Tamas took a deep breath, his chuckle dying out, and stared at the ceiling.
“I need you to kill Bo.”
“What?”
Tamas explained about the gaes. It was a long explanation, with a great deal of technical detail. Taniel barely listened. There was something about an inspector and a promise. He could tell by his father’s tone that Tamas didn’t want to say it. That it was duty alone that forced his hand.
“Why me?” he asked when his father finally fell silent.
“If Sabon had to die, I’d give him the courtesy of doing it myself. I’d feel like a coward if I had someone else do it.”
“And you think I can kill my best friend?”
“Bo’s very strong, I know. I’ll send help with you.”
“That’s not what I meant. I know I can shoot him. I can probably get close enough without him expecting a thing to do it with a pistol. But do you really think I can bring myself to do it?”
“Can you?”
Taniel looked at his hands. He’d last seen Bo over two years ago, the day he’d gotten on the ship for Fatrasta. Bo had been there to see him off. Yet what was another friend? The world was different now. He’d killed dozens of men. His fiancee had bedded another man. His country no longer had a king. Who was to say Bo had remained the same?
Taniel squeezed his hands into fists. How dare he? How dare Tamas come here and ask him this. Taniel was a soldier, but he was also Tamas’s son. Did that even matter? “I won’t do it if you ask me,” Taniel said. “Not if you ask me as a son. If you give me an order as a powder mage-then I’ll do it.”
Tamas’s face hardened. This was a challenge, and he knew it. Taniel’s father didn’t take well to challenges. Tamas stood up.
“Captain, I want you to kill Privileged Borbador at the South Pike Mountainwatch. Bring me back the jewel he has on his person as evidence.”
Taniel closed his eyes. “Yes, sir.” That son of a bitch. He was really going to make Taniel kill his best friend. Taniel wondered if he should come back and put a bullet in Tamas’s head once he’d finished with Bo.
“I’m sending Julene with you.”
His eyes snapped open. “No. I won’t work with her.”
“Why not?”
“She’s reckless. She got her partner killed, and nearly me too.”
“She said the same thing about you.”
“And you’d believe her over me?”
“She had the courtesy to report to me after you so freely let the enemy go.”
“That Privileged would have killed us all,” Taniel said.
“I’ve given the order.” Tamas turned around, headed for the door. “Marked Taniel, carry out your orders. Then you’ll need some time off to deal with your… personal problems.” He left.
Personal problems? Taniel sneered. He felt something on his arm, looked down. His nose was practically pouring blood. He swore, looking around for a towel. What would help this? Oh yes, some black powder…
Chapter 15
There was a room beneath the House of Nobles, deeper underground than even the sewer systems, that had seen its heyday during the reign of the Iron King. Privileged sorceries held back the musky scent and the darkness and kept the walls from leaking even after the deaths of the men who cast the spells. The room was fifty paces wide, ten paces high, white plaster walls covered in wall hangings long thought lost by those who care about such things. There were tables and chairs, lounges that could be used as beds, crates of canned food, and barrels of water hidden behind silk curtains.
Not even Manhouch had known about his father’s emergency shelter; only a few of the Iron King’s closest advisers, Tamas included, knew about the place, or how to reach it beneath the House of Nobles. The Iron King had been paranoid that the people would rise up against him, or that his spies would turn their knives to his throat. Tamas thought it fitting, then, when it was clear that the place had been in complete disuse since Manhouch XII took the throne, that it should be used to plot the king’s fall.
Since the coup, Tamas’s council of coconspirators had moved their meetings to a less wayward place, far above on the third floor of the House of Nobles, as befitting a government, but Tamas still used the room as a place to find quiet and solitude. None of his staff knew where to find him here, not even Olem and Sabon. He would head back up soon enough.
Tamas sat in the most comfortable of the chairs, his stockinged feet up on a hassock, a bowl of squash soup in his lap-the only thing Mihali would let him have from the kitchens when he passed through-and a miniature map of Surkov’s Alley in his hand. The other hand gently scratched the head of one of his hounds, receiving a periodic lick of affection for his troubles.
He examined the map closely. It had been three days since he’d thrown Duke Nikslaus into the Adsea. It was a three-day ride, trading horses and without sleep, from Surkov Alley-the thin valley through the mountains connecting Adro and Kez-to Adopest. Tamas had received word not an hour ago that the Kez army was gathering outside of Budwiel, the city on the border of Kez at the entrance to Surkov Alley.
Nikslaus and the delegation was a feint, an excuse for a war Ipille had banked on. Preparations had already begun. The Kez meant to invade. Yet it would take them a hundred thousand men to break through Surkov’s Alley. The whole corridor was staggered with troops and artillery placements. Unless Surkov’s wasn’t their target.
He set the map down and repositioned his bowl of soup to a nearby table. Pitlaugh crept away with a light growl. “Hush,” he told the hound. Tamas fetched a bigger map, this one of all south Adro, and looked it over.
South Pike was the only mountain pass big enough for the Kez to bring a whole army through without it taking all summer. Could they be trying for that? Would their commanders decide that the smaller choke point with fewer men was a better target than Surkov’s Alley? He glanced at the bottom of the Adsea on the map, where one small corner of it touched the only Adsea harbor in Kez beside the river delta. They might try coming over water, but the Kez had hardly any navy to speak of in the Adsea. Tamas sighed, folding the map, and sat back in his chair. He looked down at Hrusch. The hound gazed back up at him, head tilted to the side, panting jowls forming a smile.
What could Ipille possibly be thinking? Kez outnumbered Adro five to one in soldiers, yet Adro had so many advantages: industry, more capable military commanders, the Mountainwatch. Adro held all the choke points.
“I should bring Olem down here,” Tamas said to the dog. “I think better when I have someone to muse to.” Then the place would smell of his cigarettes. Tamas leaned over for a spoonful of Mihali’s soup. He’d never tasted anything like it, milky sweet with a hint of dark sugar.
Tamas heard a click on the other side of the room, near the door. The hallways leading to the room formed a series of dead-end corridors and false walls, switchbacks and trap doors, enough to confound and discourage even a determined individual, so it was with some surprise that Tamas sat up and pulled on his boots. He stood up and turned toward the door, straightening his shirt, a hand out to silence Hrusch’s whines.
Tamas’s heart beat faster at the sight of the creature that stepped through the door. It was a man, or had been at one time. He wore a long, dark jacket and a stovepipe top hat, though those were hardly enough to conceal his deformities. He was a hunchback with thick, powerful arms and legs. His face was almost handsome, but for an overlarge, misshapen brow. He had no facial hair, and lank blond hair fell down either side of his head.
“Warden,” Tamas said, surprised at the evenness in his own voice. Wardens were often used as errand boys for Kez Privileged, but their creation so many hundreds of years ago by the Kez royal cabal had a single purpose: to kill powder mages.
Tamas had no pistol or rifle with him. His sword remained, but he knew what little good those did against a Warden. He was a fool for going anywhere without a guard, even in the most secure place in all of Adro. He checked his pockets. No powder charges, not
even his fine cigar box with false, powder-filled cigars. Those were in his jacket. Across the room, hanging on a coatrack next to the Warden.
The Warden perused the room carefully, sure that they were alone, before he removed his hat and hung it from the coatrack. His jacket and then his shirt and bow tie followed, leaving him in a pair of black pants. He took off his shoes, a grin spreading across his face as he did so.
Muscles moved on their own accord under his skin, tightening and loosening, sometimes jumping in spasms. They writhed in tight balls in some places, while they seemed hardly present in others, the skin tight against the bone, and then it would all shift and change again. It was like watching a mass of snakes inside a bag of silk.
The Warden flexed his shifting muscles and stretched. “Mage,” he said. His voice was deep, vibrant.
“That’s quite the shit-eating grin,” Tamas said. He took his sword belt from where he’d hung it on the back of his chair and drew the sword, tossing the sheath aside. Pitlaugh stood beside him, and the old wolfhound had teeth bared, growling dangerously. Hrusch retreated behind a sofa, growling at the Warden from perceived safety.
“It’s not often I’m given a powder mage so cleanly,” the Warden said. “Nor one with such a reputation. I usually have to eat the dregs the sorcerers can comb from the Kez countryside.”
Eat? Tamas felt vaguely sick.
The Warden smiled. He stretched out his arms as if to embrace Tamas from across the room, the warped limbs long enough to wrap around a mortar barrel.
“How did you find me?” Tamas asked. He stepped away from his chair and held his sword out to the side. Pitlaugh moved between Tamas and the Warden, and a vision went through Tamas’s mind of the Warden tearing apart his hounds. “Pitlaugh,” he said. “Back.”
The wolfhound backed down reluctantly, giving Tamas and the Warden a wide berth.
The Warden shook his head, the grin still on his face. “I won’t risk you surviving this.” He cracked the knuckles of one enormous, malformed hand. “But I will let you die with the knowledge that every one of your precious mages will be hunted down and devoured, body and soul.”
The Warden bent his head like a fighting bull and charged. Thirty paces separated them, yet the creature covered that space in hardly any time at all, one big hand reaching out to grab a hassock as he came, flinging the furniture at Tamas as if it were a toy.
Tamas ducked the hassock and sidestepped the Warden. He aimed for the heart with his blade, striking hard. A meaty fist pounded into the side of his head, sending him stumbling across the room.
The Warden didn’t give him a chance to recover. He changed directions in a split second and flung himself toward Tamas, ignoring the sword aimed at his chest. Tamas jabbed with all his might, then threw himself out of the way of the Warden’s bulk. He ducked, rolling on one shoulder and to his feet.
Blood oozed from the two punctures on the Warden’s chest. Tamas must have hit a lung and the stomach, but the creature smiled at him hungrily with no regard for the wounds. Wardens’ hearts were protected by a shell of sorcerously grown bones, and Privileged sorceries could keep a Warden’s other organs working when they should have long been dead.
The Warden charged once more. Tamas danced to the side for a slashing blow, but one big hand reached out for him. He ducked under the arm and struck from behind, thrusting his sword into the Warden’s armpit until the hilt touched skin.
The Warden howled and jerked away, ripping the sword from Tamas’s grip. Tamas’s heart thumped in his ears and his hands shook.
The Warden thrashed about for several moments before suddenly falling still. His dark gaze was hooded by his overlarge brow, blue eyes beady and bloodshot. His right arm hung loosely at his side, muscles nearly concealing the hilt. The blade of the sword stuck out of his chest, three handspan’s worth of steel. The Warden looked down on it disdainfully. He reached across with his left hand and tried to pull out the sword. The angle made it impossible for him.
“You’ve something in your chest,” Tamas said, though he didn’t have much energy behind the jibe. His lungs burned from the effort he’d just exerted, his muscles ached. He eyed his coat on the other side of the room. He could sense the powder charges in the pocket.
The Warden leapt toward him suddenly, throwing his body like a flopping fish. Tamas reeled back, trying to get out of his range, but felt the Warden’s fingers catch the front of his shirt. He was pulled into an embrace, his neck a mere finger from his own sword blade where it stuck from the Warden’s chest. He felt hot, angry breath on his cheek and smelled the scent of bile reeking from the creature.
Tamas struck the Warden in the eyes with one hand. The creature bellowed like an injured bear, wrestling one-armed with Tamas, dragging Tamas’s chest across his own blade before tossing him across the room.
Tamas caught himself on a sofa and pulled himself up. He spotted the coatrack nearby and ran for it. “Pitlaugh! Kill!”
The wolfhound darted toward the Warden, ten stone of angry teeth and muscle. Pitlaugh snaked around to the Warden’s wounded arm and lunged for the throat. The Warden managed to turn away, and Pitlaugh’s teeth sank into the Warden’s arm.
Tamas reached the coatrack and threw the Warden’s clothes to the floor, snatching at his own jacket. He brought out his cigar case and flung it open, revealing the six carefully wrapped cigars within. He bit the end off one, emptying the secret stash of powder into his mouth. He felt the bitter burn of sulfur on his tongue, then the nausea that came with taking so much powder so quickly. He staggered.
Tamas’s head whipped around at a sharp whine. Pitlaugh had been thrown to the floor. Something was wrong with his back legs and he tried to crawl away from the Warden, whimpering loudly. The sound broke Tamas’s heart, and something inside him snapped. The powder trance took him over completely.
Tamas crossed the room in a few long strides, barely registering the distance. The Warden threw a punch with his good arm. Tamas grabbed the fist out of the air and ignited one of his false cigars, channeling the power. A bone in the Warden’s arm snapped.
Tamas, still holding the Warden’s now-limp hand, twisted. The Warden was lifted onto his toes. His eyes were big, his mouth warped in a silent scream. Tamas grabbed the sword hilt with one hand and yanked, sliding it in and out, feeling it scrape against bone inside the creature’s body. He ripped the sword from the wound and dropped it, letting it clatter to the stone floor.
The Warden bared his teeth in a mad smile and threw himself headfirst toward Tamas. Even in such agony, the creature would not back down. Tamas caught the big head with both hands. He lifted the creature easily with the strength provided by the powder trance. He twisted the head and slammed it into the marble floor, hearing stones crack beneath. He ignited one of the fake cigars in his pocket and shot the energy into the Warden’s brain.
The body slumped beneath him, dead.
Tamas staggered away from the creature. His head was light, his energy spent. His body was soaked in blood and he wasn’t even sure how much of it was his. The cuts on his chest were deep enough to need stitches and somewhere outside the powder trance, distantly, he could feel them burning. His wrists and arms hurt, old bones not used to the power he’d unleashed. He took a deep breath, his eyes falling on Pitlaugh.
The old wolfhound lay on the corner of a rug. Hrusch emerged from his hiding place behind a divan and approached Pitlaugh, whining lightly, nuzzling him. Pitlaugh’s back was twisted sharply, his rear legs sticking off at an odd angle. He opened his eyes as Tamas gazed upon him, looking up pitifully.
“You did well, boy,” Tamas said softly. He stepped toward the door, then stopped when Pitlaugh tried to follow, dragging his legs behind him, whining loudly. Tamas felt his eyes burn.
It took him some time to reach the upper levels of the House of Nobles carrying Pitlaugh. Tamas found Dr. Petrik playing cards with some officers on the second floor. They stared at him as he entered the room, covered in blood,
the wolfhound in his arms, Hrusch close on his heels.
Some time later Pitlaugh lay stretched out on a sofa. Petrik examined him while dozens of soldiers crowded the doorway, trying to see inside the room. A few loud curses made them move out of the way, then Olem appeared. He froze when he saw Tamas. Olem’s face was red, his eyes wide.
“Sir,” Olem said. His hands shook as he reached out to touch Tamas, as if making sure he was still alive. He wouldn’t look into Tamas’s eyes. “I’ve failed you,” he said.
“It’s not your fault,” Tamas said. “You couldn’t have known. I slipped off.”
“I should have been there.” Olem’s gaze fell on Pitlaugh. “I’m sorry, sir. By Kresimir, I…”
“You never failed,” Tamas said firmly. “You weren’t even there. Now I need you close by. Get messengers. I want every member of the council here within the hour. I don’t give a damn if they have to sprout wings to do it. Go. I want them to meet me in the room beneath the House of Nobles.”
Dr. Petrik approached. “There’s nothing I can do for him. Not even a skilled veterinarian could help him now.”
“Of course. Thank you, Doctor.”
Tamas took a pistol from Olem and went to the dog’s side. He ran his fingers gently between Pitlaugh’s eyes. “It’s all right, boy. Have peace.”
He felt something jolt inside him when the shot rang through the room. He knelt by Pitlaugh’s side for a few minutes, ignoring the commotion of guards checking on the pistol shot.
Tamas got to his feet and picked out a soldier at random. “Find me a hammer and spikes. Now.”
In the room below the House of Nobles, Tamas waited. He stared at the Warden’s broken body. These things were strong and difficult to kill, but the Kez had to know that Tamas could deal with one. It was only bad luck he’d not had powder on him when he was attacked. What was the purpose? To sow distrust? To bring chaos into Tamas’s inner circle?
If that was their aim, they’d succeeded.
His council came in, one by one, and he directed them to chairs on one side of the room, ignoring protests and questions until every one of them had arrived. He stood before them, hands folded, still in his blood-covered shirt. The Warden hung from the wall behind him by a spike in one wrist, crimson drops falling from his body to splatter on the stones below.
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