“Indeed he will. And I think he’ll be far happier to hear that it is Ricard and me running against each other rather than Ricard and Claremonte.”
Adamat snorted. “I imagine he will. But you’re a private man. Why First Minister? Why now?”
“Tastes change. You know how it is. My spot as First Minister would afford many benefits to the Proprietor. Or I may enjoy it enough that the Proprietor fades into obscurity.” The Reeve shrugged. “Who knows?”
Adamat drew a book from his jacket pocket. “I think that you may have a problem there.”
“And what is that?”
He held up the book. “This is The Compendium of Gods and Saints. A very old book. Written during the Bleakening, the time after Kresimir first left our world. Supposedly. I’m told that it’s mostly superstitious nonsense, but there is one thing that caught my eye.” He cleared his throat and read, “ ‘Lord Brude, saint and god of Brudania, is unique among his siblings in one particular way in that he has no shadow. His shadow, it is said, is his other face: a unique condition of sorcery in which he occupies two separate bodies, making him not a single but rather two different gods.’ ” Adamat closed the book.
Ondraus looked impatient. “What does that have to do with me?”
“Lord Claremonte has no shadow.”
“Hah! Are you claiming that he’s the god Brude?”
“I am.”
“I’m aware that this has been a strange time in our history and that the impossible may very well be possible, but this seems to be a long leap for you, Inspector.”
“Not too much of a leap. A god told me.”
“Oh?” Ondraus rolled his eyes.
“The god Adom.”
Ondraus didn’t seem convinced. “He’s supposed to be dead, isn’t he? The report is that Kresimir killed him.”
“He’s still very much alive.” Adamat leaned forward. “I think it’s far more difficult to kill a god than that.”
Ondraus scoffed. “If that were the case, Claremonte would still be alive. I’ve sent a man to the hospital to find out. I suppose we’ll discover the case soon.” There was a knock on the door, then another distinct high knock and one low. “Come,” Ondraus said.
Adamat recognized the Proprietor’s translator. She was a severe-looking woman, her knitting tucked under one arm, her face expressionless. She closed the door behind her.
“What is the news?” Ondraus asked.
“You have to go.”
“Excuse me?”
Still expressionless, the woman said, “Privileged on the street. Brudanian soldiers. You have less than thirty seconds.”
Ondraus leapt to his feet like a man half his age. “Get out of here, go!” The woman fled, leaving Adamat alone with Ondraus. “You, Inspector. Come with me.” Ondraus strode to the fireplace behind his desk and turned one of the candelabras halfway in its socket, then lifted up on the corner of what looked to be a solid mantelpiece. There was a click, and a panel beside the fireplace sprang open. “Inside.”
Adamat followed his instructions, ducking inside a low but well-used passageway. They were suddenly plunged into darkness as Ondraus closed the hidden panel behind them. “Faster!” Ondraus ordered. “The Privileged will be able to see us moving. We tarry too long here and they’ll suspect who we are. Watch your step.”
Adamat stumbled, nearly falling down a flight of stairs despite Ondraus’s warning. He followed those down almost thirty steps, the air becoming cold, close, and damp. They rushed along, splashing through puddles, and Adamat heard the unmistakable sound of a scream somewhere above them. There was a great wrenching noise and a crash, followed by more screams and the sound of gunshots.
“Quickly!” Ondraus poked Adamat hard in the back, forcing him on ahead, half-crouched, for well over a hundred yards. The passage was stoned in with an inch of water on the bottom, and Adamat could not tell in the darkness where it would end.
“Up,” Ondraus ordered suddenly.
Adamat’s foot hit a step a moment later, and his legs carried him up another flight until he could discern a source of light.
“Head,” Ondraus said.
“What—ow!” Adamat’s head hit a plank, and he reached up to push a trapdoor out of his way. They emerged into some kind of a basement that smelled of hay and the rich, grassy smell of horse manure. They went up another flight of wooden steps and emerged into a stable.
“Into my carriage,” Ondraus said quickly. “Driver!” he shouted.
A moment later and Ondraus’s carriage shot into the light, carried down the streets of Adopest and into the normal daily traffic.
Adamat leaned against the wall of the carriage, breathing a sigh of relief, his heart thundering in his ears.
“Turn here!” Ondraus shouted.
The carriage turned and they drove past a street that ended in a small but well-appointed courtyard and a three-story brick building. The courtyard was full of soldiers and the façade of the building had been ripped apart by sorcery, fire flaring into the air from the roof. Bodies were being dragged out of the building—some Brudanian soldiers, but mostly the Proprietor’s goons.
“You keep a carriage on hand at all times?” Adamat asked as they drove on past the Proprietor’s headquarters and into the anonymity of the midday streets.
“Three, actually,” Ondraus said. His eyes were glued to the window and he was grinding his teeth. “Decades of work down the shit hole. Must have caught one of my lieutenants.”
“We’re in the banking district,” Adamat said with surprise, recognizing the main thoroughfare they’d just pulled onto.
“Of course we are. I—and I mean Ondraus the Reeve—works here. I couldn’t have it on the other bloody side of town.” Ondraus pounded twice on the roof and the carriage pulled off to the side of the road. The driver got down and opened the door. “The council is meeting with Field Marshal Tamas tomorrow at four. Be there. Be ready to explain to Tamas your theory about Claremonte. And try to be more convincing than you were to me.”
Adamat stepped out and the door slammed shut behind him. He turned, mouth open, but the carriage was already rolling away.
He waited for a few moments before hailing a hackney cab. He had the distinct feeling that Tamas would more readily believe the news than Ondraus.
CHAPTER
46
Tamas’s soldiers deployed their camp two miles outside the walls of Adopest.
He watched the city through weary eyes, noting the absence of the once-prominent spires of Kresim Cathedral. The black tooth of Sablethorn Prison rose above the city and seemed to lean even more since the earthquake last spring. He made a mental note to mention it to the council. The building might have to be taken down before it could fall.
“Sometimes when we’re out on campaign,” Tamas said, “far away from the lands we love, it’s easy to forget why we go on fighting.” He gestured to the city sitting serenely at the tip of the teardrop of the Adsea. “Coming home always reminds me why I fight.”
“It’s a beautiful sight, sir,” Olem said. Olem seemed to have recovered well enough, thanks to the Deliv Privileged, but Tamas knew it would be some time before he had the spring back in his step. “You have any more orders for the boys?”
“Spread the camp wide. I don’t want a surprise attack by their Privileged to be able to wipe out more than a single brigade.”
Olem lifted his spyglass to one eye. “They don’t seem like they’re looking for a fight. Crowd’s gathering on the walls, though. Only see a few Brudanian soldiers.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Spread the camp and post my remaining powder mages on guard duty. Any Privileged comes within a mile of the camp and they are not under a white flag, they’re to put a bullet through their eyes. And get me a guard. We’re going in.”
“Yes sir.”
Thirty minutes later Tamas was riding out of his camp and toward the southwestern gate of Adopest. His guard consisted of sixty men: Olem’s best Rifl
ejacks as well as Nila, Bo, and Gavril. He loathed going anywhere without his powder mages at his back, but they were better suited to keeping watch over the army.
“You sent messengers?” he asked Olem as they approached the open gates. People watched him from the crowded walls and children waved flags. He could hear their cheering from a mile away.
“Yes sir. They’ll be ready for us.”
“Good.”
They rode beneath the arches and Tamas found the people lining the streets, calling his name. His messengers had been for his council alone, so this crowd would have had to gather since this morning. Not a bad welcome, he decided.
They rode through the Factory District and across the Ad, from whose bridge he could clearly see the ruins of Kresim Cathedral—cleared away but for the immense cornerstones and the footprint of the outer wall. City folk turned out to wave him past as word spread of his arrival, but Tamas paid them little mind. His eyes were on the rooftops and the alleyways, watching for Brudanian Privileged or soldiers.
None showed themselves but the few stationed upon the old walls, who simply watched him pass.
“Olem, I—”
“Sir,” Olem interrupted, tapping him on the shoulder. He pointed into one of the alleyways along the street and then tugged on his reins, dropping back behind Tamas with a hand on his pistol.
A horse emerged from the alley and fell into step beside Tamas. Tamas eyed the rider in his dark Adran blues. “Good to see you, son.”
Taniel nodded in response. He looked haggard and tired. His uniform was dirty and rumpled, but he’d managed to brush out most of the dirt and his boots were polished. Tamas noted a distinct absence of Taniel’s usual Hrusch rifle, but he did have two pistols in his belt.
“Where have you been?” Tamas asked.
“Hiding. Gavril make it to you?”
“Yes. He’s at the back of the column.”
Taniel gave a relieved sigh. “Vlora’s dead.”
“What?” Tamas had to grab his saddle horn as a wave of dizziness swept over him. “No. Surely not.”
“She is. At least, I think she is. We tracked the Privileged and Ka-poel to the city and got into a fight in High Talien. Whether the Privileged had reinforcements waiting for her or we were just unlucky, I don’t know. We were trying to escape into the city drains when the building came down on her.”
“Oh, pit.” The words came out a whisper. Tamas swayed in his saddle. Another powder mage. Another friend. Pit, Vlora was family. He wanted to let out a sob, but he forced himself to fight it down, maintaining his stony demeanor. Claremonte’s men were watching. He could feel hostile eyes upon him and he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—show weakness.
“Promoting me was a bad idea.”
Tamas glanced out of the corner of his eye. Taniel’s jaw trembled and his eyes were bloodshot. He was barely holding it together. “That’s not true. That’s… Look. You tracked them this far. I’m proud of you.”
Taniel didn’t look like he believed him, and Tamas had to admit that the words were halfhearted. Taniel had gotten Vlora, two powder mages, and a dozen Riflejacks killed. He should have known better! Walking into a trap and…
No. No, no, no. Tamas could feel the grief turn to anger, could feel the corners of his mouth turn down in a scowl. He couldn’t do that. Not now. Not to Taniel.
“Have you found Ka-poel?” Tamas asked.
“Claremonte’s headquarters are in Skyline Palace. He’s renting it from the city. It’s crawling with soldiers and Privileged. I think I glimpsed her aura in the Else, but it was hard to tell at a distance. She must still be alive.”
“Or else Kresimir would have killed us all by now, I suppose.”
Taniel gave him a queer look. “Is the war over?”
“Yes. It’s in negotiations right now.”
“Do you have Kresimir’s body?”
“I do.”
Taniel nodded to himself. “Good. What about Claremonte?”
“I’m going to proceed cautiously. Are you coming to my council meeting?”
“Will Ricard be there?”
“I imagine so.”
“I probably shouldn’t, then.”
“You can’t run from being Second Minister,” Tamas said. “You gave your word.”
“I was bullied into it.”
Tamas set his teeth, trying to rein in his anger. “You took advantage of what avenue of escape was available at the time. You’ll follow through on your word.”
“Or what?” There was defiance in Taniel’s eyes.
“Or no one will ever respect you.”
Taniel looked away.
“It’s part of the game,” Tamas said, trying to soften his tone. “Part of life. You think I wanted to be the Iron King’s lapdog when I was not much older than you? No. But I did what I had to do to survive. We’re here. Come upstairs.”
They had arrived at the western entrance to the People’s Court, Sablethorn looming over them from across Elections Square. Tamas dismounted, and his soldiers took their places by the doors, Gavril in command, while a core group of them followed him inside.
It had been only a few months since he last set foot in the cavernous building, but it felt like half a lifetime. He didn’t recognize most of the staff they passed in the halls, and the corridors felt vaguely alien, as if he were walking them for the first time.
They climbed to the sixth floor and approached Manhouch’s former office, and Tamas could hear shouting from a hundred paces down the hall. He doubled his pace.
He pushed open the door to find Ondraus sitting in one of the wingback chairs in the corner, looking crossly over his reading glasses at Ricard Tumblar. Ricard was red in the face, his beard unkempt as he shook his fist beneath Ondraus’s nose. Lady Winceslav stood behind Ricard with a fan in one hand, trying to look dignified.
“You damned dirty traitor!” Ricard was shouting. “You prig! You villain! I’ll kill you with my own hands!” Lady Winceslav leapt forward to grab Ricard’s arm, pulling him away from Ondraus.
“What’s going on here?” Tamas demanded.
Lady Winceslav opened her mouth, but Ricard cut her off, thrusting a finger at Ondraus. “He’s gone over to the other side! He’s put his support behind Claremonte. He’s running as Claremonte’s Second Minister!”
“I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this,” Lady Winceslav said.
Ricard rounded on her. “Don’t get me started on you, Lady. Your people abandoned the army before the war was over. Do you know how that looks to public perception? We’re supposed to be a unified face!”
“I had every right.” Winceslav drew herself up. “My advisers felt that Field Marshal Tamas had lost his perspective, and his series of blunders had given us—I’m sorry, Tamas, I don’t mean this to be personal.”
Tamas crossed the room to Manhouch’s immense desk and sat himself down behind it. He gave all three of them a cold smile. “No, no. Go on, please.”
“We felt that our losses—”
“You got scared and you pulled out of the fight!” Ricard said accusingly. “I thought we were all in this together and now I learn that this crazy old coot is one of Claremonte’s stooges!”
Ondraus sat up straighter. “Now, listen here—”
“No, you listen!” Lady Winceslav’s voice rose to a shout. “We all have our own reasons for what we’ve done! I don’t think—”
The room devolved into a jumble of heated shouting and finger pointing. Tamas rested his chin on his palm, listening for a few moments before he pointed at Olem and snapped his fingers. Olem removed his pistol and carefully loaded it without a bullet. He crossed from the door and handed the pistol to Tamas.
The blast of the shot brought everything to silence. Three sets of eyes stared at him, the members of his council frozen in their places.
Tamas breathed deeply of the powder smoke from the end of his pistol and set it on the desk. “Can you win the election?”
> Ricard tugged furiously at his beard and began to pace, eyeing the Reeve suspiciously.
“Just answer the question,” Tamas said.
“I have the best people in all the Nine running my campaign. They tell me it’s a close thing. I’ve been matching Claremonte penny for penny as he bribes, threatens, and cajoles his way toward Election Day, and I’m almost out of money. He’s not.”
“That’s not the reassurance I was looking for,” Tamas muttered. More loudly he said, “What do you need to win?”
Ricard glanced at Taniel, who stood near the balcony windows, looking out over Elections Square. “The election is on the last day of autumn, which is just a few days away. Appearances from my running mate would help things. An endorsement from you would be enormously beneficial.”
“You’ll have it in the newspaper tomorrow morning,” Tamas said. For all the things he didn’t like about Ricard, the man was a gifted businessman. If he could run a country halfway as well as he ran the union, Adro would be the jewel of the Nine for decades to come. “I suppose just killing Claremonte would be out of the question?” he asked mildly.
Ricard stiffened. “Absolutely. We have worked far too hard for this election. We made the rules and we must play by them, else we’ve accomplished nothing.”
“I agree,” Lady Winceslav said.
“Well, at least there’s that.” Tamas gazed at his still-smoking pistol. The world was changing, and in a few days’ time he wouldn’t have the power he once had to silence his enemies. He had to relinquish that power willingly.
“Besides, the Proprietor already tried that,” Ondraus added. “It didn’t work.”
Ricard slammed his fist down on the back of a sofa. “I knew he was behind it! Blast him!”
“Where is the eunuch, anyway?” Tamas asked. “And Prime Lektor?”
“The eunuch is dead,” Ondraus said shortly. “The Proprietor has not yet appointed a replacement to this council.”
“Nor will he. It’s too late in the game for a replacement. After the election this council will be dissolved anyway. As,” Tamas said loudly, raising his hand to forestall protest, “we all agreed when this began. How about Prime?”
The Autumn Republic Page 44
