“Come,” Del said. He pointed to the staircase. “We’ve got to get high enough to see the coliseum. The solstice is very soon.”
Olem helped Tamas to his feet and out of the ditch. Tamas straightened his jacket, brushed off his knees, adjusted his belt. “My sword,” he said. They hobbled to the carriage, where Tamas turned his back on the villa and bent next to Sabon’s body. “I’m sorry, my friend,” he said. “My arrogance walked us into this trap. It’s about to walk me into another one. Forgive me.”
“Sir.” Olem handed him his sword and slipped him a sack of powder charges. Enough to kill a whole company.
“Bullets?” Tamas said.
Olem patted the breast pocket of his uniform.
Tamas buckled on his sword and turned toward the villa. He took it one step at a time with one hand on his cane and another on Olem’s shoulder. Let them think him weak. He was, but they’d think him less than he even was. With each step, Tamas expected to hear the pop of an air rifle or to see the rainbow flash of sorcery. He reached the front door.
“Not dead yet,” he said.
Olem gave him a long look. “I’m not reassured.”
One of the double doors of the villa opened. A Warden, an air rifle under one arm, stood in the doorway. Olem helped Tamas up the steps and inside. He paused in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light. He counted four Wardens and three Church guardsmen, air rifles leveled at him.
The foyer was a simple place, white marble covered every inch with built-in benches on the walls to either side. A single marble bust of Charlemund stood on a half column in the center of the room, a testament to his ego. The minimalism of the foyer couldn’t be taken at face value. Tamas could see off into well-lit rooms full of vibrant color and art, with gold and velvet trim.
“Leave the door open so that my men can see me safe,” Tamas said to the nearest Warden. The Warden sneered.
Charlemund entered the foyer from a side room. “Take him,” he said.
Someone shut the door behind Tamas. Tamas reached for his sword, but a Warden grabbed his wrist. Another Warden slammed Olem in the stomach with the butt of his air rifle. Olem grunted, dropping to his knees. Tamas sagged without Olem’s support, the pain of his leg flaring through his powder trance.
“You call this good faith?” Tamas snarled.
“I call you a fool,” Charlemund said. “Besides, I didn’t lie. No harm will come to you in my care. I can’t promise the same when you reach South Pike.”
“South Pike?”
Charlemund flattened a crease on the front of his duelist’s uniform with one hand. “Yes.”
“What do you mean, South Pike?” Olem said. He began to climb to his knees.
“Silence that dog,” Charlemund said.
A Warden whipped Olem across the face with his air rifle. Olem fell to the floor, blood spilling from his brow.
Tamas clenched his fists and stopped himself from igniting powder. He needed Nikslaus in the room, too. “You had better hope he’s all right.”
“I’d like to know what you mean, Your Grace.” Nikslaus came into the room, patting sweat from his brow. His Kez uniform was dirty and wrinkled from the sorcerer’s box. “Tamas isn’t going to South Pike. He’s going with me, to Kez.”
Charlemund turned to Nikslaus. “Not anymore. Kresimir will arrive today. The only hope we have of preventing Adro’s complete destruction is to take this low-born swine.”
Nikslaus tugged at his Privileged’s gloves. “I don’t follow your superstitions, Your Excellency, nor do I report to the Church. I report to my king, and he wants Tamas’s head on a block.”
“There will be no Adro left for us to divide if we don’t appease Kresimir,” Charlemund said.
Nikslaus squeezed his hands into fists. “You won’t get out of this country without me,” he said.
“Nor you without me.”
Olem stirred beside Tamas’s foot. Tamas leaned on his cane and bent over, giving Olem a shoulder to pull himself up by. “Can you stand?”
Olem’s brow had been split. He wiped some blood from his eyes and felt his temple tenderly. “Send them to the pit, sir.”
Tamas stood up straight and rested both hands on his cane. Nikslaus turned toward him, sensing danger. The sorcerer narrowed his eyes.
Tamas felt Nikslaus open his third eye. “He can use his sorcery!” Nikslaus’s hands flashed up, fingers working through the air.
Tamas lit powder. Olem tossed the bag of bullets into the air, and Tamas concentrated on that. The bag ripped apart, shredded pieces falling to the floor. Bodies dropped, air rifles clattering to the pristine marble, blood spraying the walls. Light flashed in front of Nikslaus where bullets hit a hastily erected barrier of air.
“Flee!” Nikslaus screamed. His fingers worked frantically.
Charlemund stared at Tamas for one moment before he turned and ran.
“Don’t let him get away,” Tamas said. He couldn’t take his eyes off Nikslaus. One mistake and Tamas would be dead. He had to keep Nikslaus’s hands busy. Tamas lit powder, feeding off it in the smallest amounts, keeping a dozen bullets in the air and spinning. He threw them at Nikslaus. Nikslaus’s fingers danced nimbly. Tamas’s third eye revealed flashes of color as his bullets struck invisible shields. Tamas lit more powder, throwing the bullets harder.
Olem scrambled to his feet. He raced past Nikslaus, sword in hand, only to stop as five Church guards rushed into the room. They looked toward Nikslaus and Tamas, regarded their silent battle, and turned on Olem.
Tamas gripped the head of his cane. His advances were getting closer to Nikslaus as the sorcerer’s defense weakened. He could only deflect the bullets so fast, and Tamas wouldn’t give him the time to erect a better barrier with his sorcery. Tamas flicked his gaze toward Olem. The soldier had taken down one enemy, but there were too many. He was being pushed back, almost even with Nikslaus.
Tamas was running out of powder. Charlemund was getting away.
Nikslaus brushed his nose with one of his gloved hands, giving Tamas a moment to whirl a handful of bullets at Olem’s assailants. The bullets went through eyes and mouths, dropping the men instantly. Olem lunged forward, leaping the downed bodies, and took off after Charlemund.
Nikslaus brushed his nose again.
Tamas grinned. “Allergies?”
Nikslaus took a step back. Tamas leaned on his cane, hobbled a step forward. Nikslaus gritted his teeth, stepped back. Tamas clicked the tip of his cane on the marble.
Nikslaus’s fingers twirled and jumped. Sweat began to trickle down his brow as Tamas sent more bullets at him. Each bullet careened away, deflected. Tamas was running out of powder. He sucked in a raw breath, the smell of spent powder sending his blood pumping. The powder trance was a deep one.
Nikslaus flung his hand in a wild gesture and uttered a hoarse cry.
Tamas yelled out as he tumbled to the floor, his concentration broken. He stared at the two halves of his cane, then up at Nikslaus. The Privileged advanced and stood above him. He held his fingers just so, as if he was about to snap them. His shirt was soaked with sweat, his hair wild. He looked down at Tamas. “You old fool.”
“You win,” Tamas said, lighting a touch of powder.
Nikslaus screamed. He stumbled back, clutching his left hand. He slammed into the column with Charlemund’s bust. The bust clattered to the floor, shattering a marble tile, and Nikslaus tripped over the column and fell to the ground.
Tamas got to his hands and knees, ignoring the pain in his leg. He used the longer piece of his cane to leverage himself onto one foot. He hopped over to Nikslaus. He lit some powder. Nikslaus screamed again as a bullet laced through his right hand, tearing the arcane symbols on his Privileged’s glove. Nikslaus stared at his hands, matching bullet holes through the palms of each. The white gloves were covered in blood, obscuring the remaining runes.
“Now you know what it’s like to have your power taken from you,” Tamas said. He drew his sword and knelt down beside Nikslaus. He took one of the sorcerer’s hands in his and pulled off the glove. Nikslaus whimpered.