The Crimson Campaign(The Powder Mage Trilogy)(85)

"Yes?" He didn't open his eyes.

"Won't they arrest you when they find out who you are?"

"More than likely."

"And won't they kill you if you try to rescue Taniel with sorcery?"

Bo's eyes opened. "Almost certainly. I'll be right back." He left the room, hurrying like a man who had just realized he'd left the kettle on in the kitchen.

Nila listened to his footfalls down the hallway and then down the stairs. She could hear the sound of his boots crunching on the gravel drive outside.

She was alone now, in this great manor that had once been her home. She lifted her lantern and did a slow circuit of the duke's office. Several minutes passed, and Nila began to wonder where Bo had gone. Had he abandoned her?

No. She realized that the lockbox was still sitting on the floor, and beside it a pair of Bo's Privileged's gloves.

She sat down next to the lockbox and flipped open the lid. Taking a book in one hand, she began to leaf through it slowly. She recognized the duke's penmanship on each page. There were what appeared to be diary entries and then, later on, columns and figures. Once in a while there would be a name, underlined. None of it made any sense to her.

She put the book back. The next one was much the same, and again with the third. Bo would have to sort these out and find what he was looking for, but he seemed happy to have these. She picked up his gloves. Strange that he would leave them here.

Nila listened for the sound of his footfalls in the house or on the drive. Nothing.

She stared at the gloves by the light of the candle. This was one of the pairs she'd mended. She could tell by the coffee stain next to one of the runes. On an impulse, she slid the glove over her hand.

She'd expected a shock. Perhaps something that would hurt her. There were stories about Privilegeds who warded everything they owned so that other people couldn't use them. But nothing happened when she put the glove on. She slid the other over her left hand.

They were too big for her by quite a bit. Why had Bo been so eager for her to put them on? She didn't remember ever having to put on gloves when the Privileged dowsers had visited her orphanage when she was young.

Nila held her hand away from her face and shied away, closing her eyes. She snapped her fingers.

Again, nothing.

"I really thought that would work."

Nila nearly leapt out of her skin. She tore the gloves off her hands and threw them on the floor.

Bo stood in the doorway, watching her.

"What?" Nila said, getting to her feet. "You thought what would work?"

Bo strolled into the room. How had he gotten back upstairs without making any sound? "You don't have the glow in the Else," Bo said, "but people who haven't before tapped their potential rarely do. I thought there was something about you. Perhaps a Knack, or maybe even sorcery. I've been waiting almost two weeks for you to finally try on a pair of Privileged's gloves."

Nila smoothed the front of her dress and turned up her nose. Trickery! "Well, I'm not a Privileged," she said. "Get that out of your head."

Bo crossed the room quickly. She took a half step back, and suddenly she felt the sting of his palm across her cheek.

Fury rose up inside her. He had slapped her! Unprovoked. She drew back her fist.

"Wait!" Bo said.

Nila wasn't sure why she'd stopped.

"Look."

Nila looked at her hand, the one cocked back in a fist, ready to beat Bo to a pulp. It was wreathed in blue flame. She could feel the heat of the flame on her face but not on her hand. She gave a shout and leapt back, shaking the hand until the flame went out. What had happened? How had she done that?

"Sorry about the slap," Bo said, his eyes both gleeful and wary at the same time. "I needed to elicit an emotional reaction from you."

"You could have just kissed me," Nila snapped.

"Oh? I'll keep that in mind next time." Bo rubbed his chin. "It appears, young lady, that you are a Privileged. You can tap into the Else. What's more  –  and this is really interesting  –  you weren't wearing gloves just then."





CHAPTER




37




Tamas and Vlora slipped into Alvation under the cover of night.

The river was easy enough to cross  –  slippery and treacherous, and cold as Novi's frosted toes, being runoff from the mountains  –  but no more than thigh-deep.

As they made their way past the mills and into the tenement district, Tamas realized he'd never heard streets so quiet in the middle of the night. If he closed his eyes, he might imagine himself out on the plateau but for the infrequent step of boots on cobbles from patrolling Kez and the occasional bark of a dog. There was no one about but the patrols. He didn't even hear the familiar slosh of chamber pots being emptied out of windows.

Nikslaus had the city under martial law, and from the look of the bodies hanging from the bell tower in the city center, he was serious about punishing infractions.

Tamas took note of the powder that Vlora had sensed. There did seem to be quite a lot of it scattered throughout the city, and not just in munition caches. They had enough to supply twenty brigades  –  which seemed strange, because there weren't any Deliv soldiers around and it was far more than the Kez could carry.

As they passed through the market district, there was a sudden shout nearby. Tamas stopped to listen, and a moment later the crack of muskets filled the air.

Tamas motioned for Vlora to follow and sprinted toward the sound. It couldn't have been more than two or three streets over. He climbed a nearby market building and headed quietly toward the edge.

The street below was a war zone.

Bodies littered the cobbles, no more than lumps in the darkness, lying in pools of their own blood.

An experienced eye told Tamas that the Deliv had sprung a trap on a Kez patrol. The initial volley had done its work, cutting down half the patrol, but the rest had taken the fight to the Deliv partisans and were making short work with their bayoneted muskets.

Tamas drew his pistols.
 
 

 

"Not our fight," Vlora whispered urgently in his ear.

He hesitated a few moments, and that was long enough for the Kez patrol to finish cleaning up the partisans. What remained of the Deliv fled into the night. The patrol regrouped to tend to their dead and make prisoners of the wounded partisans.

Tamas descended from the rooftop and headed back down the street. When they'd gone far enough, he said, "An organized resistance. They're trying to take back the city."

Vlora had her nose to the wind, her ear cocked. She nodded slowly as her eyes searched the night. Like him, she was in a powder trance, listening, smelling  –  trying to get a bearing on the state of the city.

"But how organized?" she asked. "We're trying to liberate the city in one day. Not help a small group of partisans."

Of course she was right. Tamas needed to keep perspective. He had a goal for the night, and needed to reach it.

They passed out of the market district, then a small suburb of close-packed houses, before they reached a wealthier part of town. Along the way they passed two more fights between Deliv and false Adran soldiers. The houses became farther apart, most of them surrounded by gardens with high walls, and the street was wide enough for six carriages. Tamas felt like he finally knew where he was.

Hailona's home was one of these manors.

Tamas heard the sudden sound of a man shouting. Another voice joined the first and then a musket blast. The racket grew louder  –  it was coming up the street behind them. Tamas cast about for someplace to hide but saw only the empty, wide street and walled yards.

"Quick," Tamas said. He dropped to one knee, making a hammock of his fingers, and jerked his head at the wall beside them. Vlora put her foot in his hands, and he pushed her up and over the brick wall. She put her hand back down, but even when he jumped, it was well out of reach. Tamas looked back down the street.

A small group of Deliv appeared around the bend. There were eight  –  no, nine  –  of them. Most limped desperately as they fled from an unseen foe. They wore greatcoats and wide-brimmed hats, concealing their features. One stopped and fired a pistol around the corner of the walled yard they'd just rounded. He leapt back from returning fire.

Tamas dropped to the ground, pulling his legs up and covering his face with his coat and hat. The only place to hide was in plain sight. At best, they'd think him a drunk or vagrant.

He watched beneath the brim of his hat as the Deliv worked their way along the other side of the street, looking over their shoulders continuously.

The source of their fear revealed itself a few moments later. A man ducked around the corner behind them, aimed his musket, and fired. He wore the Adran blues  –  but he was no Adran. He was followed by more of the same. They ran across the street, taking cover behind the thick-grown trees beside the street, firing haphazardly at the Deliv as they retreated.

One Deliv staggered and fell. He waved on the rest of them, cursing loudly when others stopped to help.

Tamas felt his fingers close around the hilt of his small sword. His heart began to beat harder. Could he just watch this slaughter and stand idly by?

The Deliv were outnumbered two to one, and most of them were wounded. Wherever they were retreating to, they wouldn't make it.

A Kez soldier dashed behind one of the decorative oaks that lined the street. He was less than a dozen feet away and hadn't seemed to notice Tamas's huddled form. He stopped to reload his musket, clearing his barrel and priming the powder. Tamas felt his knuckles so tight on his sword they chafed. His trance-attuned hearing picked up Vlora's whisper from on top of the wall: "Not our fight."