"The main body of cavalry will be here in an hour," Tamas said, gasping, his heart still pounding, the powder smoke stinging his eyes and reminding him that he was an old man.
Gavril brought his mount close to Tamas and lowered his voice. "What will we do with the dead and wounded?"
Tamas examined the field of battle. There were at least a thousand dead and wounded, counting the Kez and Adrans together. The Kez couldn't have retreated with more than three hundred of their men. There was no way Tamas could march with his wounded.
"Arbor!" Tamas said, searching. "Olem, find Arbor."
A few moments later, the old colonel joined him on the field. He had a new cut on his cheek and powder burns on his sleeves. He'd seen action himself, it seemed.
"Sir?"
"Status of the First Battalion?"
"Fine and kicking, sir. We gave 'em pit. No exact count yet, but I lost no more than two hundred men."
Two hundred men from Tamas's best battalion. Almost a fourth of them. It was a staggering victory against almost twelve hundred dragoons, but Tamas couldn't afford to lose a single man, let alone two hundred of his very best.
"Pack up your wounded. Send them up the column. Strip the battlefield of everything useful."
"Permission to slaughter the horses, sir?" Arbor said. "We need the meat."
"Granted. Give your men a battlefield burial. I wish we had more time, but I mean to be off this prairie when the rest of the Kez get here."
Arbor gave a brisk nod and headed off, giving orders.
"A battlefield burial, sir?" Olem asked.
"Something we did on the march in Gurla. When another army pressed on us after a fight, we'd wrap our dead in their canvas tents with their names marked on the canvas and hope the enemy had the decency to give them a proper burial." Tamas sighed. He didn't like battlefield burials. The dead deserved more respect than that.
"Did they?"
"What?"
"Did they give them a proper burial, sir?"
"Four times out of five … no. They'd leave them to rot in the Gurlish sun."
Tamas swung out of his saddle and knelt down beside a wounded Adran soldier. The man stared into the sky, teeth clenched, his knee a bloody mess. A single glance told Tamas that the leg would most likely have to be amputated. Until then, how to move the man at all? Tamas drew his knife and held the handle to the wounded man.
"Bite down on this," he said. "It'll ease the pain a bit. Olem, have a few boys check the city. Maybe there are some abandoned wagons. Gavril, have your men catch any of the unwounded Kez horses. We might need them."
He looked toward the southern horizon. Soon enough, fifteen thousand cavalry would breach that hill.
It took four whole days of searching and over a thousand krana in bribes before Adamat found where Field Marshal Tamas had stashed Borbador, the last living Privileged from Manhouch's royal cabal.
It was funny, Adamat decided, that he was using the field marshal's own money to try to undo his orders.
Colonel Verundish stood beside him. She was a smart-looking Deliv woman in her fifties, her ebony skin a complement to the dark blue of her Adran uniform, with straight black hair tied back.
"He's here?" Adamat asked.
"He is," she confirmed.
They stood on a bluff at the very northernmost district of Adopest, where the rows of houses abruptly gave way to farmland. Here, the streets didn't smell so much like shit and soot. Here, there were fewer factories and people.
Not a bad place to live. If Adamat survived long enough to retire, maybe he could move his family out here.
Verundish nodded down to the manor below them. The grounds were overgrown, most of the windows broken, the walls vandalized. Like so many other manors belonging to the nobility, it had been gutted by Tamas's troops of anything of value and then opened to the public after the execution of its former owner.
Adamat followed Verundish down from the bluff and entered the manor grounds by a back gate. The sorry state of the place made Adamat sad. He had no love of the nobility, not by any stretch, but many of these manors had been architectural works of art. Some had been burned to the ground, some crushed to rubble for their stone. This one had got off lightly with mere vandalism.
They entered through the servants' quarters and made their way to the second floor. Adamat counted two dozen men and women, all soldiers by their look. They wore greatcoats over their uniforms, despite the summer heat, and each one gave Adamat a cursory glance as he went by.
A glimpse of a chevron over a powder horn told Adamat that these were Riflejacks – more of Tamas's best soldiers.
Verundish stopped outside the last room toward the rear of the servants' quarters. "You've got five minutes," she said.
"What will you do with him?" Adamat asked. "Now that Tamas is dead?"
The colonel's lips curled into a scowl. "If Tamas is dead – we'll wait for his generals to return to Adopest and hand him over to them. They'll decide his fate."
"Tamas isn't in danger from him anymore."
"I don't care what you think you know, Inspector," Verundish said. "The field marshal slaughtered the cabal for a reason, and this man is its last living member. Now go on." Verundish lifted a pocket watch in one hand and looked down at it. "Your five minutes is ticking."
Adamat opened the door and slipped inside.
Privileged Borbador sat tied to a chair in the corner of the room. His feet were bound tight against the posts of the chair, his hands locked in stiff iron gloves that would prevent his fingers from moving. He looked comfortable, for all the tightness of the ropes. He was thinner than the last time Adamat had seen him, and his chin sported a full-grown beard. In front of him was a stand, like the kind that musicians used to hold their music. Bo looked up from it.
"Bo," Adamat said, taking his hat in his hands.
Bo cleared his throat. "Yes?"
"My name is Adamat. We met a few months ago at Shouldercrown."
"Inspector. Yes. I remember you. You're the one who brought my gaes to Tamas's attention."
Adamat grimaced. "I'm sorry. I was working for him."
"You're not anymore?"
"Well, the rumors are that he's dead."
Bo stretched his neck out and tilted his head from side to side. It was about the only part of him he could move. He didn't respond.
"Bo," Adamat said. "Has the necklace around your neck – the one supporting the gaes – loosened since his reported death?"
Bo's eyes narrowed. Not much, but just enough to give Adamat his answer. The gaes was still in place. Tamas was alive. And Bo hadn't told the soldiers guarding him.
"Interesting," Adamat said aloud.
"Think you could turn the page for me?" Bo nodded at the stand in front of him.
Adamat moved around to see a book propped on the stand. He obliged by turning it to the next page and then smoothing the page out with one hand.
"Many thanks. I've been staring at that one page for about half an hour now."
Adamat asked, "How strong is the compulsion to kill Tamas?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Could you resist it? He's quite far from here. Could you resist the compulsion to go looking for him?"
"For a time," Bo said. "Yes. It's only six months since Manhouch's death. I think I have a year until the gaes kills me."
"Two minutes!" Verundish called from the hallway.
Adamat lowered his voice. "If I get you out, will you help me?"
"Help you do what?"
"I need to rescue my wife and kill a man who is a threat to this entire country." Adamat had no idea if Bo was a patriot of any kind, but the addendum sounded good.
"What is this, some kind of pulp novel?" Bo smirked at him.
"It's very serious, actually."
Bo's smirk dissolved. "Why do you need my help?"
"The man I need to kill has over sixty men guarding him – one of them is a Privileged."
"Really, now? You work for Field Marshal Tamas – who is reported as dead – and you're going after a man who's kidnapped your wife and has the kind of resources to have sixty enforcers and a Privileged at his disposal?" Adamat could practically sense Bo's desire to flex his fingers. "Have you ever thought of getting out of the investigating business?"
"You don't know the half of it," Adamat said.
"Get me out of here and I'll spend a week as a mime in the King's Garden," Bo said, "whatever you want."
Adamat regarded the Privileged for a moment. Was he in any shape to fight another sorcerer? Adamat knew a Privileged needed gloves to do his magic, to protect his hands from being burned by the Else, but there was no sign of Bo's. Could a Privileged even be trusted?
"All right," Adamat said. "I'll do what I can."
Verundish opened the door. "Time is up, Inspector."
Adamat followed Verundish back out of the servants' quarters. She stopped him once they'd reached the edge of the manor grounds. "You can find your own way back?" she asked.
"Yes." Adamat examined her for a long moment. She watched him, her brown eyes unreadable. He would have guessed her as the military type even without the uniform – her back was straight, her hands clasped behind her like a soldier at ease.