South Pike Mountain was hidden behind the House of Nobles, but they both turned in that direction. Tamas thought back to the warnings he’d received from Bo and Taniel. Ancient sorcerers trying to summon God. It was almost quaint, as if from a storybook. Fears generated from the stress of months of battle. Although, Tamas remembered, those first warnings came before the start of the siege. Tamas scratched at the top of his wounded leg. It began to hurt more, the pain returning like an ache long thought gone.
“Have you ever heard of Kresimir’s Promise?” Tamas said suddenly.
“Rubbish,” Prime said.
“Rubbish? You know of it? I was told it was a cabal secret, only known to the kings and their Privileged.”
“It is.” Prime mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.
Tamas was about to press him more when he heard a scream.
Another followed, and then another. A ripple of fear moved through the large crowd as a murmur of yells grew to a roar in moments. People rose from their places, their food forgotten, trying to see the source of the commotion.
“What’s going on?” Tamas snatched his crutch and struggled from his chair. “Find out what’s going on,” he told a guard. “Get inside,” he said to Prime. “Guards, take Lady Winceslav inside.” Tamas watched Mihali climb up onto a table, nimble despite his girth, and strain to see what was happening.
“Calm down!” Mihali shouted. His voice carried over the crowd with surprising force. “Please, return to your seats.” People paused, half-risen, unsure of what to do. Those in line seemed to hesitate, unwilling to lose their places but concerned by what could be happening. Everyone remembered the dragoons on Election Day.
Tamas could still see nothing. The commotion seemed to be coming from the far end of the tables. Some people ran, struggling against those who tried to get closer and see.
“My pistol,” Tamas said. He noticed Prime had gotten to his feet and was craning his neck for a better look. Lady Winceslav waited beside the door to the House of Nobles with her bodyguard.
“Get inside,” Tamas said again. “I don’t want you killed by a fear-stricken mob.”
Prime ignored him.
“Suit yourself,” Tamas growled, taking one of his dueling pistols from a guard. He checked that it was primed and loaded before scanning the crowd.
“There,” Prime said, pointing.
Tamas caught sight of a man several hundred paces away. The crowd had backed away from him. He looked to be holding something in his hand. Tamas bit into a powder charge and swayed as the full force of a powder trance hit him. He took a few shallow breaths and straightened, sharpening his gaze on the man.
The man was dressed as a Barber. He wore a white shirt and dark pants under a white apron. The apron itself was stained with blood. There was a body at his feet, with the long, blond hair of a woman. He wiped the blade of his razor on his apron and sprinted toward the crowd.
“The Black Street Barbers,” Tamas said slowly. “What the pit…”
More screams. Tamas swiveled his gaze. There were dozens of them. They dashed into the feast, throwing down platters of food, cutting down men and women and children with impunity, razors flicking the air like a master’s brush painting a bloody masterpiece.
“To arms!” Tamas bellowed. His first shot took a Barber between the eyes at a hundred paces. He didn’t need his sorcery for that. “Can you reload this?” Tamas said, dropping the pistol into Prime’s hands. “Bullets!” One of his guards paused in aiming to give him a handful of round balls and another of powder charges. Tamas flicked one bullet in the air and ignited a powder charge with a thought. Another Barber dropped, then another.
“Why the pit do you even need this?” Prime said, handing him the loaded pistol.
“Better accuracy,” Tamas said, surprised that an academic could reload a pistol so quickly. The crowd began to writhe and move, people moving like a panicked herd of cattle at the sound of pistol shots. Tamas steeled himself as he noted some of the crowd looking toward the open doors of the House of Nobles.
“Get those doors closed,” he told a guardsman. He raised his pistol. “Make sure Lady Winceslav is inside.”
“There!” Prime said. The old man nudged Tamas’s pistol toward Mihali. Tamas saw the Barber come out of the crowd near the chef. Tamas pulled the trigger. The man dropped like a stone.
“Novi’s frosted toes!” Tamas said. “Sabon was supposed to take care of the Barbers. Mihali! Get out of there!”
The chef did not hear him. He still stood on a table, waving his arms and shouting, seemingly unaware of the dead Barber nearby.
“Another,” Prime said, pointing. “They’re going for Mihali.”
“Why?” Tamas said. He handed the pistol back to Prime and flicked a bullet in the air. The shot glanced off a Barber’s shoulder and into the crowd, where a man clutched at his side. Tamas grimaced. “We’re too far. I can’t help him much without more weaponry.” He dug into his pockets for more bullets. He was out. “Shit. God or madman, he may be on his own now. Get me more rounds!”
“No.” Prime slowly shook his head. “We can’t leave him alone.”
“We damn well have to. We won’t get through that rabble.” The crowd was now on the move. They fled sluggishly, seemingly swayed by Mihali’s entreating them to remain calm, but his shouts could not fully quell the boiling fear of a mob.
“We have to try,” Prime said. “Come on, bring your guards.” He grabbed Tamas’s arm.
Lady Winceslav appeared on his other side. Tamas stifled a curse. “Lady, you need to get inside!”
“I won’t leave my soldiers out here alone,” Lady Winceslav said. She clenched her fists. “Get me a rifle. We’ll fight our way to the chef and–”
Prime’s gasp startled Tamas. “It’s him. Open your third eye!”
“How do you…” Tamas didn’t have to open his third eye. He felt the sorcery wash over him with the strength of the coming tide.
“Adom,” Prime said. “He’s dropped his disguise.”
“What is he doing?” Tamas felt numb, helpless. He’d never experienced sorcery like this before. If feeling a Privileged do magic was like the heat of a candle, this was as if he stood in a smith’s furnace.
“He’s channeling a spell!”
“I don’t understand.”
“Channeling! The few moments it takes a sorcerer to create sorcery, to pluck at the auras of the Else. He’s not tearing down a building or destroying a battalion. He’s been channeling all week! This food, these people. They are all part of it. He is weaving auras into the very city. If the Barbers reach him, it’ll destroy everything he’s worked for!”
“How do you know all this?”
“We haven’t time!” Prime let go of Tamas’s arm as the edge of the crowd moved toward them. One of Tamas’s guards was tossed to the ground, nearly trampled underfoot before he was pulled out of harm’s way. The crowd began to writhe like an animal. They’d all be swept away, guards or not. This was not something soldiers could tame.
“We need to get inside, sir.” Olem was at Tamas’s side, rifle in hand. He’d been out among the tables when the whole thing started.
Tamas glanced between Olem and Prime. They needed to retreat, let the panic die down. He would take care of the Barbers later. They were finished. He took a step back, gripping his crutch. What the pit was Prime blathering on about? Channeling spells? Tamas would have sensed it. “Bar the doors to the House. I don’t want this rabble getting in.”
“Sir?”
“We’re going after Mihali.”
“That’s suicide, sir.”
“Troop, form up!”
His bodyguard fell in around him. Soldiers joined them from the House of Nobles. He had thirty men within a few moments. Thirty men would do nothing against the mad rush of a hundred thousand.
“Lady, you should go inside,” Tamas said for the final time.
Someone had given Lady Winceslav a rifle. She looked like she knew how to handle it. Her eyes held no fear. Tamas respected that.