“No bayonets, men,” Tamas ordered. “Shove with the stock. Where’s Prime?”
“There,” Olem said.
Tamas looked over. Prime stood several feet outside his men, the packed rush of the mob only fingers from the front of his coat. “Someone get him!” Tamas snapped. “Old bastard will get himself killed.”
A soldier broke off and ran for the vice-chancellor. He grabbed Prime’s coat. The old man shrugged him off with surprising force. Beyond him, far into the crowd, Mihali still stood on his table. He’d ceased to yell and now stood gazing down into the mob, a frown on his face. Despite the violence of the rush, no one came within ten paces of his table.
Until a Barber broke through.
“My pistol,” Tamas said. “Quickly!”
Another Barber stumbled from the crowd and into Mihali’s circle of calm. He shook his head, as if confused, and then exchanged looks with the other. A third joined them, and they began to advance on Mihali.
“Weapon!” Tamas yelled.
The soldier had no luck in dragging Prime toward the building. Tamas caught sight of the old vice-chancellor out of the corner of his eye. Prime’s shoulders slumped. Then he reached slowly into his pockets and removed a pair of white gloves with red and gold runes. He pulled them on and raised his hands.
Tamas looked on, astonished. The vice-chancellor, the spectacled old overweight professor of histories, was a Privileged? How had Tamas never known? Prime worked his fingers in the air like an orchestra conductor. An audible wump split the air and the crowd was divided in two. A pathway as wide as a carriage opened up. An invisible force pressed people away. Some clawed and thrashed as if at a glass wall, while others were crushed up against it like boats upon the rocks.
“Get your soldiers in there,” Prime said over his shoulder.
Tamas hesitated. “Go,” he said after a moment. He hobbled toward the vice-chancellor, grabbing his rifle from a soldier and aiming at a Barber. He only had one shot and no spare powder charges. It was too far to make the bullet bounce, and his men wouldn’t get there in time. The analysis lasted just a fraction of a second. He aimed at the biggest, most dangerous-looking of the Barbers and pulled the trigger.
The Barber evaporated. The bullet went through a fine red cloud of mist and hit a woman in the shoulder. Tamas felt his eyes widen. He pointed the pistol straight in the air and looked at the barrel. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He looked back toward Mihali.
The second Barber paused, eyes on the cloud that had once been his comrade, his mouth slightly open. The red mist disappeared like the smoke from a pipe in a stiff breeze. The third Barber charged toward Mihali, razor in the air. Tamas thought he heard a slight pop, and this one disappeared as well. No clothes, no metal blade remained. Nothing but the red mist, which was gone with the breeze. The second Barber turned to flee, and with a subtle pop – not imagined – he was gone. Tamas shook his head as more pops filled his ears. Someone screamed.
The square began to empty. Mihali was left alone, standing upon his table, arms folded. He looked sternly out across the paving stones as the last of the fleeing crowd took off down the avenues. Food was strewn about the ground; tables and chairs overturned; plates, bowls, and cups abandoned. There a pot had been overturned, porridge slowly spreading along the ground, and here the bodies of bystanders lay unmoving. A woman groaned in pain.
“Help her,” Tamas told a soldier, pointing.
Behind him, the doors of the House of Nobles swung open. Soldiers poured out.
“What happened, sir?” Vlora asked, rushing to his side.
“The Black Street Barbers,” Tamas spat. “Adamat and Sabon didn’t do their job.”
“Where the pit are they?”
“I shot a couple. They’re…” Tamas stopped. The wounded Barbers were gone. He blinked. Was that a red mist where they’d been? “I saw more. They must have fled with the crowd.” He brushed past Olem and hobbled down the stairs. He paused next to the vice-chancellor. Prime stood with his hands in his jacket pockets, surveying the empty square with a firm look of consternation.
“Who the pit are you?” Tamas said. His hands trembled. The sorcery that had washed over him minutes before was gone, hidden again. It had clearly come from Mihali, but then what of the vice-chancellor? A Privileged this whole time? Tamas would have seen it.
Prime removed his hand from his pocket and drummed his fingers on his belly. He’d taken off his Privileged gloves.
“You’re one of them,” Tamas said when it became clear Prime would not answer his question. “One of the Predeii. Like Julene.” It was true. All of it was true. Tamas felt dread settle in his stomach. “Don’t go anywhere.” Tamas headed out toward Mihali.
The big chef had climbed down from his table and was righting chairs. He paused next to a spilled cauldron of porridge, placing his hand gently on the rim. He frowned.
Tamas paused a dozen paces from Mihali. The porridge faded before his eyes, like rain drying on sun-warmed bricks. Mihali bent over the cauldron and gripped the sides with both arms. He lifted it easily, though it must have weighed twenty stone, and returned it to an iron tripod.
Tamas opened his third eye and fought off the dizziness. The world glowed. The paving stones where the porridge had been were smudged pink to Tamas’s inner sight. The colors swirled around Mihali like some kind of festival streamers, though they never once touched the chef himself.
Mihali dropped into a chair and rested his elbow on his knee with his chin in the palm of his hand. He caught sight of Tamas.
“Thank you for looking out for me,” Mihali said.
“I was too far to do much good,” Tamas said.
Mihali gave him a weak smile. “Still. I am vulnerable in this body.”
“They’ve ruined your feast,” Tamas said.
“The people will be back.” Mihali brushed a hand across his brow. One of his assistants approached him, put a hand on his back gently. He pulled her close with one big arm and kissed her on the forehead. “And there will be more,” he said with a sigh. “My own work was not ruined. Delayed a little, but not ruined.”
“Prime says you were channeling a spell,” Tamas said.
Mihali looked past Tamas’s shoulder toward the vice-chancellor. “Very perceptive.” He gripped his assistant’s arm for a moment and shooed her away. “I remember you now,” he said as Prime approached. “It’s been a very long time.”
“Fourteen centuries or so,” Prime said. “So it really is you? I didn’t believe it… I didn’t want to believe it.” He took a shaky breath. “I believed it had been long enough that Kresimir would never return. I believed it was time for change. I thought all of Rozalia’s concerns were foolish, and that Julene was living in the past. I believed we were alone.”
“My people have never been alone,” Mihali said. “The others may have left. I did not.”
“What did you do to those Barbers?” Tamas asked.
Mihali didn’t look happy. “They no longer exist,” he said. His voice was glum, in the manner of a man who’d done something he didn’t want to. “I lost my temper,” he said. “I don’t like…” He paused, his voice cracked. “They felt no pain. I don’t like to harm people.”
Tamas watched the chef for a few moments, a thousand questions flooding his mind. Something stilled his tongue.
“Sir,” Olem said, coming to his side. “We can’t find any of the Barbers. Not one.”
Tamas said, “You won’t.” He took a deep breath. “He’s a god, Olem. A real, live god in the flesh.” The newfound conviction was not a happy one. His head ached. His stomach reeled. “This is not good.”
Olem was staring at Mihali as if trying to make up his own mind. “Why not? I mean, if he’s a god, isn’t that good?”
Tamas looked up at the sky. It was a beautiful day, warm without being hot, breezy without a strong wind, the sun pleasant on the face. “Because,” Tamas said, “Mihali is not the only god. There’s Kresimir. And this means Kresimir can be summoned back. It means Kresimir will come for me. It means Bo’s warnings were not rubbish. And that’s not good.” He felt a presence at his side, a big hand on his shoulder. Mihali had joined him.