Bo was halfway back to the town when Adamat remembered the message he’d promised to give. He jogged to catch up with the Privileged.
“There was a message,” he said.
“From Taniel?”
“No, from a Privileged named Rozalia.”
Bo shrugged. “Don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Well, she told me to give you a message.”
“And?”
“These were her words: ‘She is going to summon Kresimir.’ I don’t know which ‘she’ the woman was talking about. I don’t think she meant herself. I…”
Bo had frozen in place. All color drained from his face. He stumbled to one side. Adamat caught him. “What does it mean?”
Bo pushed him away. The man’s teeth were chattering. “Pit and damnation. Get away! Go on, get back to Adopest. Tell Tamas to mobilize his army! Tell Taniel to get out of the country. Tell him… Shit!” The last word was a snarl, and Bo went sprinting across the bastion back toward the town.
Adamat stood in place, stunned.
SouSmith walked up beside him, tapping old tobacco out of his pipe. “He’s an odd one,” he mused.
“I don’t like this,” Tamas said.
“I don’t think anyone does, my friend.”
Tamas glanced back at Sabon. The Deliv stood beneath a large parasol, eyes on the distant barricades. Sweat beaded on his clean-shaved head like water on a cold glass. The day was unseasonably hot for this early in the spring. The sun shone overhead, drying up the last of a few weeks’ worth of damp weather.
“Will the men understand?” Tamas said.
“Ours, or the mercenaries?”
“Mercenaries are pragmatic. They’ll be paid either way. My own soldiers – will they lose faith in me after an act like this?”
Olem stood a few feet away. He turned to regard Tamas, though the question had not been directed at him.
“I think not,” Sabon said. “They may not like the feel of it. War is supposed to be a gentleman’s game, after all. They’ll understand, though. They will respect that you won’t throw lives away in a needless battle. They will respect that you don’t want to shell your own city.”
Tamas nodded slowly. “I’ve never resorted to assassination before. Not in twenty-five years of command.”
“I can remember a few times you should have,” Sabon said. “Remember that shah we fought in southeastern Gurla?”
“I try not to.” Tamas leaned over and spit. He lifted his canteen to his lips, still watching the barricades. He could hear musket shots and the occasional report of artillery from about two miles away, where Brigadier Ryze was commanding an assault on the armory. “I’ve met some bad men in my day,” Tamas said, thinking of the shah. “But that man was a monster. He’d have a man’s entire extended family buried alive if he questioned a command.”
“You had him gelded,” Sabon said.
Olem choked. He tossed his cigarette on the ground and began coughing smoke.
“War is most definitely not a gentleman’s game, my friend,” Tamas said. “Else I wouldn’t play.” He glanced at Olem. “Give us a minute.”
Olem moved out of earshot, still coughing. Tamas joined Sabon beneath the parasol. He produced a letter from his pocket and gave it to Sabon.
“Your new commission,” Tamas said.
Sabon took the letter. “What?”
“I’ve put Andriya and Vadalslav to sniffing out more powder mages. With the royal cabal dead, I think the mages will be more likely to come forward. Not to mention the pay we’re offering,” he said. “They’ve set up shop outside of town, near the university, and will soon be heading to Deliv and Novi and Unice to recruit. I want you with them.”
“No,” Sabon said, trying to give the letter back.
“I’m your commanding officer,” Tamas said. “You can’t say no.”
“I can say no to my old friend,” Sabon said.
“Why won’t you do it?”
Sabon grunted. “Andriya and Vadalslav are more than enough to take care of recruits. You’ve sent the others to the Gates of Wasal. Taniel is chasing a ghost around the city, and despite the fact that you assigned Vlora to your staff, you’re still too angry to even speak to her. I won’t leave you without another mage.” He gestured toward the barricades. “The Kez ambassador will be here within a week, and you’ve still got this mess to clean up. Do we even know if the Barbers were successful?”
“You’re worried about me?” Tamas said. “That’s your excuse?”
“Worried that you’ll bugger it all up and need someone to clean up things after you.” Sabon paused. They could both hear shouting from beyond the barricade. “Perhaps we should help them,” he said.
“Damned Barbers can do it themselves,” Tamas said. “I won’t fret if they all get themselves killed. Don’t try to change the subject. Vadalslav said they’ve already found seven candidates with a little talent. They say three of them have potential.”
“It takes years to fully train a powder mage,” Sabon said. “They need to be taught to control their powers and how to be a soldier all at the same time.”
“That’s why I want you there,” Tamas said. “You trained Taniel and Vlora practically single-handed. Now Taniel is the best marksman in the world, and Vlora can detonate a keg of powder from half a mile.”
“That’s not the same, and you know it.” Sabon was angry now, his dark eyes glinting dangerously. “Taniel has been shooting since he could hold a gun. Vlora… well, she’s just a prodigy.”
“You don’t have to go recruiting,” Tamas said. “But I want you to start a school. You’ll have a line of credit and will have say over all happenings. You’ll never be more than a few hours away from me. If I need help, I’ll summon you immediately.”
“I have your word?” Sabon said.
“You have my word.”
Sabon stuffed the envelope in his pocket. “I want to be here when the Kez ambassador arrives.”
“Certainly.”
“And don’t look so pleased.”
Tamas stifled a smile.
“Sir!” Olem returned. He pointed toward the barricades.
A figure was slowly picking his way over the barricades and then down into the street, where he maneuvered among the untouched earthquake rubble. He wore a long white apron over a white shirt and black trousers. The apron front was covered in red.
The man headed straight toward them. He snapped open a razor, the blade glinting in the sunlight. Tamas saw Olem tense. The razor was touched to the man’s forehead in a mock salute.
“Teef, sir, of the Black Street Barbers,” the man said. “The barricades are yours.”
“The royalist leaders?”
“Dead or captured,” Teef said. “But mostly dead.”
Tamas snorted. “Women and children?”
The man snapped his razor shut and opened it again. He nervously ran the flat of the blade gently along his own throat. “Uh, there were a few bad occasions. Some of my boys have problems, sir. I, uh, dealt with it permanently.”
Tamas squeezed his hands into fists. This has been a mistake. “And General Westeven?”
“He was dead, sir. As you said he’d be.”
Tamas had hoped that the wound Westeven had taken in the brief melee after the parley had been just that: a wound. But his whole arm had been gone, and Westeven was old and no powder mage. “Olem, see that the Black Street Barbers are rounded up and kept safe until we have a chance to pay them.”
“Now, look here,” Teef said, taking a step toward Tamas. Olem was between them in a second, his bayonet a hair from Teef’s bloody apron. Teef swallowed.
Tamas gestured for the closest mercenary captain. “Don’t worry, Teef,” Tamas said. “If you kept your side of the bargain, I will keep mine. I’d love to throw you into Sabletooth, but I’m a man of my word. And… you may prove useful in the future.”
Tamas left Teef behind and approached the barricades with Sabon, Olem, and an entire company of the Wings of Adom. Tamas reached out with his senses, looking for powder charges. He sensed a small munitions dump near the barricade and a scattering of discarded powder.