The Autumn Republic (26 page)

Hewi gave a nod and stepped outside. Adamat felt his heart suddenly beat a little faster. Alone? With Claremonte? The temptation to brain him over the head with his cane might prove too much. He nodded to SouSmith, and a moment later he was alone with Lord Claremonte.

“Inspector,” Claremonte said. “I hope that any past unpleasantness that you may think occurred between us can remain in the past.”

Adamat bit his tongue.
Your man kidnapped my wife and family! Abused them in unspeakable ways, and caused the death of my son! I’ll see you dead
. “As you say,” he said, remembering one of the phrases he used to use when caught in an awkward conversation with a nobleman.

“Don’t waste your time with me, Inspector. I didn’t try to kill Mr. Tumblar. I don’t know who did. I would offer my help with the investigation, but I don’t think you’d accept it.”

“We’ll see,” Adamat said, matching Claremonte’s condescending tone. “Thank you for the advice.”

Claremonte quickly rose from his seat and crossed the room to stand beside Adamat. The sun shone just behind him, surrounding Claremonte with a glowing halo and forcing Adamat to look away. “If I wanted Mr. Tumblar dead, Adamat,” Claremonte said, his voice barely above a whisper, “then he’d be dead.”

“Or else your men cocked up the job.”

Claremonte snorted. “Indeed. You’re a very suspicious man, Inspector. Be sure it doesn’t put you in an early grave.” Claremonte turned away, his back to Adamat, and Adamat was sorely tempted to take a swing at him. One well-placed strike with his cane could paralyze the man – Adamat was sure he’d then be able to strangle him before anyone returned to the room.

Instead, he tried to come up with some witty retort. When none was forthcoming, he joined Hewi, SouSmith, and Hewi’s officers in the servants’ halls.

“What did he want?” Hewi asked.

“Nothing important,” Adamat murmured.

They were led back out through the maze of corridors and servants’ doors to the side of the palace and Adamat got inside his carriage. It rocked heavily when SouSmith climbed in beside him. Adamat rapped on the ceiling with his cane, but the carriage didn’t move.

“Inspector,” Hewi said, coming to the window. “You should steer clear of Claremonte.”

I should. But I won’t
. “I have work to do, Commissioner. With all due respect.”

“And with all due respect, steer clear. Claremonte isn’t the man we want.”

“How do you know?”

Hewi tipped her hat back and leaned into the carriage. She glanced at SouSmith, then gestured for Adamat to step outside. He followed her a dozen paces from the carriage. “One of the officers I had with me is a Knacked,” she said in a low voice. “We keep it quiet, because he’s very hard to see in the Else if you have the third eye.”

“What is his Knack?” Adamat asked.

“Swear to keep this quiet?”

Adamat nodded.

“He can hear lies. He knows when a man is telling the truth or a fib. It’s one of our secret weapons, and if it ever got out, the Proprietor would doubtless have him killed.”

Adamat whistled. “With good reason.” He’d heard of Knackeds like that. One of the most valuable Knacks in the world, and very rare. Adamat wanted to ask what the man was doing working for a police force in Adopest when he could be some king’s truthsayer and living like, well, a king. But that would have to wait.

“And you’re saying that Claremonte didn’t lie?”

“Not a word of it. Fudged a little bit when he said we could have access to all his employees, but that’s no surprise. A man like that has secrets. But he didn’t order Ricard killed.”

Adamat bid farewell to the commissioner and returned to his carriage, dropping into his seat with a sigh.

“Somethin’ important?” SouSmith asked.

“Claremonte isn’t our man.”

“Hmm.”

“My thought exactly. I don’t even bloody well know where to start if it’s not Claremonte.” The carriage was soon rolling, and Adamat slowly went through the list of Ricard’s known enemies in his head. “We’ll have to go see Ricard. I have to find out if Claremonte has as good a chance at winning as he seems to think. Maybe we’ll have a…” Adamat trailed off, a thought entering his mind.

“What?”

“We need to go to the library, too. It’ll have to wait until tomorrow, but…
P
it!”

SouSmith cocked an eyebrow at him. “Yeah?”

“I just figured out what was bothering me so much about that room. Claremonte was sitting in the window, with the morning sun at his back.”

“And?”

“And he didn’t cast a shadow.”

“F
ield Marshal Tamas!”

The voice echoed up the line and made Tamas’s shoulders tighten with recognition. He could hear the approaching rhythm of hoofbeats and the occasional curse of the infantrymen as a man rode up the lines too closely. A glance beside him showed Olem turned in his saddle – not, as some might think, to look toward the rider, but to see which soldiers he’d show the back of his hand later that night.

This was no time to tolerate any show of disrespect, even to Adro’s enemies.

“Good afternoon, Beon,” Tamas said as the rider came abreast of him.

“Field Marshal,” Beon said. The third in line for the Kez throne looked well. His wounds had healed nicely, thanks to the Deliv Privileged, and his cheeks were fuller now from weeks of inaction and enjoying Sulem’s hospitality. “I must speak with you.”

“It appears you already are,” Tamas commented. The wound in his side still itched despite Sulem’s healers and he imagined he could still feel the sharp pain deep in his flesh, though whether that was real or was due to the sting of an old friend’s betrayal, he did not know.

Beon had a boyish face despite being in his late twenties – the effects of cabal sorcery meant to keep the royal family looking young – and Tamas thought that the pale scars from the Battle at Kresimir’s Fingers helped make him look more serious. He removed his hat and mopped at his forehead. “In private, if possible.”

Tamas exchanged a look with Olem. The bodyguard gave a slight smirk.

“There’s not a lot of privacy on the march, Sir Prince,” Tamas said.

“This is a serious matter,” Beon insisted. “I have…” – he checked himself, glancing toward the nearby marching infantry, and lowered his voice – “I have learned that you sent away my father’s messengers. Without even hearing them!”

“Someone’s tongue has been wagging, Olem.”

“I’ll see to it, sir,” Olem said gravely.

Beon stiffened. “I don’t make use of spies, but I do have ears, sir! Your men talk to each other loudly and I need only but listen to find out what’s going on in the camp.”

“You disapprove? I find letting my men gossip is easier and more beneficial than the Kez way – silence enforced by fear. Keeps up the morale.”

“You evade my meaning.”

“The messengers? It’s true. I have nothing to say to them and nothing to hear from them. You know what your father did.”

“But
did
he do it?” Beon demanded. “Can you be certain?”

“I have the bodies of thirty-seven grenadiers in Kez uniforms, carrying Kez muskets, bayonets, swords, and powder. They have Kez coins in their purses and they wear boots made in the south of Kez. That’s fairly damning evidence.”

“I would agree, sir, but…”

“But what?” Tamas felt his ire returning. He respected Beon. He even liked him, as much as he could like a member of the Kez royal family. He was a talented cuirassier and had a sharp mind. Tamas had not thought him so naïve.

Beon plowed on before Tamas could continue. “But I don’t think my father would have done this. Why did they go west instead of south? If they were my father’s men, they would have bolted straight for the Kez lines after such a daring attack.”

“They went west because they hit the rear of the camp and it was easier and faster to take the western road and skirt brigades than it would have been to fight through them. And you don’t think he would have done this? Your father, who authorized the sacking of Alvation in order to turn Deliv against Adro? Your father, who by your own admission is just as likely to have you executed for your failure to stop me as he is to welcome you, his son, back from a harrowing campaign?” Tamas shook his head. “Explain it to me. And use small words, for I fear I’m not as nimble-minded as you on this matter.”

Beon scowled at Tamas, and Tamas was reminded of Ipille’s famous temper. Would Beon reach over and strike him for that? And would Olem shoot him the moment he did? Part of him wanted to find out. But this wasn’t the time. “This isn’t Kez,” Tamas said softly. “And you decided to march with me instead of with the Deliv. You will be accorded respect, but your royalty means little here, son of Ipille.”

“Not even my father would break a flag of truce,” Beon said after a moment, chewing on his words as if he hoped to convince himself of their truth.

“I think he would. I know he did. You can go see the bodies of those grenadiers yourself, if you like. They’re in some wagons back near the rear of the column. I intend on flinging them at your father’s feet before I fling
him
in a dungeon and ransom him back to Kez for all the krana in your damned country.”

Beon drew himself up, fingers tightening on the hilt of a cavalry saber that wasn’t there. “You go too far.”

“Sir,” Olem said quietly. Tamas tore his gaze away from Beon long enough to look at his bodyguard. Olem held his cigarette to his lips with one hand, gazing over his fingertips calmly at Tamas.

Tamas felt his anger slip. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said to Beon.

“Then see his messengers!” Beon said. “You can avoid more bloodshed.”

“No, no. You’re not right about your father. You’re right that I went too far and I apologize for that. Your father attacked us under a flag of truce – likely unaware that the Deliv were as close as they were. He will pay for that crime, though I suspect it is his people who will pay the price and not he himself. Further bloodshed is unavoidable.”

There was something that bothered Tamas. Ipille
must
have known that the Deliv forces were on their way. He must know that Deliv had already invaded Kez from the northwest. Why would he dare such a raid against the Adran camp?

Each time he pondered it, he came to the same conclusion: Ipille had somehow learned of Ka-poel and her power over Kresimir and had gambled everything on her capture. Perhaps even now he was learning how to bring Kresimir out of his slumber so that the god could destroy everything in his path. Had Ipille grown so desperate? The stories Taniel had told Tamas about the night he stole Kresimir’s bloody bedsheets had made Tamas’s skin crawl. How could even Ipille want anything to do with such a creature as this mad god?

Tamas wondered briefly if the Deliv royal cabal would be able to put up any kind of fight in the face of such power.

This wasn’t information Tamas was about to relay to Beon. Instead, he said, “Your father’s messengers are a delaying tactic. He will try to put me off as long as possible while he brings up fresh troops from Kez. I will not allow that to happen.”

Beon relented and stared at his saddle horn in contemplation. Tamas welcomed the silence, hoping that Beon would remain that way, and wondered how Taniel had reacted to his sending Vlora and Gavril to help. It had been a difficult decision – one that might drive Taniel to distraction, but Tamas hoped that Taniel’s drive to save his savage lover would force him to work with Vlora. There was no deadlier pair in the powder cabal than those two, save Taniel and Tamas himself.

Maybe Gavril could keep their heads level.

Olem drew Tamas’s attention to a messenger galloping down the lines. She wore the blue-and-silver uniform of an Adran dragoon. The woman was covered in sweat and dust, and Tamas noted blood on her silver collar. She reined in ahead of him and saluted.

“Corporal Salli reporting, sir, of the Seventy-Ninth Dragoons. Sir, a moment to catch my breath, sir!”

“Granted,” Tamas said, exchanging a glance with Olem. The Seventy-Ninth were supposed to be scouting the western plains. Had the Kez Privileged from the other night tried to cut across the plains and run into his dragoons? “General Beon, if you would excuse me.” Tamas waited until the Kez prince had fallen back out of earshot, then said, “Are you wounded, soldier?”

A quizzical look crossed her face, then she touched her collar. “Oh, this? Not my blood, sir. Belongs to some Kez cuirassier.”

Olem brought his mount up next to hers and offered his canteen, which she took gratefully, draining half in one go and splashing a little on her face and neck before handing it back. “Thank you, sir.”

“Your report?” Olem asked.

“We were attacked a little north of Gillsfellow by Kez cuirassiers. We outnumbered them two to one, but they managed to surprise us, and took their toll before we were able to recover and win the day.”

“How many did you lose?” Tamas asked.

“A hundred and twenty-seven dead, three hundred and twelve wounded. We killed one hundred and seventy-one of the enemy and captured twice that many, most of whom are wounded.”

“Could be worse, I suppose.”

“It is, sir. We lost Colonel Davis.”

Tamas swore. Colonel Davis was a capable cavalry commander, if a little shortsighted at times. “Gillsfellow is north of us. Damn it, how did they get behind us? And what the pit are they doing so far north?”

Corporal Salli shook her head. “Not sure, sir. I passed two companies of our dragoons on my way to give a report. The Thirty-Sixth has been badly mauled, and their major has lost all his messengers. Gave me a report for you.” She handed the report to Olem. “I also spotted more Kez in the distance, about eight miles northwest of here. Looked like dragoons, at least a regiment of them.”

Tamas took the report and glanced over it before handing it to Olem. “Get some rest, Corporal. I’ll have orders ready for the Seventy-Ninth in a quarter of an hour.”

The messenger saluted and rode on down the line. Tamas swore again under his breath. “I can’t afford to lose any more senior officers. Find out if there’s anyone worth promoting among the Seventy-Ninth. If not, find a replacement from that list I gave you earlier.”

“Yes sir,” Olem said.

“Also, send messengers to our dragoon regiments. Let them know that Ipille is trying to win superiority of the plains. He must have sent all his remaining cavalry north the day after the parley. They should keep their eyes out for traps. He’s trying to distract us and I won’t let that happen. Send a messenger to Sulem and see if he can spare a couple thousand dragoons to reinforce our own.” Tamas tried to make sense of everything in his head. The battle would have taken place not far south of where Taniel was chasing those Kez Privileged. Perhaps the Kez cavalry were screening for the retreating grenadiers.

“Our cuirassiers, sir?”

“They’re too slow out in the open. I’m keeping them in reserve for when we meet the Kez lines. If Ipille wastes all his cavalry in a bid for the plains, he’ll have nothing to counter ours when it comes to the real battle.”

“But they’ll be behind us, sir.”

“And cut off from communication with the main army. A fact we can use to our advantage. See if Sulem has any riding Privileged.”

“Oh, that’ll be a nasty surprise for Ipille’s cavalry. Excellent thinking, sir.”

“Looks like another one coming in, sir.” Olem nodded up the line to where a horseman had just crested a hilltop and was coming down toward them along the road.

“Shit. What is it this time?”

The messenger was one of Tamas’s own – a ranger from the vanguard. “Sir,” he said before he’d come to a stop.

“Tell me we’re getting close to the enemy camp.”

The messenger grimaced. “We are, sir. A little under four miles.”

“But?”

“But they’re gone, sir. They’ve up and fled. They left this morning, marching double-time.”

Tamas felt as if a cold hand had reached into his gut. He dismissed the messenger and sat brooding in his saddle.

“Sir? Isn’t that a good thing?” Olem asked.

“No,” Tamas said. “It’s as I suspected: Ipille is pulling back, resorting to delaying actions. He just needs to keep us off of him long enough to awaken Kresimir, and then he’ll kill us all.”

“What do we do, sir?”

“We press on, and hope Taniel catches up to his savage Bone-eye in time.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then we’re all dead men anyway, and I intend on taking Ipille with me when we go.”