SouSmith nodded to himself and settled against the side of the hackney cab.
Adamat looked out the window and watched the people going about their nightly errands. There was a small boy on the corner, trying to sell the last of his newspapers, and an older couple out for a stroll before it turned dark. Adamat wondered if they had any inkling of what was going on in their city. The chaos. The war.
He wondered if they cared.
Night was falling when the hackney cab dropped Adamat and SouSmith off two blocks from the dockside pub called The Salty Maiden. Adamat could see the beaten sign, rocking in the wind from its post. What a stupid name. The Adsea wasn’t salt water.
He checked the snub-nosed pistols in his pocket while SouSmith did the same. The boxer frowned during their preparations, not looking at Adamat.
“Sorry,” Adamat said when he was ready to go.
“Eh?”
“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” Adamat said. “You’re a good man. A good friend, for coming with me to do this. It could be very dangerous.”
SouSmith grunted. “You still paying me, ain’t you?”
“Yes.”
The boxer nodded, as if it were a matter of course that he’d come with, but his frown dissolved.
They headed toward the pub, and Adamat listened to the click of his cane on the cobbles, then on the wood as they entered the boardwalk. This pub was out on the pier—a bad location. Only one exit, though no doubt smugglers had a boat hidden underneath for a quick getaway.
Not the ideal place to confront slavers.
Adamat pushed the door open and was met with silence.
A half-dozen sailors lounged around the dimly lit, one-room building. Not a mean-looking lot. Most of them were young men in their prime wearing white cotton shirts, open at the chest, and knee-length trousers. They all blinked at Adamat as if he were a three-eyed fish.
Acting inconspicuous was out of the question.
Adamat sidled up to the bar, while SouSmith leaned up against the door frame, taking in the sailors with his piggish eyes. Adamat slid a fifty-krana note across the bar. “I’m looking for Doles,” he said.
The barkeep’s expression didn’t change. “I’m Doles. What’ll you have?”
“Brudanian whiskey, if you have it,” he said.
Doles, who was dressed like an ordinary sailor—and probably was—took the banknote and stuffed it in his pocket. He reached beneath the bar, not taking his eyes off Adamat, and brought up a decanter of dark liquid. He slammed it on the bar with enough force to make Adamat jump, then poured a shot into a small, dirty cup.
“Bad season for it,” Doles said.
The script was just as Vetas had said. Adamat’s mouth was dry, and he had to concentrate to keep his hand from shaking as he reached out and took the glass of whiskey in one hand. “Never a bad season for Brudanian whiskey,” he replied.
Adamat had had a cudgel pulled on him enough times to know the signs. Dole’s wrist twitched behind the bar. A moment later his hand came up, cocked back and swinging a piece of polished wood the length of a man’s forearm.
Adamat drew his pistol with his left hand and raised his right to grab Doles’s wrist, arresting the swing of the cudgel.
“I think we should settle down,” Adamat said, his pistol aimed at the barkeep’s nose.
Doles didn’t even blink. “Yes. We should.”
Adamat blanched. He felt the cold barrel of a pistol touch the back of his neck, and his hackles went up.
“Drop it,” Doles said.
Adamat rolled his tongue around his parched gums. His heart hammered in his ears. “I die, you die,” he said.
“I’ll take the risk.” Doles didn’t seem concerned.
The pistol barrel pressed harder against the back of his neck. Adamat slowly lowered his own pistol and set it on the bar. Doles picked it up and unloaded it. “Kill them, dump the bodies out beyond the breakers.”
Adamat felt rough hands grab him by the arms. He was pulled around to see SouSmith receiving similar treatment. Three of the sailors held him, knives drawn to his throat, while two others manhandled Adamat down to his knees.
“Don’t do it here,” Doles said with some annoyance, gesturing to the sailors. “I don’t want blood on me floorboards. Do it downstairs.”
“I’m here about a boy,” Adamat said as he was shoved toward one corner of the room.
Doles didn’t answer him.
“Someone you smuggled into Kez,” Adamat said.
A rug was pulled back to reveal a trapdoor. SouSmith began to struggle violently, and one of the men holding Adamat joined the other three to wrestle SouSmith toward the corner.
“Vetas is dead!” Adamat said.
The sailor stopped pushing him toward the trapdoor. Adamat jerked away from his grip and faced Doles, who was holding up one hand.
“Dead? Really?”
“Yes,” Adamat said. “We took him and his men, and Vetas is dead.”
Doles sighed. “Damn it. We’ll have to move again.” He twitched his head, and Adamat was grabbed and pushed. Adamat tried to struggle, but the sailor was far stronger than he. His cane had been lost by the bar, and his hat knocked off. He snagged a handful of the sailor’s hair and fought back.
Doles walked around the bar and watched the struggle impassively. “Either up here or down there,” Doles said. “Don’t make no difference to me. ’Cept I’ll have to clean the blood up if you die here.” He paused. “Well, we’re moving anyway. Guess it doesn’t matter.”
“He’s my son!” Adamat said. “Please, I just want him back. Don’t you have children?”
“Nope,” Doles said, leaning against the bar. He seemed amused by the struggle between SouSmith and his sailors.
“A father? You had a father! Please!”
“I did,” Doles said. “Bastard and a drunk. Woulda killed him myself had he not fallen off a dock and drowned.”
Adamat stepped back, and his foot touched air as he fell into the trapdoor. He snagged one arm on the ladder leading down beneath the pier, and the other on the floor. A sailor stomped on his hand, and Adamat let out a yell.
“I’ll pay you!” Adamat said. “For my boy, I’ll pay to get him back.”
Doles chuckled. “You can’t afford it.”
“A hundred thousand krana. In cash!”
Doles’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Well. Let up, boys.” He stepped forward and kicked the sailor still grinding his heel into Adamat’s fingers. “I said, let up!”
The sailor stepped away from Adamat, and the others ceased wrestling with SouSmith. The moment they’d loosened their hold, SouSmith grabbed one by the face and picked him off the floor, tossing him through the window. There was a strangled scream and a splash.
“Let up!” Doles bellowed.
SouSmith froze, a snarl on his face, the arm of a sailor grasped between two hands as if he was ready to snap a twig.
Doles glanced out the broken window, then frowned at SouSmith. “A strong bugger,” he muttered. Louder, “Three hundred thousand,” Doles said. “That’s the price for your boy.”
“Three hundred…?”
“Take it or leave it,” Doles said. “And by ‘leave it’ I mean we’ll kill you now.”
Adamat felt his mouth work soundlessly. Even with the money Bo had given him, he didn’t have three hundred thousand krana. He’d have to borrow from Ricard.
“I’ll do it.”
Doles seemed skeptical, but he spit in his hand and reached down. Adamat took the offered handshake and choked down a scream when Doles gripped his freshly crushed hand and squeezed. Doles lifted him out of the hole, stronger than Adamat would have expected.
“What’s his name?” Doles asked.
“Josep.”
“Ah, I remember him. Stubborn lad.” Doles’s face soured. “He’s already in Norpoint.”
Norpoint was the only Kez harbor on the Adsea, far to the south. Adamat felt his heart skip a beat. I
f Josep was already in Norpoint…
Doles said, “It’ll take me about six days to go down and get him back. I’ll have to grease some palms. The Kez never like losing a powder mage they thought they had under wraps,” Doles mused out loud, speaking for all the world as if this was a business meeting, and he hadn’t just been about to have Adamat killed.
“Fifty thousand tomorrow,” Doles said. “Here, before sunup. Then two hundred and fifty when I get back from Norpoint.”
“And then?”
“We’ll meet at The Flaming Cuttlefish,” Doles said. “It’s a pub close by.”
“I know it.”
“Good.”
Adamat nursed his crushed hand and hoped that none of the fingers were broken. It would certainly be stiff in the morning.
“How can I trust you?” he asked.
Doles made an openhanded gesture. “You can’t. Want your boy back?”
“Yes.”
“Then this is your only chance.”
Adamat examined the man. A slaver. Nothing respectable or trustworthy about him. He had an honest face, though Adamat found that honest faces were almost always deceptive. “I’ll be back here in a few hours with the money.”
“I’ll see you then,” Doles said. He gestured to the door. They were dismissed.
The sailor SouSmith had thrown through the window suddenly stuck his head up through the trapdoor. His face was bloody from the glass, his clothes and hair soaked, silt on one shoulder. “I’ll kill you!” he screamed at SouSmith, hefting himself up through the trapdoor.
Doles tripped the man on his mad dash toward SouSmith, then set a boot on the sailor’s backside. He waved good-bye to Adamat, then said to his man, “Stay down, or I’ll let the big one tear you apart.”
Outside, SouSmith turned a sneer toward the pub.
“That could have gone better,” Adamat said. “Then again… it could have gone worse.”
SouSmith’s sneer slowly left his face. “Yeah. You need me to come back with ya?”
“Yes. Yes, I think that would be a good idea.”
“I’ll be ready for ’em next time,” SouSmith said, and for a moment he looked as if he considered going back in and killing the lot.
Adamat looked the big man over. He didn’t seem worse for the wear. His shirt had ripped. Not many people get the drop on SouSmith.
“I’m sure,” Adamat said. “Let’s go get the money.”
Taniel sat in a chair in the middle of the tent, his hands clasped in irons and his legs shackled. There wasn’t an ounce of powder anywhere within fifty feet of the command tent, and above all the cautions that the General Staff had taken with his arrest, that concerned him the most. They were being careful with him. Too damned careful.
He was flanked by a pair of provosts. Two more stood behind him, and another four were at the back of the command tent. Each man held a truncheon at the ready and was eyeing him like he was some kind of dangerous degenerate.
The tent was barren, austere. There were a dozen chairs in the back, most of them empty, and at the front a table with five places—one for each of the senior General Staff of the Adran army.
Taniel inspected the tent with a quick glance. Colonels Doravir and Bertthur were seated just behind him. Bertthur’s broken jaw was held in place by a linen tied around his head. To Taniel’s surprise, Brigadier Abrax, the senior commander of the Wings of Adom, sat near the tent flap. What interest could she have in these proceedings?
In the back corner, Colonel Etan sat in his wheeled chair, nodding encouragement. Taniel forced a confident smile he didn’t feel. No one else had come to support him.
Then again, perhaps they wouldn’t let anyone else in the tent.
This was, after all, a court-martial.
Cloth whispered as the front of the tent parted and the generals filed in. Everyone stood. The provosts grasped Taniel roughly beneath the arms and pulled him to his feet, the chains on his ankles nearly making him trip and fall.
Generals Ket and Hilanska were the only two Taniel recognized. He should know more of the senior staff than this, shouldn’t he? Or had Ket stacked the cards against him by selecting new generals to serve on the jury? Taniel tried to meet Hilanska’s eye, but the one-armed general kept his gaze on the floor, a scowl on his face. This didn’t bode well.
The generals sat, and Taniel was allowed back in his chair. General Ket took the middle seat, scratching furiously at the stub of her missing ear. Her eyes traveled about the tent for a moment and then came to rest on Taniel. She gave a slight shake of her head, like a prison warden denying parole.
“This court-martial is in session,” Ket said. “I will be presiding. As you all know, this is a time of war. In such cases, Adran military law allows us to proceed with a drumhead court-martial. No prosecutor or defensive council was consulted. An investigation was carried out swiftly and privately over the course of the last seven days, and now, according to Adran military law, we will determine guilt and sentencing.”
Taniel heard the tent flap at the back of the room part, and the sounds of the camp outside grew momentarily louder before the flap was closed again.
A frown passed over Ket’s face at what she saw. Taniel thought about turning around, but Ket was still speaking.
“We’ve lost eight miles of ground and over three thousand men over the last seven days due directly to the chaos caused by Captain Taniel and his proclamation that Field Marshal Tamas is still alive, and that the General Staff is in league with the enemy. Captain Taniel is accused of fomenting rebellion among the ranks. The charge: treason. Does the accused enter a plea?”
“Not guilty,” Taniel said. He knew the customs of the court. This was standard procedure—or at least, that’s what Colonel Etan had told him, and Etan had studied military law at the university. Taniel couldn’t help the feeling, however, that everything was going to go against him.
General Ket went on to read another dozen charges, including insubordination and assaulting a superior officer. Taniel responded with “not guilty” to every charge.
There was a clink of silverware behind him, and General Ket scowled. Taniel turned around to find Mihali passing out small plates to everyone sitting in the back—even to the provosts. Mihali came to the front with a stack of plates balanced on his arm and began to set them on the general’s table.
“Provosts,” Ket said, “remove this man.”
“Oh, it’s just refreshments,” Mihali scolded, bringing a plate to Taniel. “Wine cake sprinkled with chocolate shavings and a touch of pepper powder. There will be hot coffee outside after the court-martial.” His back to the generals, Mihali winked at Taniel.
None of the provosts had responded to Ket’s command. They were too busy eating.
Taniel couldn’t quite muster the strength to smile. He took a proffered slice of cake and tasted a bite, his chains clinking, and found it absolutely perfect. When everyone had finished, Mihali gathered the plates and retreated to the back of the tent.
Ket’s cake remained untouched. “The investigation has concluded and the evidence has been presented to the judges, each of whom has made his or her own private determination. On the charge of treason, how do we find?”
“Guilty.”
“Not guilty,” General Hilanska said.
Ket stared into Taniel’s eyes. “Guilty.”
“Guilty.”
“Guilty.”
Taniel felt as if the bottom of his stomach had dropped out.
Ket went on. “By a majority, the defendant is found guilty of treason. The court-martial has reached its verdict. The penalty for treason is death by firing squad.”
“That won’t work on a powder mage,” Mihali said helpfully from somewhere in the back.
“Silence in the court!” Ket pounded her gavel on the table.
“I’m not allowed to speak for myself?” Taniel demanded. “To address these idiotic charges?”
Ket sneered. “Were you or were you not give
n a full briefing by Colonel Etan on how a wartime court-martial is carried out?”
“I was.”
“Then you’ll know that you are not permitted to speak. Another outburst like that and I’ll have you removed.”
Taniel bit his tongue. Removed from his own trial? This was a load of buggery!
“In the case of a powder mage,” Ket said, “the execution will be carried out by hanging.”
General Hilanska leaned over to Ket and whispered something in her ear. She nodded slowly. Ket took a deep breath, as if collecting herself.
“I’ve been remiss by jumping to the inevitable conclusion of this court. The judges will now retire in order to discuss the sentencing of the guilty party. Court is in recess for one hour.” The generals stood.
“May I speak to the court?”
General Ket paused, about to exit the back, and frowned past Taniel’s shoulder. “This is a military court. I do not know who you are, ma’am, but civilians are not permitted.”
“It will just take a moment. My name is Fell, undersecretary of the Noble Warriors of Labor and personal assistant to Ricard Tumblar. I am here to speak on behalf of Mr. Tumblar.”
Taniel turned in his seat. Fell stood at the back of the room. She wore a tan suit jacket and sharply pressed shirt and trousers, her hands tucked casually into the pockets of her vest.
“Absolutely not,” Ket said. “Provosts, remove this woman.”
The gendarmes had no qualms about heading toward Fell.
“General Ket!” Fell said loudly. “This man who you seem so eager to sentence to death for the love of his country is in the running for second chair to the first prime minister of Adro!”
“Politics has no place in the Adran military,” Ket said. The provosts paused, unsure as to whether to remove Fell now that Ket was facing her directly.
“Captain Taniel Two-Shot is a military hero on two continents,” Fell said. “You might eschew politics, but you will destroy popular opinion of this war and of your command if the captain is executed.”
“I don’t care for public opinion. Leave this court.”
“General Ket,” Fell said emphatically, “if Taniel Two-Shot is executed, the factories will shut down in protest. Replacement boots, uniforms, buttons, musket kits, shirts, and hats will stop coming to the front. Hrusch Avenue will cease to produce rifles and muskets. The newspapers will make sure every single soul in Adopest knows that Taniel Two-Shot, hero of Adro, son of the supposedly late, and most definitely great Field Marshal Tamas, has been executed on trumped-up charges.”
The Powder Mage Trilogy: Promise of Blood, The Crimson Campaign, The Autumn Republic Page 88