
“Hurts like the bloody pit. Let’s go see Beon.”
Tamas let Gavril and Olem walk out in front of him as they crossed the camp. Gavril had come through the battle with little more than a black eye, while Olem had a tendency to ignore his own wounds. His left hand was wrapped tightly, and fresh blood soaked through his white shirt at the shoulder. “Olem, see to yourself,” Tamas said as they neared the prisoners.
“I’m all right, sir,” Olem said.
“That’s an order.”
Olem relented and limped back to camp. Tamas was sorry to see him go, but Olem needed rest and medical attention.
The prisoners had been put in a makeshift stockade overnight. They were bound hand and foot and watched over by the Seventh Brigade. The Ninth couldn’t be trusted with prisoners right now—they’d taken the worst of it in the cuirassier charge, and most of them still wanted blood.
“Field Marshal to see General Beon,” Gavril said to one of the guards. The man headed into the stockade. He emerged a few minutes later with Beon in tow.
The Kez general didn’t look so well. His left arm was in a sling. Stitches on his forehead and the back of his right hand looked crooked and painful. He walked with a pronounced limp.
“General,” Tamas said.
Beon gave him a weary nod. “Field Marshal. I should thank you for saving my life from your men yesterday.”
“You are most welcome.”
“Ah,” Beon said. “I should thank you. But I won’t.” He let his head sag. “I don’t know if I can live with the shame of such a defeat.”
Gavril leaned against one of the wooden stakes that made the stockade. “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Gavril said. “It’s Tamas, after all.”
Tamas suppressed his annoyance to keep it from reaching his face. “Deceit may not be a gentleman’s tool, but in the end, victory is all that matters on the field of battle.”
“Too true,” Beon said. “The trench. It was well done. Dug and concealed, all in one afternoon. My scouts kept at bay, and that bit of fog concealed it completely. You played me, Field Marshal. You knew I’d order the charge when I saw you trying to cross the river.”
Tamas allowed himself a small nod.
“Bravo,” Beon said with a sigh. “What now? As you can see, you’ve taken thousands of us hostage. We’re hundreds of miles from the nearest city that might afford ransom. Thousands of both sides will die of improper treatment and disease within the next couple of weeks.”
“I’ve sent a man to your camp and called for a parley,” Tamas said. “I intend to ransom all of your soldiers and and most of your officers in exchange for food, supplies, and a promise of parole.”
“Parole?” Beon seemed surprised. “As a man of honor, I must tell you that a great number of my officers will not adhere to the conditions of parole. The moment your prisoners are free of your hands, they will be set back to fighting you.”
“As a man of honor, I expect you to tell me which of your highest officers are, in fact, men of honor.”
Beon chuckled. “Ah. And those are the ones you will ransom back to the remnants of my army? I see. You realize, of course, that the honor will only stand until my brother catches up with his infantry, and relieves me and my officers of our command?”
“I do. And I never said I would ransom you.”
Beon tilted his head to one side. “I can’t imagine any use you would have for me. My presence will not prevent my brother from launching an attack when he catches you.”
“Still. I’d rather you not be on the other side for the time being.”
“You don’t trust me not to break my parole?”
“It’s not that, either. By the way, General Cethal sends his regards.”
“He mounted a valiant defense. I’ve broken greater numbers of infantry with fewer cuirassiers. Tell him it was a fine stand.”
“He’s dead,” Tamas said.
Beon lowered his head.
Someone cleared his throat. Tamas turned to find a messenger at his shoulder.
“Sir, the Kez are here for the parley.”
“Of course. General Beon, if you will?”
The Kez had sent what remained of their officer corps. A colonel, five majors, and six captains. Tamas ran his eyes over them. The Kez retreat had been last-minute. Only two of the majors had wounds on them. That meant the rest had fled before even entering the melee.
The parley proceeded much as he expected. The Kez rattled their sabers and made demands, but in the end, they knew they were beaten. They traded powder and ammunition in exchange for having their surviving officers returned to them—with a few notable exceptions. Food, and information regarding how things went back in Adro, were exchanged in return for their soldiers.
“You cannot possibly think we will allow you to keep Beon je Ipille,” the Kez colonel said. “He is third in line for the crown!”
“ ‘Allow’ me?” Tamas said. “It is I who am allowing you to leave with your lives. Almost four thousand men in exchange for road rations, information, and a shaky promise of parole? I’m the one being ro
bbed. I’ll keep General Beon until his father offers to trade safe passage back to Adro for his son’s life. We will make the exchange of prisoners at first light tomorrow.”
They exchanged information about the landscape in northern Kez and the position of the infantry brigades under Beon’s brother. The Kez returned to their camp, noses raised, proud even in defeat.
“My father hates you,” Beon said as they walked back to the Adran camp. “There isn’t a chance in the pit he’d trade my life for those of your army. Especially after my failure here.”
“I know.” Tamas stopped and turned to Beon. “You will be accorded every respect due to a prisoner of your status. I expect your word of honor that you will not attempt to escape my camp and that you will not attempt to transfer information about the disposition of my army to your own. In exchange, you will be given a tent, full freedom of the camp, and the choice of any two menservants from your own army.”
“I give my word of honor,” Beon said.
“Very good.”
Beon was escorted to the stockade to select his menservants, leaving Tamas alone with Gavril.
“You really trust him?” Gavril asked.
“Yes.”
“Then why are you keeping him here?”
Tamas removed his hat and gingerly touched at the fresh stitches on his scalp. It would be months before the hair grew back properly to conceal the wound. In the meantime, he would look like some half-mad fool.
“He’s the only one of Ipille’s sons worth anything as a human being. I intend to return to Adro and throw back Ipille’s army. According to them”—he jerked his head in the direction of the retreating Kez officers—“Ipille is personally in Adro. If I can manage to kill him and his two oldest sons, Beon will be king of Kez and he might actually listen to reason and help me end this war.”
“Ah.” Gavril scratched at his beard. “What else did you find out about Adro?”
“Last the Kez cavalry heard, Ipille had burned Budwiel and was slowly but steadily advancing up Surkov’s Alley. Hilanska and the rest of the generals are holding fast with the help of the Wings of Adom. Supposedly, Kresimir himself is there, but he’s not using his powers to aid the Kez army.”
The Powder Mage Trilogy: Promise of Blood, The Crimson Campaign, The Autumn Republic Page 86