“What choice did I have?” Tamas repeated.
Gavril gripped his shoulder and turned him around to look him in the eye. “You never grieved for Camenir. You never cared that my little brother died.” Tears sprang up in Gavril’s eyes, his face red.
“What did you want?” Tamas was suddenly angry. Had Gavril held this against him all these years? Did Gavril think that Camenir meant nothing to him? “Did you want me to turn to the bottle, like you did?”
“I wanted you to show some decorum!” Gavril’s voice rose sharply. “Show some regret. Any sign of emotion for my brother! A man who died for you!”
This close, Gavril towered over him, but Tamas felt no fear. Only rage and regret. “That’s rich, coming from you,” Tamas spat. “Do you think climbing into an ale cask showed decorum?”
Tamas barely saw the fist coming. One moment it loomed, big as a ham, and the next his ears rang as he stared at the ground from his knees. He blinked away a sudden haze. Blood leaked from his mouth and nose, spattering on the dusty ground. Not the first blood he’d left on this spot.
He climbed to his feet, wobbling on his knees. Gavril glared at him, daring him to hit back.
So he did.
The look of surprise on Gavril’s face as Tamas’s fist connected with his stomach gave Tamas a jolt of satisfaction. He followed it up with another punch, doubling Gavril over.
“I lost my wife, you bastard,” he growled.
Gavril wrapped his arms around Tamas and lifted him with a bellow. Tamas felt a thrill of fear as his feet left the ground. To a man with Gavril’s strength, he might as well have been a child.
He brought his elbow down on Gavril’s back, eliciting a yell from the big man.
Gavril lifted him high, then pounded him into the ground. Tamas felt the air leave his lungs, the feeling leave his legs, and his vision blurred. He hacked out a cough and dug one hand into the fat of Gavril’s stomach.
They rolled in the dirt for what felt like hours. Swearing, kicking, punching. It didn’t matter how hard Tamas hit Gavril, nothing seemed to stop him. Even without a powder trance, Tamas still considered himself a pit of a fighter. Gavril broke his holds. Absorbed his punches. And he gave as good—or better—than he got.
Tamas climbed to his feet and kicked Gavril. His brother-in-law shoved him backward, and Tamas felt his back hit the rocks of the cairn.
“Stop!” he said.
Gavril looked up, his face bruised, one eye blackened and his nose bloody. He saw the cairn behind Tamas and lowered his fist.
Tamas limped away from the cairn and lowered himself against an old fallen log.
He felt along his ribs. One of them might have gotten cracked. His face felt like a rug after the housekeeper had beat it for an hour. The back of his jacket had ripped—he could tell just by moving his shoulders. One of his boots was on the other side of the cairn, and Tamas didn’t even remember it coming off.
“You want to know what happened to me?” Tamas said.
Gavril grunted. He lay on the ground across from Tamas, legs splayed.
“That night we buried Camenir is the night I decided to kill Manhouch.” Tamas gathered up a wad of spit and hawked it into the dirt. It was red. “I decided to start a war. Not for the people’s rights or because Manhouch was evil or any of the other drivel I tell my supporters. I started a war to avenge my wife and my brother.”
Tamas took a deep breath and stared at his stockinged foot. His sock had ripped a week ago and his big toe stuck through it. “I couldn’t do it in a world of grief. I had to feel out my friends. Charm my enemies. That was the first step: to convince them I was still Adro’s favored son. Manhouch’s protector. The next step was putting Manhouch’s head in a basket.
“Then, of course, the war. Which”—Tamas held up one finger—“I almost didn’t go through with. The earthquake and the royalists nearly knocked me off my course. My heart bled when I saw the shambles in which Adopest had been left. But Ipille sent Nikslaus and put me back on my path to vengeance.”
Tamas let his finger drop. “The path will end when I cut out Ipille’s heart for taking my family.”
The air was still. The only sound that of the water where the two rivers met.
“That was a nice speech,” Gavril said.
“I thought so.”
“Had that memorized long?”
“Most of it for years,” Tamas said. “Had to do a little improvising. Never thought I’d be giving it to you.”
“Who, then?”
Tamas shrugged. “My grandchildren? My executioner? Taniel’s the only one who knew the real reasons I planned the things I did.”
The sound of a horse whinnying brought Tamas’s head around. Up on the bluff, perhaps a hundred feet away, were two riders. He squinted into the afternoon sun as his fingers looked for his pistol. It had come out of his belt and lay a dozen paces to his left.
The riders began to head down the bluff toward him. The glare of the sun lessened, and he recognized two familiar faces: Olem and Beon je Ipille.
“Company,” Tamas said.
Gavril craned his neck and looked toward the bluff. “Is that Beon and Olem?”
“Yes.”
“I could break Beon’s neck. Bury him next to Camenir. Would be poetic justice in that.”
“My—our—quarrel isn’t with Beon. It’s with his father.”
“I’ve heard Beon is Ipille’s favorite.”
“Ipille’s ‘favorite’ son changes every six months or so. Beon just lost a major battle with me. I think if we killed him now, Ipille would say he deserved it.”
“Not a loving father.”
“No.”
Olem and Beon came to a halt some dozen paces off. Olem looked down at Tamas’s dislodged boot, then around the gully. “Seems there was a fight,” he said.
“Ambushed. We dumped the bodies in the river,” Tamas said.
“Of course,” Olem said. He didn’t sound convinced.
“I thought that you were given orders to stay in the camp?” Tamas said to Olem.
“Sorry, sir,” Olem said. “The general here asked me to accompany him as his chaperone so that he did not break his word of honor in leaving the camp.”
“And why did you feel the need to follow me?” Tamas turned to Beon.
Beon frowned toward the cairn. “I have heard a story,” he said. “Regarding a powder mage, and two huge brothers with great strength.” His eyes flicked to Gavril. “An old story, passed around in my father’s court. One that my father has taken great pains to stamp out.”
“So?” Gavril said, his tone petulant.
Beon seemed unperturbed. “The story caught my childhood imagination. It comes to an end when an entire company of my father’s Elite disappeared in the Fingers of Kresimir. Some of their bodies were found. Some weren’t. I always wondered if that was really the end of the story.”
Tamas and Gavril looked at each other.
Tamas asked, “And you thought you might find the end of the story by following us out here?”
Beon was looking at the cairn again. “I thought, perhaps. I see a powder mage, a widower by my father’s orders, and one very large man with great strength. I predict that the story I heard has a sadder ending than my childhood imagination would have hoped.” He bowed his head toward them and turned his horse around. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
“It did,” Gavril called out.
Beon stopped and looked back. “Did what?”
“The story. It had a sad ending.”
“No,” Beon said. “The story is not over yet. But the ending will be very sad regardless.”
CHAPTER
30
The Flaming Cuttlefish was a fisherman’s pub. Like The Salty Maiden, it was located out at the end of a pier, suspended about ten feet above the water. Unlike The Salty Maiden, it was packed with all kinds. There were factory workers, seamstresses, millers, and even a few gunsmiths. The pub was known throughou
t the city for cheap, delicious freshwater oysters. In one corner of the room a fiddler was sawing away a seaman’s tune, and the whole pier swayed with the stamp of a hundred feet.
The barmaid had assured Adamat that that was normal.
Adamat nursed his beer and let his eyes wander around the room again. He sat with his back to the wall, watching the exits. No signs of the slaver, Doles, or any of his men. No sign of Adamat’s son.
It was near midnight. Doles was supposed to meet him here yesterday, but had never come. Riding out his optimism, Adamat had come back and waited all day, a case filled with two hundred fifty thousand krana in cash sitting on his knee. He was tired and nervous, and every minute that passed he grew angrier.
SouSmith, sitting beside him, stifled a yawn. He was drumming his fingers to the tune of the fiddler, his eyes wandering. Adamat could tell he was losing focus.
“Pit!” Adamat swore, getting to his feet.
SouSmith started. “Huh?” He came alert, looking around for signs of danger.
“He’s not coming,” Adamat shouted above the music and stamping. “We’re done here.”
SouSmith followed him out into the night, and for the second time in a week Adamat found himself standing in the dark, on a pier, with nothing to show for himself. He kicked a pier piling and swore when it bruised his toe. He nearly threw his case into the water, but SouSmith grabbed his arm.
“You’ll be sorry ’bout that.”
Adamat looked down at the case. All of his money; his savings, the money Bo had given him, plus another fifty thousand from Ricard. Yes. He would have been sorry.
“I’ll have to go to Norport now,” Adamat said. He was already doing the math in his head. He’d have to charter a boat—and not just any boat, but a smuggler to get him into the Kez-held town—then he’d need to locate Josep and free him from the Kez. There might be Privileged involved, though rumor had it Taniel Two-Shot had killed most of the Kez Cabal on South Pike. Then he’d…
SouSmith shook him by the arm.
“What is it?” Adamat asked, annoyed that his thoughts had been interrupted.
“Norport? You mad?”
“No. I have to get my son back.”
SouSmith sighed. He pulled a pipe from his pocket and set it between his teeth, then packed it with tobacco. “Have to let it go,” he grunted.
“He’s my boy,” Adamat said. “How can I let him go?” He slumped against the same pier piling that he’d just kicked.
“He’s outta reach,” SouSmith said gently.
“No. He can’t be.” Adamat tried to resume his previous train of thought. So much he’d have to do. “Will you come with me?”
SouSmith puffed on his pipe for a moment. “Yeah.”
“Thank you,” Adamat said, relief washing over him. Norport would be dangerous, but going alone into Kez territory might be suicide.
“One condition.”
“What’s that?”
“Sleep on it.”
Adamat hesitated for a moment. He should prepare tonight. Get his supplies together, find a smuggler… then again, finding a smuggler would be far easier in the morning. Most of Adamat’s contacts were asleep by this hour. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll sleep on it.”
SouSmith accompanied Adamat home before taking his own leave. Adamat watched SouSmith’s hackney cab clatter down the street, then headed inside.
The house was quiet but for the soft sound of one of the children crying. Adamat removed his boots and hat, and hung his jacket by the door. He passed the children’s rooms, pausing briefly beside Astrit’s. She was the one crying. Fanish sung softly to her, holding her tight and rocking her back and forth. Neither of them saw Adamat.
He crept into his own room. The lamp was burning low, like it always was when Adamat was still out late.
Faye sat up in bed. Her eyes were red, her long, bedraggled curls framing her haggard face. The faint light of hope in her eyes died when she saw him, and Adamat felt his shoulders slump in defeat. He sat down on the bed beside her and buried his face in his hands.
“You tried,” Faye said. She was better, he thought. Despite her appearance, she’d been growing stronger over the last week, spending time with the children. She still stayed away from the windows and avoided going outside, though Adamat couldn’t determine the reason. Perhaps she feared being seen by one of her former captors?
“I’m going to Norport,” Adamat said when he’d regained his composure.
Faye’s hand, gently stroking his arm, froze. “Why?”
“To get Josep back. I can find him there, and if I can’t find him, I can pick up his trail.”
“No.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean no.” Faye’s tone was firm. “I’ll not have you risking your life over this. Not anymore. I’ve lost Josep, but I have eight more children, and I can’t provide for them and protect them without you.”
“You won’t—”
“I said no.”
Adamat could tell by her tone there’d be no argument. No hope at all. She’d do everything in her power to keep him from going. “But—”
“No.”
He tried to find the courage to tell her off. To tell her that he had a duty to his son, that he could still get his boy back.
The courage never came.
In the morning, Adamat went to return the money he’d borrowed from Ricard.
A secretary met him in the lobby of Ricard’s new headquarters. She opened her mouth with a word of greeting, but something on his face must have stilled her tongue, and she led him back to the room off the side of the building that was Ricard’s office.
The room was much larger than his old office, but no cleaner.
The whole room reeked. There were oysters on one shelf, probably from the same pub that Adamat had been to last night, and from the smell of them they were three days old. The scent was made worse by some kind of incense burning on Ricard’s desk.
He ignored Ricard’s greeting and threw himself into the chair across from him.
Ricard frowned and leaned back in his seat, and the two of them regarded each other for a few moments. Ricard’s eyes went to the case on Adamat’s lap.
“They never showed,” Adamat said, tossing the case on the ground. “They took my fifty-thousand-krana deposit and disappeared. Now my boy is gone forever, along with any hope I have of getting him back. I should never have trusted them.” Adamat could hear the disgust in his own voice.
Ricard got that look on his face when he was about to say “I told you so,” but instead quietly said, “We all make mistakes.”
Adamat wanted to break things. He wanted to go on a violent rampage, destroying Ricard’s expensive furniture and chandeliers and crystal decanters, then throw himself on the ground in the middle of the mess and sob.
“I don’t know what to do now,” he said.
Ricard said, “I have something I could have you look into.”
Adamat fixed Ricard with a long look. How could Ricard think he’d want to take a case right now?
“It would keep your mind off things,” Ricard went on. “There are accusations of profiteering within the ranks of the Adran army. I need to follow up on those accusations and find some evidence.”
“That’s a job for the provosts,” Adamat said.
“Not when the corruption runs all the way up to the General Staff.”
“No,” Adamat said. “I’m done with military dealings. Find someone braver and stupider.”
Ricard stifled a smile. “You’re the bravest and stupidest man I know.”
“I can attest to that,” a voice said from the back of the room.
Privileged Borbador stood in the doorway. He wore a slimming day jacket, his face pink from a morning shave, a cane in one hand. His Privileged’s gloves were nowhere to be seen.
“Who the pit are you?” Ricard asked.
“Privileged Borbador, at your service.” Bo bowed his head slightly. “I under
stand you have a letter for me.”
“Oh,” Ricard said in surprise. A confused look crossed his face. “How could you possibly know that I have a letter for you?”
Bo smiled.
“Right. From Taniel Two-Shot,” Ricard said. He searched through his papers until he discovered the letter, then brought it to Bo.
Bo leaned up against the doorway as he read the note. He turned it around, looking at some kind of report that had been written on the back. His eyes narrowed, and he glanced at Adamat. “Did you tell him that Tamas is still alive?”
“I did,” Adamat said.
“We have no evidence of that.” Ricard spread his hands.
“He is,” Bo said. “And when he gets back, he’s going to gut his General Staff.”
“If the army runs out of powder, Adro will have been conquered long before Tamas returns.”
Bo chewed on his lip. “Any word from Taniel Two-Shot? Other than this letter, I mean.”
“He is being court-martialed as we speak. I sent my undersecretary down to intervene on my behalf, but I won’t know the results for days.”
“Court-martialed? For what?” Bo’s tone was flat. Adamat thought it his imagination, but the temperature of the room seemed to have dropped.
“Mostly trumped-up charges,” Ricard said. “Disobeying orders, attacking one of the General Staff. But Taniel suspects that some of the General Staff are war-profiteering, and may even be in league with the Kez, which would explain why they’re court-martialing their only powder mage.”
Bo waved the letter. “Yes, I read that. Pit. Pit, pit, pit. I suppose I could go kill them all, if they haven’t hanged him by the time I get there.”
“That wouldn’t be very good for the war effort,” Adamat pointed out. “And we don’t know which of the generals are profiteering.”
“You think I give a damn about who it is?” Bo snapped. Bo raised his hand, and even though he wasn’t wearing his Privileged’s gloves, Adamat felt himself shrink into his chair. Bo took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a few minutes before speaking again. “I’ll take care of this,” he said. To Ricard, “I may need your help.”
“My organization is at your disposal.”
The Powder Mage Trilogy: Promise of Blood, The Crimson Campaign, The Autumn Republic Page 90