“Don’t be a fool.” Tamas struggled to get up again. His leg burned and he broke into a hot sweat. He gave up. “Send a missive to Lady Winceslav. Tell her Ryze is innocent of all accusations.” He paused. “Bring me Brigadiers Barat and Sabastenien.”
“I’ll send a man,” Olem said, heading for the door.
“No,” Tamas grunted. “Get them yourself. I don’t want either of them slipping away. Take a squad with you. And on second thought, don’t tell anyone about Ryze.”
“But if he’s innocent…”
Tamas closed his eyes. He’d need strength for what lay ahead. “I’ll deal with that later. Dismissed.”
“Right away, sir.”
As soon as Olem was out the door, Tamas let out a gasp of pain. His leg had stiffened up in just a few minutes. It throbbed when it didn’t hurt, and when the lances of pain worked their way up his leg each time he moved it, he wished he’d let it throb. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair.
Tamas forced himself to think. Why had Ryze faked his kidnapping just to tell him about Barat? Tamas wished he had Adamat’s gift.
His son!
“Olem!” he yelled. He waited a few moments. Olem didn’t return. He yelled again. A guard poked his head through the door. “What is it, sir?”
“Kema, is Olem gone?”
The soldier nodded. “Took off just a minute ago. Looked like he was going to give someone the pit of a time.”
“Hand me a pen and paper.”
Kema fetched a fountain pen and some stationery from Tamas’s desk and brought it over. Tamas sketched out a quick note. “Catch up with Olem. Have him do this before the other task.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kema was gone again in a moment, leaving Tamas alone, when his leg began to throb again. A finger of black powder and he’d feel no pain… if he could use it. He couldn’t even enter a powder trance with the gold star in his leg.
“Where’s Petrik, damn him?”
“Right here.” The doctor closed the door quietly behind him. He carried his medical bag in one hand, his coat over the other. He examined Tamas through a pair of spectacles.
“Pulled me away from a rather good game of bridge,” he said. He looked peeved, but he usually did. The man had been drummed out of most of his postings as a public and private doctor because he completely lacked a bedside manner. What he lacked, however, he made up for in brevity and skill.
“My apologies,” Tamas said. “I’ll just suffer more, if you’d like to return to it.”
Dr. Petrik paused. He shrugged, and turned back to the door.
“Have you no concept of sarcasm, you ancient bastard?”
Petrik gave Tamas a long, annoyed look and came to his side. He waddled like a man of twenty-five stone, though he was as thin as a rail. He sat down next to Tamas and removed his glasses. He examined Tamas’s face and head through a monocle.
“Some light scratches,” he said after a moment. “Nothing to be concerned about. Looks like you had a concussion.” He snapped his fingers in front of Tamas’s face, looked into each of his eyes. “You’re fine.” He took Tamas’s leg – none too gently – and lifted it into his lap. He removed the linen wrappings and gave it a clinical look.
“You’ve seen a doctor already,” he said. There was an edge to his voice.
“Yes,” Tamas said. “It was the physician with my captors. He’s the one who put the leg back together.”
“What did it look like before?”
“I don’t know. I was out for the whole thing.”
“Lucky. Looks like you shattered the whole leg. He did a good job, whoever he was,” he said grudgingly.
“I want you to take it apart.”
Petrik blinked up at him. “Say that again?”
“My leg. You need to take it apart.”
Petrik set the leg down gently. “You hit your head harder than I thought.”
Was that a hint of concern in Petrik’s voice? No, Tamas must have imagined it. “The surgeon inserted a gold sliver before he closed the wound.” Tamas paused, swallowed. Even saying it made him nauseous. “I can’t use my magery.”
Dr. Petrik returned his spectacles to his face. He took them off, then put them on again. He tucked one fist up under his chin, glaring at the leg. “You’re mad,” he said. “I won’t do it. If you leave it, a cyst will form. That should close the gold away from your bloodstream and let you use your powers again.”
“Do it,” Tamas said. “That’s an order.”
“You think that’ll help? If the shock doesn’t kill you, you’ll lose your leg. Which might kill you anyway. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“Nikslaus said the sliver was in the form of a star. Any time I move, it will tear the tissue, letting the gold touch my blood again. I can feel it in there, working its way around.”
Petrik hesitated.
“I appreciate your concern,” Tamas said.
“Concern?” Petrik said. “Yes, for myself. You know what your lackeys will do to me if you die during the procedure? I saw Olem on his way out of here. I’m not an idiot. You sent him away so he couldn’t protest, and Sabon isn’t back yet. They’d tear me apart.”
“Who’d tear you apart?”
Sabon stood in the doorway, paused in the midst of unbuttoning his jacket. The jacket was covered in powder stains, dirt, and burns. It looked like he’d been in a coal mine. He hung it on a peg in the corner. A single cut ran the length of his cheek, the blood already dry, and his hands were dirty and smudged.
“Did you catch him?” Tamas said.
Sabon shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Tamas bit back a rebuke. Shit. “How’d he get away?”
“A well-rehearsed route,” Sabon said. “Into a warehouse with a false floor, and down into the sewers. Our men are scouring sewer exits, but I’ll be surprised if they find him. Vlora is still tracking him, but he could come out anywhere in Adopest. It’s as if he expected us to catch up with them.” Sabon made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. He stepped over and gave Tamas’s leg a look-over. “You’ve had better days,” he said.
“Right. I have.”
“Will he lose the leg?” Sabon asked Dr. Petrik.
The doctor ignored Tamas’s look of warning. “He might,” he said, “if he has me open it up, like he wants.”
“Why?” Sabon looked to Tamas for an explanation.
Tamas took a deep breath. “Nikslaus’s physician fixed the leg. Before he did, he inserted a golden sliver right up against the bone. It’s star-shaped, to prevent a cyst from forming.”
Sabon’s eyes widened. “The beast,” he snarled. “I’ll take off his hands when I catch him.”
Tamas couldn’t disagree with the sentiment. “If we ever catch him,” he said. “Petrik, I want the surgery.”
The doctor gave Sabon a long look.
“No,” Sabon said. “If you die, the whole campaign will be at risk.”
The campaign, Sabon had said. Tamas almost smiled. Sabon would never admit to being concerned.
“We just got you back,” Sabon said.
“I won’t go on without my magery,” Tamas said. “Petrik, what are the risks if I don’t have you take it out?”
The old doctor frowned. “If what you say is true, you’ll be in constant pain. You won’t sleep, and the exhaustion will keep your body from healing naturally.” He didn’t look happy. “We should take it out.”
Sabon looked from Tamas to the doctor, then sniffed. “Good luck,” he said, leaving the room.
“You wanted to see me?” Adamat shifted from one foot to the other and examined the row of surgical equipment laid out beside Tamas. Surgery had always made him nervous. Too many things could go wrong and it seemed like every year doctors were coming up with a new and painful way to kill you under the guise of medicine. It was an irrational thought and he knew it. The statistics supported the opposite. The ancient practice of bloodletting was becoming more unpopular, while recent ideas about sterilization had begun to spread in the medical field. Survival rates were higher than they’d been since the Time of Kresimir.