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

by McClellan, Brian

  “Who taught you that?”

  There was amusement in his voice. “A very old woman. She taught me a lot of things that she probably shouldn’t have. It came back to bite her in the end.” Bo paused. “There’s something else you should know about being a Privileged.”

  “Just one thing?”

  “This is rather… personal.”

  Nila’s heart skipped a beat. She had wondered when this would come up. “Oh?” She kept her third eye on the dark area north of the Adran camp, watching for anything that could be movement, and said a prayer of thanks that Bo couldn’t see her cheeks turning red.

  “You’ll have urges.”

  “What kinds of urges?” It was a stupid question. She knew exactly what he meant.

  Bo went on in a purely businesslike tone. “You’re going to want to take everyone to bed. Constant contact with the Else makes a Privileged like a stag in rut. It affects both men and women, although women have a tendency to control it better.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “You will.”

  “Do you have any water?”

  “Here.” Bo put a canteen in her hands. “Drop your third eye. You don’t want to pass out.”

  Nila realized that her whole body was shaking from the effort of looking into the Else. She closed her third eye and took the canteen gratefully. When she finished drinking, she turned to Bo. “Have you had many women?”

  “A few.”

  “I’ve heard stories about Privileged…”

  “Most of them are probably true.” A pause. She could feel him watching her. “Nila, if I catch a spy tonight or the night after, I’ll have to torture him.”

  She felt relief at the change of subject, but only for a moment. “Do you have to?”

  “I need information.”

  “You can’t just magic the truth from him?”

  “I wish that were the case.”

  “There is no other choice?”

  “I’m not a good person. No Privileged is.”

  Nila didn’t like the implication. “I’m supposed to become a Privileged.”

  “You are a Privileged. Even if you’ve only just begun your training.”

  “And I have to do horrid things to survive in this world?”

  “You already have. And you will again.”

  She remembered the sticky feeling of the blood between her fingers, and the way that assassin’s skull had melted beneath her hand as easily as warm wax. “That’s the second time in as many minutes you’ve told me what I’ll end up doing. Do you know me so well, Privileged Borbador?”

  She felt the feather touch of Bo’s gloved fingers on her cheek and then he pulled away.

  They sat in silence for some time, listening to the wind rush across the open field. Somewhere nearby an owl hooted in the darkness. Bo stood up suddenly and removed his jacket, putting it over Nila’s shoulders.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “I can hear your teeth chattering.”

  She could see the white of his Privileged gloves standing out against the black of the night as he walked down the hill. Struggling against the nausea, she opened her third eye. Was he touching the Else?

  The color of his body in the Else nearly overwhelmed her with its brightness. He spread his arms and she waited to see something more, but he just stood there, his face in the wind.

  “Bo!” she hissed.

  He came back up the hill toward her. “Hmm?”

  “I saw it! A movement.”

  “Where?”

  “To the southeast. Moving along the dip between hills. At least, I thought I saw it. Maybe—”

  “No.” Bo’s voice was grim, and she heard him crack his knuckles. “I saw it too. Stay here.”

  He headed off in the direction where she’d seen the ever-so-soft glow in the Else, striding with the confidence of a man in daylight despite the darkness. She took a few nervous breaths, feeling even more alone in the windy darkness. She looked toward the Adran camp, watching the distant embers of their fires, and wished once more she were in the safety and warmth of her own bedroll.

  Bo would say that there was no place safe for a Privileged.

  Had he told her to stay behind to spare her the horrors of watching him torture some poor soul? Or because he thought she was weak?

  Perhaps both.

  She was a Privileged, he’d told her. She couldn’t afford to be weak to survive in this world. With the power of sorcery came the expectations of others. People would expect her to use her powers—for king or country or wealth. People would try to use her. She wondered if her own power would give her hungers. Not just the sexual urgings Bo had spoken of but the hunger for riches, servants, and authority.

  The fear of it niggled at her. What could she do? Flee to some distant land and hope that no one ever noticed her? Or learn to control her sorcery, embrace the power it brought her? She didn’t want to be an evil person, yet Bo spoke of Privileged as if they had no choice. She felt as if there were a war inside of her already and that it would determine the kind of person she would be.

  Bo, she realized, was in the throes of that very same war.

  Nila climbed to her feet. Bo was cresting the next hill, moving farther away. She opened her third eye but could no longer spot the moving shadow of light in the Else. Bo was hidden as well, veiled in whatever trick he’d spoken of earlier.

  She closed her third eye and stumbled after him, feeling her way in the dark.

  She caught up to him a quarter of a mile and a twisted ankle later, limping up to where he crouched in the long grass. She could feel the intensity as he stared into the darkness like a cave lion stalking its prey. Without turning his head, he whispered, “What is it?”

  “I should stay with you.”

  A hesitation. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Whoever he is, he’s coming right at us. Don’t touch the Else—I’m going to trip him with earth and bind him with air, but my sorcery will be obscured from any Knacked that might be watching. You don’t know how to do any of that, so stay here until I have him.”

  Nila hunkered down next to Bo, her knees wet from the grass. From the way Bo was facing, she guessed that the spy was traveling in the gully between two hills. She couldn’t see a thing, however, and waited for Bo to make his move.

  She didn’t have to wait long. His arms suddenly came up, two shadows in the night, and she thought she saw a spark when his fingers danced. There was a cry in the gully beneath them that was cut dramatically short, and Bo leapt to his feet. “Come on!” They stumbled down the hill and Bo threw himself forward. “Hold still, damn it. You’re not going anywhere.” Several muffled grunts followed and then the area was suddenly lit by the beam of a dull light not unlike a bull’s-eye lantern. It originated from Bo’s shoulder and revealed Bo struggling with a small figure.

  “It’s only a boy!” Nila said before she could stop herself. Could they have caught the wrong person? Just some innocent messenger, or maybe even a drummer boy who’d decided to run away from the camp?

  Bo gave her a dirty look and flipped the boy onto his back. Hands and legs bound by invisible sorcery, the boy thrashed on the ground like an earthbound fish. He couldn’t have been more than twelve, with a narrow nose and long brown hair tied back behind his head. He wore a plain black uniform with matching kneesocks, boots, and jacket.

  Bo stood up, one finger pointed at the boy as if he were pinning a fly to the ground beneath him, and seemed content to let the boy tire himself out for several minutes.

  Nila stepped up beside Bo. “He’s just a boy,” she whispered in his ear.

  “I know that.”

  “Are you going to torture him?”

  “If I must.”

  “You were a boy once too.”

  “And I had to learn when to grow up.”

  The coldness in his words shocked her. “Let me at him first.”

  He blinked at her several times bef
ore gesturing to the boy magnanimously. “Be my guest.”

  “Give me an extra pair of gloves.”

  Pulling on the gloves, she knelt next to the boy and held them up to Bo’s light. “Do you know what these are?”

  The boy nodded fearfully.

  “You’ve the unfortunate luck to fall into the hands of two Privileged. Answer our questions truthfully and we’ll let you go. Lie to us, and we’ll take turns scouring the flesh from your bones so that there is nothing left of you but a charred shell come morning. I can make certain that no one will hear your screams.” She leaned in close to his face. “And no one will help you. Do you understand?”

  The boy’s mouth worked, but no sound came forth.

  Nila glanced over her shoulder at Bo. “Sorry,” Bo muttered. One finger twitched.

  “Let’s try that again,” Nila said. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes!” the boy gasped. “I do!”

  “Good. What is your name?”

  “Folkrot.”

  “Unfortunate name,” Bo muttered just loud enough for Nila to hear.

  She compressed her lips in a hard line to stifle a laugh. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I’ve run off from my unit.” The words had barely left his mouth when Bo’s fingers twitched and Folkrot gave a terrified squeal. “I’m sorry! I mean, I’m delivering a message.”

  Nila tried to keep her composure. Could Bo really sense if he was lying? Or was he testing the boy? “For whom?” she asked.

  “General Hilanska.”

  “Where were you taking it?”

  “To the Kez lines. I’m meant to be there by morning.”

  “And what kind of message are you delivering?”

  “I don’t know! It’s a sealed letter. I’m not allowed to open it.” Another squeal, and Folkrot writhed from some unseen twisting of sorcery. “I swear to you it’s true!”

  Nila slapped Bo’s leg and the boy instantly stopped moving. “Where is the letter?”

  “Under my shirt.”

  Nila bent forward and undid the front of the boy’s jacket, then lifted his shirt. Strapped to his white belly just below his ribs was a leather satchel. She removed it and handed it to Bo.

  Bo stepped away from her and the boy and opened the letter. He stared at it for several minutes before beckoning Nila over.

  “It’s coded,” Bo said. “Damn it. It doesn’t help us.” He walked around in a circle for a moment before stopping. “The Wings of Adom employ several code breakers. They’ve fought in just about every country in the world. Their camp isn’t far. We can get there by late morning if we walk all night.”

  Nila didn’t like the idea at all. She was already wet, tired, dirty, and she’d twisted her ankle. A seven-mile walk in the dark sounded horrible. “And the boy?”

  “I have to kill him,” Bo said.

  “No!”

  “We have no choice. We can’t let him go. He’ll run back to Hilanska and tell him the letter was taken. I’ll make it quick.”

  “You bloody animal! I will not let you do that.”

  “And how will you stop me?” There was a challenge in Bo’s voice.

  Nila felt her hands stiffen and thought of the blue flame that had danced over her fingers. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t use sorcery against Bo. He would toss her aside like garbage. “He’s an innocent. I’ll make you kill me first.”

  A sour look crossed Bo’s face and he looked from her to the boy as if considering how best to move her out of the way.

  “We can take him with us to the Wings’ camp and hand him over to them,” Nila said. “We won’t have to kill him and he won’t be reporting to anyone.”

  “I don’t like having a tagalong.”

  “You let me bring Jakob.”

  “Not here, I didn’t. We left him with Adamat’s family so he wouldn’t be a burden.”

  “And we’ll only have this boy until we reach the Wings’ camp. Do you want more blood on your hands?”

  Bo stared at his gloves for a moment before giving a curt nod. “Bring him. But we lose him at the Wings’ camp.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  It was around seven o’clock in the morning, the tall grass still bathed in dew, when Adamat, Oldrich, and their fifteen soldiers trekked into the Wings of Adom mercenary camp.

  The mercenaries were camped around a town called Billishire, not more than thirty miles from the edge of the Black Tar Forest. Their standard of a saint’s halo with gold wings on a red backdrop waved from the steeple of the town’s only church, and the entire camp had been fortified by a hastily built palisade wall and a ditch six feet deep.

  Adamat forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, exhaustion weighing him down as the night retreated. He went straight for the first sentry he saw and came up short, letting the man eye him suspiciously for several moments before speaking.

  “Inspector Adamat here to see Brigadier Abrax,” he said.

  The sentry was a middle-aged man with a fixed bayonet. His red-and-white uniform was clean and pressed, and the gold trim glittered in the early light.

  “I’ve no orders regarding you,” the sentry said. He eyed the small troop of soldiers and their trail through the grass that led off into the distance as if not quite sure what to make of them.

  “I’m here on behalf of Field Marshal Tamas.”

  The sentry’s skepticism deepened. “The field marshal is dead.”

  “Is he now?” Adamat asked, giving the man his very best deadpan expression of annoyance. He imagined that it looked like a tired squint. “We’ve walked all night and I have urgent news for the brigadier. I have a letter of introduction from Colonel Etan of the Twelfth Grenadiers of the Adran army.”

  The sentry regarded Adamat another moment before looking over Oldrich and his men. The soldiers had shed their grenadier disguises but kept the rifles, and despite not having slept for twenty-four hours, they looked sharp enough to play the part.

  “I better escort you in, then,” the sentry said.

  For the second time in as many days, Adamat was led into the heart of a military camp. They were handed off to another sentry, and then to a major’s adjutant—a young woman with blond hair and an easy smile—who took them to the church that Adamat had spotted earlier in the center of the town.

  The camp was just beginning to stir, cookpots going over the fires and camp laundresses finishing their night’s work. The stillness gradually gave way to the bustle of camp life as the men crawled from their beds.

  Adamat caught the sleeve of the adjutant just before they reached the church. “I’m the only one who needs to see the brigadier,” he said. “Is there any chance you could show some hospitality to my escort?”

  The adjutant gave a quick nod and beckoned to Oldrich. “Take your men over to the Willow Inn, just past that house there. It serves as the officers’ mess in the evenings, but they’ll be happy to give you breakfast. Tell them that Brigadier Abrax will cover the tab.”

  “My thanks,” Adamat said once the soldiers had gone off in search of the inn.

  “Of course,” the adjutant said. “We show the same hospitality our brothers-in-arms have shown us. And Field Marshal Tamas has been good to us.”

  Adamat wondered how, exactly, Tamas had been paying the Wings of Adom. The newspapers had whispered of bankruptcy in the capital for months.

  Inside the church, Adamat was shown to one of the pews, and the adjutant disappeared. He sat quietly with his hands in his lap, examining the stained-glass windows behind the pulpit. The largest window depicted Kresimir floating high above South Pike Mountain, his arms spread over the whole of the Nine. His brothers and sisters gathered at his feet, helping him in the formation of the Nine Nations. Adamat wondered how being at war with Kresimir himself would change the Kresim religion in Adro.

  “Inspector?”

  The voice brought Adamat out of an uneasy sleep, and he realized he’d been leaning his head on the pew i
n front of him. He rubbed vigorously at his forehead to remove the red line it likely caused and got to his feet. “Yes?”

  “The brigadier has just begun her breakfast. She’s asked you to join her.”

  The idea of breakfast nearly made Adamat faint. He’d been so incredibly sore and sleep-deprived all night that he hadn’t thought of food, but the very mention of it made his stomach growl as loud as a cave lion.

  He was taken across the street to what would have probably been the priest’s house, a two-story building with a brick façade and green shutters, and he was shown into the dining room.

  Adamat was surprised to see a familiar face sitting at the head of the table: Lady Winceslav, the owner of the Wings of Adom. She wore the white uniform with gold sash of a Wings brigadier—a formality, if Adamat were to guess. She didn’t have experience of command.

  Brigadier Abrax sat at the foot of the table, also wearing white and gold. She stood when Adamat entered. “Inspector.” She regarded him blandly, her stern face unreadable.

  “Brigadier,” Adamat said, shaking her hand. “And my lady, I didn’t realize you were here.” This could complicate things. Abrax had a reputation for severity, but Adamat still hoped to cajole her into helping him. Lady Winceslav would stand for no such cajoling.

  “Inspector, I’m told that you have word of Tamas.” Winceslav raised a cup of tea to her lips.

  Adamat swallowed, noting that he had not been asked to sit. “I’m sorry, my lady, but I do not.”

  Winceslav’s face fell. “The adjutant said that you had implied as much.”

  “I didn’t mean to mislead,” Adamat said. “I simply said I was here on behalf of Field Marshal Tamas.”

  “I see.” Another sip of tea. Still no invitation to sit. “And what orders has the late field marshal given that you still feel pressed to follow through?”

  Adamat filed through his memory, looking for an order, whether spoken or written, that Tamas had given before his disappearance into Kez. “Well, none, my lady.”

  Winceslav gave a slight sigh. Abrax narrowed her eyes at him. Both remained silent.

  “My lady, I…”

  “The last time we met,” Winceslav said, “you were investigating me for treachery. I understand you were following orders, but it doesn’t leave us on the best of terms. I hope you have something good to say.”