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

by McClellan, Brian

  Tamas hadn’t meant to go on, but he found the words tumbling out of him. “These are, of course, extraordinary circumstances. We lost a lot of officers over the last couple of months, and not all of them to death or wounds.” Hilanska’s betrayal and Ket’s thievery and flight still rankled. “There will be hundreds of promotions in the next week, and you won’t be the only one to skip ranks. I’d always meant to keep my powder mages as marksmen and soldiers, but I see now that I need to promote those with the talent.”

  “Andriya should be promoted too.”

  “He will be, as soon as he arrives with the Deliv king. But Andriya is too hotheaded. Too vengeful. He’s always been better with small groups, which is why he’s been in command of the cabal since Sabon. But you’ve always had a talent for seeing the bigger picture and you proved it the other day.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Tamas nodded. “This war isn’t won yet, Colonel. Don’t thank me until it is.”

  They stood in silence for several minutes, and it was Vlora who spoke first.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “May I go?”

  “Oh. Oh, yes! Go on. Wait, take these.” Tamas put the gold bars into her hand, then folded her fingers over them. He had the sudden urge to bend and kiss her on the forehead gently, a blessing for a daughter, but he stifled it just long enough for her to lunge forward and hug him. Tamas found himself returning the embrace. Then she was off, and Tamas watched her for a moment.

  “Uh, sir,” a voice said.

  Tamas turned to find a secretary waiting nearby. “What is it?”

  “Inspector Adamat is waiting for you.”

  “Ah. Yes. Of course. I’ll come right away.” He tossed one more glance in Vlora’s direction, but she was already gone.

  Adamat shifted from one foot to the other and stifled a yawn. It was almost midnight, and there was still no sign of the field marshal. Should he go? Should he wait?

  No doubt that Tamas wanted to question him about the series of events that culminated in Vetas’s death. It had all been in his report, of course, but a report was never as good as the real thing. Tamas was the kind of man who liked to be thorough. Adamat just hoped he wasn’t going to be too thorough.

  Any questions about Josep, Adamat had already decided, would be evaded as well as possible.

  Adamat ran his hand through his hair and scratched at his bald spot. He’d spent countless hours examining that Warden in his mind and he had come to the conclusion that a perfect memory was most certainly a curse. Without it, he may have convinced himself that it was just a trick of the light: That Warden was nothing like his son, and the missing ring finger was simply a coincidence.

  But the more Adamat considered the deformed back and twisted but still boyish jaw and the smooth cheeks, he was convinced that his boy had been turned into a Warden.

  What had they done to his innocent boy? First a captive, then a powder mage sold into slavery, and now this. Adamat tried to remember everything he knew about Wardens. They were regular men transformed by Kez sorcery into twisted creatures devoid of anything but rudimentary intelligence and brainwashed to obey Kez commanders. These new Black Wardens, created out of powder mages, were only a recent development. Some of the soldiers whispered that they had been created by Kresimir himself, as none of the other Privileged would be powerful enough to twist a powder mage.

  What suffering had that caused? What pain had the villainous god forced upon Adamat’s son? Adamat replayed the scene in his head over and over again, and examined the eyes of the creature. He expected, upon a closer look, to find anger and sorcery-fueled rage in those eyes.

  But there was only fear, of the kind seen in a dumb ox being driven to slaughter.

  “Inspector?”

  Adamat heard the rustle of the tent flap, wiped hastily at his eyes, and straightened his coat. “Sir, I’m here.”

  “Inspector, what are you doing standing here in the dark?” Tamas asked. Adamat could hear the field marshal rummaging about on his desk, then a match was struck and a lantern lit.

  “Just waiting. I didn’t want to bother anyone.”

  “We can provide a light, man. I’m sorry to be so rude. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  Tamas peered closely at Adamat’s face and Adamat flinched away. “You did not.”

  “Pit, you look as bad as I do. Have you been sleeping? Did they get you a proper tent and gear?”

  “They did. Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry to keep you in the camp like this. You understand I’ve had a lot to catch up with.”

  “Of course. I do look forward to getting back to my family.” Do I? How will I explain what I have seen—what Josep has become—to Faye? Adamat realized with a start that he had already considered his son as good as dead. But then, what else could he consider? He’d stared into those eyes in his memory for so long, he knew that the Josep he loved was no more.

  “Are you certain everything is all right, Inspector?”

  “It is.”

  Tamas lowered himself into a seat, looking far worse for the wear, and Adamat pulled his mind off his own troubles to examine the field marshal. Troubled by a dozen wounds, or so it seemed, Tamas had aged ten years in the last three months. What little trace of black might have remained in his mustache was gone, and he moved carefully, painfully, favoring his right side.

  Adamat had seen that kind of behavior before in men in the Adran police force. Tamas had a knife wound—between the ribs, lucky enough to miss anything vital, but painful as all pit and likely to fester. There were rumors that Hilanska had stabbed Tamas before he fled. They certainly fit.

  “Inspector?”

  Adamat snapped out of his own thoughts. Tamas had been talking. “I’m very sorry, sir. Could you repeat that?”

  Tamas tilted his head to one side, a twitch of anger crossing his face. “I asked if you know why I didn’t arrest you after you confessed your treachery.”

  “I don’t.” Adamat felt a bead of cold sweat on his forehead and his jacket was suddenly too tight. It was something he’d asked himself, though he hadn’t dwelt on it. There was too much to do, too much at stake.

  “I didn’t arrest you because that’s what the enemy would have expected.” Tamas climbed to his feet and crossed to his desk, pouring water into a glass. He didn’t offer any to Adamat. “It was a feint, to throw him off your trail. You mentioned in your report that Vetas thought you had been imprisoned.”

  “So I did,” Adamat said, his throat dry. “It worked.”

  Tamas took a sip of water, watching Adamat with a look that Adamat had seen on men deciding whether to put down a lame dog. “Yes.”

  “And now?”

  “I still hold you responsible for Sabon’s death, Inspector,” Tamas said. “I had told myself that you would stand trial when all this was over. That you would face the consequences of your actions.”

  Adamat suddenly felt a fire in his belly. The consequences? He, who brought me into this whole mess, has the gall to speak to me about consequences? I’ve faced the consequences of my actions a hundred times over during the last six months. Adamat had to bite his tongue to hold his peace.

  “I had told myself that—right up until the moment I had to choose between leading my men into battle and rescuing my son from being murdered in the wilderness by traitors. You’re a good man, Adamat, and you did what you could. There are so few good men left, and I will not send one to the guillotine. But I need your help.”

  Adamat barely trusted himself to breathe. “My help?”

  “There is more work to be done.”

  Adamat felt his chest tighten. Of course. Always more to do. What would Faye say to this, were she here with him? She would tell the field marshal to stuff his consequences in his ass and to toss himself into the pit.

  “Something funny, Inspector?”

  “I was just thinking of what my wife would say if she were here.”

  “Oh? And wh
at was that?”

  “She’d ask, ‘What can I do to help, Field Marshal?’ So. What can I do to help?” There was nothing else to say. Tamas would expect nothing short of obedience. It was the same arrogance that Adamat had seen for decades among the nobility whom he’d served.

  Tamas seemed thrown for a moment. “I see. I still have to finish this war, and when it is done, I’ll need to deal with the Brudanian army that holds Adopest. Some kind of contact needs to be made. You shall be my liaison with Lord Claremonte. Find out what he wants. What are his goals? What will make him go away and, if that is not within our reach, discover his secrets and weaknesses and report them to me so I may destroy him and give our country the republic it deserves.”

  Adamat felt something niggling deep inside his bowels. It felt an awful lot like despair. He’d dealt with the servant Lord Vetas, and now he had to deal with the master, who could only be many times the worse? It would undo him. “I will not put my family in that danger again, Field Marshal. Not for my life.”

  “Your country needs you.”

  Adamat wondered if Tamas knew how hollow the words sounded. “You cannot entrust me with this. Not possibly. Lord Claremonte, through his agent, used my family against me once and he will do it again. And if he does that, I will betray you again, I promise you that.”

  “Your family is no longer in the equation. There is nothing Claremonte would gain by threatening them. You will be a politician and nothing more.”

  “He can compel me to give you misinformation.”

  “You have my guarantee of their safety.”

  Adamat found himself standing once more. “You cannot make that guarantee! This man is a beast and will use any means necessary to win his twisted game. I have seen his machinations!”

  “And that, Inspector, is why I need you so badly. You are the only one who knows anything about him. You are the only one who hates him enough to be ready to destroy him on a moment’s notice. Your family will be safe, Adamat. I swear it. You will hear no such guarantees from Claremonte while he holds the city.” Tamas took another sip of his water.

  “I’m sorry, Field Marshal, but I must refuse.”

  “You said—”

  “I asked what I could do to help. I did not offer to put myself and my family back into harm’s way. No, sir, I will not deal with Claremonte. I have already put my family through enough as it is for this cause. I have lost a son!” And to something far worse than death.

  Tamas frowned down into his cup. “I see.”

  Adamat realized that his heart was pounding. He’d not expected to come in here and start shouting, but he had to draw the line somewhere. The lives of Tamas’s men were in his own hands, and damn him if he thought he could use guilt as leverage against Adamat.

  “You’ll be going back to Adopest soon?” Tamas asked.

  “First thing in the morning,” Adamat said. He lowered himself back into his chair. He felt so incredibly old.

  “Would a lesser request sway you?”

  Adamat cocked an eyebrow, sensing a trap. Tamas had backed off of that far too quickly for one of his kind. “What is it?” He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “What can I do, sir?”

  “Offer Ricard your help in his political campaign. He’ll need all the aid he can get—especially from men he trusts. You two are friends, are you not?”

  “Ricard is running against Claremonte,” Adamat said. The very man Adamat wished to avoid.

  Tamas made a calming gesture. “I’m not asking you to get too closely involved. Just give him some help. A kind word. Lend him your talent for memory. Whatever you can spare.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Adamat said after a moment’s consideration. “But I don’t guarantee anything. I will not get caught up in Claremonte’s web again.”

  Tamas responded with a tight nod. He opened his mouth to say something else, but they were interrupted by a light rap on the tent pole and a messenger putting his head inside. “Sir?”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve a messenger from the king.”

  “What king? Deliv? They’re here already?”

  “No, sir. From the Kez. Ipille has sued for peace. He wants to parley.”

  Adamat’s presence was forgotten the moment word came that the Kez wanted to discuss terms of peace. He slunk back to his tent amongst the ensuing round of late-night messengers and sudden meetings and managed just a few hours of restless sleep before his carriage was ready to take him back to Adopest.

  He bid his driver to wait for him, and stole through the morning chaos of the camp, working off directions from the field marshal’s bodyguard to find one particular tent in a sea of thousands.

  He was saved the embarrassment of having to put his head in tent after tent to find Privileged Borbador by spotting the Privileged himself sitting beside a smokeless fire, long-stemmed pipe clutched in his teeth. His jacket was immaculately pressed, his muttonchops trimmed. He looked as dapper as an officer with half a dozen batboys. Adamat wondered how sorcery could be applied to help one’s morning routine, and at the same time noted that the fire had no fuel.

  “Good morning, Inspector,” Bo said softly. He put a finger to his lips and pointed to the tent behind him.

  “Good morning, Privileged.” Adamat took his hat in his hands and tried not to look nervous.

  The Privileged glanced up from his sorcerous fire. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “I…” Adamat cleared his throat. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe it would be for the best if he just left things alone.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s a sensitive matter.”

  Bo took out the pipe from between his lips and scowled at the empty bowl. “Haven’t had a spare minute to find any pipe tobacco. You wouldn’t happen to have any, would you?”

  Adamat felt around for his own pipe and pouch, and removed it from his pocket. “Just a little.” He gave the rest of the pouch to Bo, who nodded his thanks, taking a moment to pack his pipe and light the bowl from a flame that sprang from his finger. He looked up, meeting Adamat’s eyes.

  Whatever the Privileged had been pondering when Adamat approached had been tucked away. He now had Bo’s full attention, and he wasn’t sure he wanted it.

  “Does this have to do with your son?” Bo asked.

  “It does.”

  “I promised I would help you get him back. Tamas is trying to recruit me, and that complicates things. But I still plan on holding to my promise.”

  “I’m returning to Adopest,” Adamat said.

  Bo watched him carefully, his eyes soft. “Have you given up?” His voice was not unkind.

  “Circumstances have changed.”

  “In what way?”

  Adamat licked his lips. It was time to be strong. For himself. For Faye. For Josep. “My son has been turned into a Warden. A Black Warden. I saw him myself at the battle. He would have killed me, but I called his name and he fled.”

  “Can you be sure?”

  “As sure as I can.”

  Bo seemed to consider this for a moment. “I can’t do anything for him. The process of creating a Warden cannot be reversed. The Adran Cabal has tried. And these Black Wardens, even their corpses stink of Kresimir’s sorcery. I would likely die trying to counter that.”

  “I know. I mean, I read a book on Wardens once. Only a few chapters, really, but I know that the process can’t be reversed.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I wanted to change the terms of our agreement.” Adamat thought that Bo might disagree immediately. After all, an agreement was an agreement. He expected Bo to hold to nothing but the letter of it.

  “I’m listening,” Bo said.

  “I want you to find my son. And I want you to kill him.”

  CHAPTER

  21

  It took four days to arrange the parley. During the uneasy peace, brigades on both sides were reinforced and allowed to posture, and messengers were excha
nged. Two days after finalizing the parley, Tamas found himself in a town just off the southern highway about fifteen miles north of Fendale.

  Calling it a town was actually quite generous. There were less than a dozen buildings, the biggest of which, a Kresim chapel, had been appropriated for the purpose of the meeting. There was no sign of the previous occupants of the town. Whether they’d evacuated months ago or been enslaved by the Kez, there was no way of knowing, and it wasn’t high on Tamas’s list of questions to ask the Kez king.

  Riders came and went for the better part of the morning, and Tamas passed his time watching Ipille’s retinue where they camped on the other side of the town, about a mile away. Not a lot of the camp was visible—Ipille had set up in a shallow ravine, out of the wind.

  And out of sight of any powder mages.

  Tamas commented on the fact to Olem, who lifted his looking glass to examine one of Ipille’s royal guard standing on a hill overlooking the Kez camp.

  “He doesn’t trust you, sir,” Olem said.

  “I can’t terribly blame him. I did try to kill him once.”

  Olem lowered his looking glass and removed a cigarette from the corner of his mouth. “He’s tried to have you killed a dozen times, at least.”

  “True,” Tamas said wistfully. “But I’ve wrapped my fingers around his throat. That’s a little different.”

  “Ah. You ever going to tell me that story?”

  “Maybe when I’m drunk someday.”

  “You don’t drink, sir.”

  “Exactly.”

  One of Olem’s Riflejacks rode up to give his report, and a moment later Olem conferred with Tamas. “Sir, my boys have given the all-clear. The town is empty except for a couple of Ipille’s royal guard, and they’ve scouted everything within half a dozen miles. If it’s a trap, Ipille is far cleverer than we give him credit.”

  “Ipille is far cleverer than we give him credit. Fortunately for us, the one skill he lacks is the ability to select for talent. That’s why all of his generals and field marshals have only ever been half-competent at best. You’ve had a few Knacked checking for Privileged and Wardens?”