Tamas climbed to the top of the barricade and looked around. From the few barricades they’d captured he knew what to expect: the semblance of a soldier’s camp, the street clear of debris, makeshift flags hung above the doors of homes and shops that’d been turned into barracks.
The streets were filled with people. Far more of them than Tamas had expected. Hundreds of women and children. Far fewer men. Their faces were painted with fear, with dejection, with loss. The faces of people who awoke to find their husbands, their friends, and their fathers and leaders with throats cut in their beds. People had little fight in them after an experience like that.
Each huddled group of people had a Barber watching over them, armed with a pistol or a club, sometimes with nothing more than a bared razor. It seemed to be enough.
“Brigadier Sabastenien,” Tamas said.
The young brigadier climbed the barricade to stand beside him. “Sir?”
“Have your men relieve the Barbers. Begin filing these people out of the barricades.”
“To Sabletooth, sir?”
“No,” Tamas said. He surveyed those faces once more. “I suspect that those most responsible for the royalist uprising have already met their fates. I want all survivors taken to the old bailey. Disarm them, but then feed them. Have them checked by doctors and given beds. They’re no longer royalists. They are citizens. They are our countrymen.”
“My men aren’t nursemaids, sir.”
“They are now. Dismissed.”
Tamas watched as mercenary soldiers went down among the royalists. Voices were subdued, quiet, and for the most part everyone went willingly. Soldiers began the work of dismantling the barricades. Every so often, heads would turn when cannon fire echoed from the south.
“Sabon, send word to Brigadier Ryze. Tell him we’ve taken the main barricade. Tell him to offer parley. Every royalist not of noble blood will be pardoned. If the Barbers have done their work through the whole royalist camp, I suspect the offer will be taken.”
“You intend to pardon them all, sir?” Olem asked.
“If I treat them like animals, like criminals, then I will have a second royalist uprising on my hands. If I treat them like citizens, if I restore them to their places in this city, if I make them belong, that is the best solution. I will not perform another round of executions.”
“Probably wise, sir,” Olem said.
Tamas gave the man a long look. “I’m glad you approve.”
“Well, sir, even with you offering a month’s wages, no one will clean the blood out of Elections Square. Stained the stones rust. They say the dried blood is a half-foot deep in some places. Wouldn’t want to add to that.”
“Elections Square?”
“Formerly the King’s Garden, sir. It’s been renamed.”
“I hadn’t heard that.”
“Well, you’ve been awfully busy, what with the barricades and all.”
“Why Elections Square?”
Olem chuckled. “Well, kind of a dark joke, that. See, the people see those executions as a kind of election.”
“There was no voting.”
“I think the vote was cast when the people tore those Hielmen to shreds.”
A mercenary soldier came jogging toward them through the now orderly lines of royalists leaving the barricades. The man snapped a salute. “Sir, Brigadier Sabastenien said you’d want to know. We found General Westeven.”
The general was in a small room behind what had once been a flea market. His quarters were damp, cold. They seemed too small for such a great man. Tamas had to duck to enter the room.
Westeven lay faceup on a cot. A few meager possessions were scattered on the dresser – aside from the bed, the only piece of furniture. They included a pocket-sized portrait of Westeven’s late wife; a Gurlan hunting knife, the handle well worn; a beaded native’s fetish; a pair of spectacles; and a neatly folded handkerchief.
Tamas frowned down at the body. Westeven lay beneath a thin blanket, far too short for his long body, stockinged feet sticking out the bottom. They’d cleaned up his body, but burns were still visible. His eyes were closed. Even in death his one good hand still clutched at an old leather-bound book. He’d survived losing an arm, it seemed – if only for an hour or so. The man’s aged fingers were bent from rheumatism.
Tamas turned his head to read the title of the book in Westeven’s hand: The Age of Kresimir. He hadn’t known Westeven to be religious.
Tamas picked up the Gurlan hunting knife and the native’s fetish. “Brigadier,” he said softly.
Sabastenien ducked beneath the entrance and joined him. There was barely enough space in the dark room for them both.
“Have the general’s body sent to his next of kin.”
Sabastenien took off his hat. “I don’t believe the general has any living relatives.”
Tamas felt a lump in his throat and swallowed. When he’d regained his composure, he said, “I will claim the body. Send word to the city reeve. I want full honors for the general’s burial – a state burial. No expense is to be spared. I’ll pay for it from my own pocket if need be.”
Sabastenien didn’t answer. When Tamas turned, he saw that unshed tears glistened in the young brigadier’s eyes.
“Sir,” Sabastenien said. “I formally request that General Westeven be buried in the Wings of Adom cemetery. I’m sure Lady Winceslav would agree.”
Tamas lay a hand on Sabastenien’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. Such a thing was the greatest honor. The Wings of Adom were tough ranks to join living, harder to join dead.
Sabastenien left Tamas alone with the body. Tamas lay his hat on Westeven’s chest and took a deep breath.
“A poor scrap to go out in,” Tamas said. “I’m sorry, my friend. Yet you went out fighting for what you believed. I’ve got the Kez to deal with next, and how I wish I had you by my side for that.”
Chapter 13
“She’s here,” Julene said.
Taniel frowned at the Privileged mercenary. She wore a wicked small smile, tugged up farther on one side by the scar on her face, and her eyes were unnaturally wide. It reminded Taniel of a cougar he’d once seen at a circus. They stood at the front gates of Adopest University. The walls surrounding the collegiate town were little more than crumbling relics beyond which flags waved in the brisk breeze on the towers of the university buildings. Taniel could hear the sound of students laughing. This was not a good place to confront a Privileged.
Yet far better than the crowded city.
“You sure?” Taniel asked. He’d not opened his third eye in days. The last time, he’d nearly collapsed. He told himself it wasn’t because he’d been in a powder trance for four weeks running. He wasn’t powder blind. He wasn’t addicted.
He snorted a line of powder off the back of his hand and shivered.
Julene ignored his question. “Well?” Taniel asked Gothen.
The magebreaker nodded. “She’s here,” he confirmed.
Taniel looked around for Ka-poel. She was studying the gargoyles above the gate. A group of male students were studying her. Taniel glared at them, setting a hand on the butt of his pistol.
“Is that a real savage?” one of them asked.
“You have to have a permit to carry a weapon on university grounds,” another informed him.
“Sod off,” Taniel said. “Wait. Where can I find a map of the university?”
The boy – Taniel thought of him as a boy, though he might have been the same age – sniffed. “Sod off yourself.”
Taniel turned toward the group until they could see his powder keg pin.
“That supposed to impress us?” the boy asked.
Taniel grinned. “It will when I beat your teeth in.” He snatched his pistol from his belt and flipped it around until he held it by the barrel. He flipped it again, then spun it around his middle finger until he held it the right way.