He dropped both glasses at the same time. One hand diverted the pistol, the other jabbed the goon’s neck with the corkscrew. The pistol went off, deafening Adamat. A window shattered, and Astrit screamed. Adamat grappled with the goon with one hand, shoving with the other. They both landed on top of SouSmith.
The boxer gave a loud grunt. He snaked a ham-sized forearm over the goon’s head, holding him in place. Adamat remained on top of the goon until long after he’d stopped struggling. He grabbed the lapels of his jacket and lifted the goon off SouSmith and dropped him on the floor. SouSmith moaned, writhing on the sofa.
“Coulda given me warning,” he said, feeling his wound. “I’m bleeding again.”
“You big baby,” Adamat said. He made sure the goon was dead, and looked up. Astrit was watching from the hallway. He said, “Go to your room.”
Astrit stood there, shaking.
Adamat climbed to his feet and stripped his bloody jacket off, tossing it on the floor. He lifted Astrit into his arms. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Papa.” Her voice quavered.
“Good girl. I need you to be strong, love. I need you to go with SouSmith. You have to hide with him.”
SouSmith pulled himself off the sofa slowly, grimacing with pain. “No wet nurse,” he said. “Where you going?”
“I have to go warn Tamas.”
“Like shit,” SouSmith grunted. “I’ll go…” He stumbled, catching himself on the sofa arm.
“Take Astrit,” Tamas said. He led the little girl over to SouSmith and put her hand in his. “Hide. Protect her. Please.” He took a deep breath. “You’ll know soon enough if I fail. Just… keep her away from Lord Vetas.”
SouSmith considered Adamat a moment, then gave a brief nod.
“Thank you, my friend.”
“You don’t pay me enough,” SouSmith grunted.
“Tales will be told of your sacrifice,” Adamat said. He went to his office and opened a long, nondescript chest in the corner. He removed his smallsword from its sheath and checked the blade and hilt. The sword was nothing special – it had been issued to him in the army, before he’d become an inspector. It was undecorated, with an oval shell of a guard over the hilt. It was in good condition. He heard footsteps behind him.
“I haven’t touched this for a decade,” he said. “It looks to be in good shape.”
“Better hope,” SouSmith said.
Adamat turned around.
SouSmith held out a pistol, along with extra shot and charges. “Luck to you.”
They clasped hands, and Adamat was out the door.
Chapter 38
“How are you going to explain this to the Church?” Olem asked.
“Easy,” Tamas said with a conviction he didn’t feel. “The Church doesn’t like to be played any more than we do. Charlemund will provide us with what we need to oust him in their eyes. He’s pomp and bravado. He’ll not stand up to more than a few hours with our questioners.”
The carriage rocked heavily as they approached Charlemund’s vineyard. Tamas eyed Olem. He was a soldier, through and through. He would carry out Tamas’s orders. Yet he was no fool. Olem wanted to be certain he wasn’t charging blindly to his death.
“Torture an arch-diocel?” Olem asked. He finished cleaning and loading Tamas’s long-barreled pistol. Tamas was grateful he didn’t smoke around gunpowder. Olem handed the weapon to Tamas and started on his own. “You really think he’ll tell us what we need to know?”
“Yes,” Tamas said, hoping that there was enough confidence in his voice. Arresting the arch-diocel was insanely risky. If Adamat didn’t really have enough evidence; if the Church decided to ignore the evidence; pit, if the Church didn’t care, Tamas’s world would come crashing down around him. No one, not even Kez’s immense armies of spies and assassins, could destroy someone’s life as thoroughly as the Church.
The carriage came to a jolting stop. Tamas glanced out the window. A dragoon rode by, then another. Sabon came to the carriage window.
“We’ve taken the gatehouse. No sign of movement inside the villa.”
“Very good,” Tamas said. He lifted his pistol and saluted Sabon with the barrel. “Let’s go in.”
The carriage rocked forward and through the villa’s front gate. A pair of guards in purple-and-gold Church doublets stood between two of Tamas’s soldiers, hands on their heads, glaring at the carriages as they went by.
“I hope you’ll have the good sense to let us go in first, sir,” Olem said.
“And miss the look on Charlemund’s face when you tell him the charges? Bloody pit, no. I’ll hobble my ass up those front steps with the rest of you.”
“He may put up a fight,” Olem said.
Tamas fingered his pistol. “I hope so.”
“You’re willing to risk his bodyguard having a few air rifles?” Olem said. “It only takes one.”
“You ruin my fun, Olem. You really do.”
The carriage stopped again after a few minutes. Sabon opened the carriage door. “The house and yards are surrounded. Our men checked the chapel and most of the outlying buildings. His carriage is in the carriage house. He is likely inside.”
Sabon did not look happy.
“And?” Tamas said.
“No sign of workers anywhere. It’s a nice day. They should be in the vineyards working the fields, exercising the horses. The place is like a ghost town. I–”
Sabon’s next words were cut off by a bullet as it entered his left temple. He fell without a sound, blood spraying across the inside of the carriage.
The popping sound of air rifles was followed by the shouts of ambushed soldiers. A bullet ripped through the carriage over Tamas’s head. A horse screamed. He struggled toward the door.
“Oh no, sir,” Olem said, grabbing his coat.
Tamas pushed Olem away and leaned over the edge of the carriage. Sabon lay in the mud, dead eyes staring up blankly.
“Bugger that,” Tamas said. He swung out the door, analyzing the villa in a second. It sprawled across his view. The whitewashed stucco front was immaculate and the high, narrow windows and thick brick of the ancient style gave the defenders the advantage. There were at least fifty windows on the front of the building. The air rifles could have been firing from any – or all – of them. Tamas caught sight of the barrel of an air rifle and fired his weapon at that window. He pulled himself in, the sound of bullet impacts and ricochets too loud for comfort. He began to reload. “What the pit…?”
Olem leapt from the carriage. He turned around and grabbed Tamas by the coat, pulling him after, onto his shoulder, and ran toward the vineyards.
“To the pit with you!” Tamas said. He grunted as he was thrown to the ground and felt the pain lance up his leg. Olem dropped down beside him, panting hard, rifle in one hand. They were in a ditch, mud squelching under Tamas’s boots. His leg burned horribly, the pain wrecking his mind. Tamas snatched a powder charge from his pocket and tore it open, emptying the contents into his mouth. He crunched down, chewing the grit with rage, ignoring the taste of sulfur and the pain in his teeth.
“What was that?” Tamas demanded.
Olem glanced over the edge of the ditch. “Carriage has taken seven or eight hits since we left,” he said.
Tamas didn’t reply. The powder trance was coming on quickly. The world spun for a moment and he gripped the grass to keep from falling off. His senses righted themselves. The crack of rifle shots reached him as his men began returning fire. The sound was chased by the smell of black powder. Tamas gasped it in, deepening his powder trance, willing away the pain in his leg.
“They have more than a few air rifles,” Olem said. He sneaked a peek over the edge of the ditch, then brought his rifle up, aimed, and fired. “At least twenty. Probably more,” he said, dropping down. “And Wardens.”
“You sure?”