Powder Mage: The Autumn Republic Part 28

"One of these days I'm going to have you shot for that insubordinate tone, Olem."

"Of course, sir."

"Pit, you're insufferable."

"You did make me a colonel."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I've met a lot of colonels, sir. They're all insufferable."

Tamas waved some cigarette smoke away from his face. "What about Arbor? He was a colonel until a few hours ago, and you always seemed to like him."

"Have you played cards with General Arbor, sir?"

"No."

"He's insufferable too. Likable, but insufferable."

"Can one be both?"

"He is."

"Pit. I don't have time for this. What were you telling me before?"

"A report on our powder stores, sir."

"Do we have enough for an extended campaign against the Kez?"

"Yes. Barely. Despite the Brudanians holding Adro, we're still getting shipments from Ricard's businesses. Even more now that General Ket isn't there to skim off the top."

"Good. Then skip the report. Anything else important this morning?"

Olem addressed the stack of notes in his hand. He flipped through them, grumbling to himself. "Beon je Ipille arrived with the Seventh and Ninth. He'd like to meet with you at your convenience."

"It can wait. If I see one of Ipille's sp.a.w.n right now, I'd probably shoot him in the heart. And I actually like Beon. Have all of my promotions gone through?"

"Most of them," Olem said. "All senior officers will be waiting for you in your tent at eight o'clock."

Tamas checked his pocket watch. "We'd better finish this quickly, then."

"Of course, sir." Olem shuffled through his papers and cleared his throat.

"What is it?" Tamas's mind was already drifting back to Ipille. He could feel the bile in the back of his throat, and it wasn't hard to envision putting his bayonet through Ipille's prodigious gut.

"There's one more thing, sir."

"Spit it out!"

"Me, sir."

"What in the Nine are you talking about?"

Olem put his papers away in his saddlebag. "Things are a bit confusing, sir."

"You're my bodyguard, aren't you?"

"Yes sir. That's what's confusing." Olem shifted in his saddle and cleared his throat.

Tamas's patience was wearing thin. "Get to it."

"You made me a colonel. Colonels, traditionally, aren't bodyguards or aides-de-camp."

Was this so important that Olem had to bring it up right this instant? Most men don't usually go from sergeant to colonel in the s.p.a.ce of eight months, either, but Tamas had promoted Olem nonetheless because it fit his needs. "True," he said.

"I don't think I deserve to be a colonel, sir. I'd like you to demote me."

Tamas stared at Olem. "This? Again?"

"Yes sir. I don't have my own command. Keeping me a colonel but also your bodyguard and aide doesn't make sense. I don't mind the demotion at all."

"You don't mind...? d.a.m.n it, Olem. You're going to mind what I tell you to mind. You want a command? You have one now."

"Sir?"

"The Seventh is yours."

Olem's cigarette fell out of his mouth. "But sir! You were going to give the Seventh to Colonel-I mean General-Arbor."

"General Arbor has the First and the Third. They've been humiliated by Ket and Hilanska's treason and he's going to whip them into shape. You will combine the best men from the Seventh and the Ninth to form the new Seventh, which will be called the Marshal's Own Riflejack Brigade."

Olem sat up straight.

Tamas continued. "You don't have a lot of command experience, but you know people. I'll leave it to you to choose your officers. Choose them well, because you're still going to spend most of your time with me."

"Are you certain, sir?"

"Of course."

"You'll need a new bodyguard."

"No, I won't."

"Uh, sir?"

Tamas leaned over to Olem and slapped him on the shoulder. "You're still my bodyguard, and the whole d.a.m.n Seventh will be too. There's no one else I trust to watch my back."

For once, Olem had no snappy comeback. "Thank you, sir. I'm honored."

"Don't be honored. Just do your job. Now, let's go meet with the senior staff. We have an offensive to plan."

Tamas met his senior officers in his command tent in the center of the camp.

Roughly twenty-five men and women had crammed inside the tent: generals and colonels from most of the brigades. More than half of the faces among them were new officers, recently promoted, and Tamas knew he still had almost a dozen promotions to make before the end of the day. The Wings of Adom brigadiers were conspicuously absent. Lady Winceslav had been true to her word and withdrawn all but a token force from the front lines.

Because of the lack of the mercenaries and the inexperience of his new officers, Tamas knew this conference couldn't wait. The officers-and their men-needed to know where they stood.

Tamas entered through a slit at the back of the tent, hiding his limp and the pain in his side as he quietly took his place at the head of the gathering. Olem was already waiting. He'd spread a few papers on Tamas's desk: casualty figures, regiment strengths, the names of new senior officers. Tamas had gone over all of that hours ago, but it would be good to have something to reference.

He stood behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back, and let his eyes rest at the entrance of the tent.

The seconds ticked by, then turned into minutes. Someone toward the back of the group cleared their throat, and Tamas listened to the shouts of a quartermaster rise over the general din of the camp.

Five minutes pa.s.sed before one of the new generals raised his hand, false teeth clenched in his fist.

"Yes?" Tamas asked.

General Arbor lowered his hand. "We waiting for someone, sir?"

"We are," Tamas said. "Olem, would you see if our guest has arrived?"

Olem ducked out through the back. Several more minutes pa.s.sed and Tamas could sense his officers begin to get restless. What was this about, he imagined them wondering. Why did he have them waiting here, standing at attention like common infantrymen, when they had work to do?

Tamas decided to let them stew. It shouldn't be longer than a few more minutes now.

Tamas wondered if his Riflejacks had managed to catch up with Taniel yet. It was an unexpected surprise that the Seventh and Ninth had arrived in the middle of the night, but a welcome one. He needed his best veterans more than ever now, and...

The sound of galloping horses cut off his thought. Shouts accompanied the sound-of surprise, but not alarm-from among the soldiers outside. Tamas could sense his senior officers getting nervous at the sound, and was glad to see some of them mimic his stony composure.

Every head in the room turned as the tent flap was swept aside. Olem stepped inside and announced, "His Lordship, King Sulem the Ninth, of Deliv."

A murmur among the officers quickly faded into silence as the Deliv king swept into the command tent. He held his plumed bicorne under one arm and wore a Kelly-green officer's dress uniform, the chest of which was caked in decorations. He was a handsome man with gray hair curled near the scalp, a strong jaw, and white teeth that seemed to shine in contrast with his ebony skin.

Tamas took a deep breath and let it out slowly to calm his nerves. The situation had changed since his last talk with Sulem, and he was not sure if Deliv support would change once they were better informed.

The Deliv king approached and gave Tamas a short nod. Tamas responded in kind, and watched as Sulem turned to survey the a.s.sembled officers.

Tamas had been curious how his officers would react to a king in their midst and was pleased to see them all give the same respectful nod as he had. Sulem may be an ally, but Tamas wanted it to be clear to him-and to the rest of the kings of the Nine-that Adrans did not bow and sc.r.a.pe before royalty. If anything, Sulem seemed amused. He did not, however, return their nod.

Sulem took a place beside Tamas, facing the officers.

Olem approached and leaned to whisper in Tamas's ear, "Beon is outside. He's heard an inkling of what's happened and is demanding to see you."

"Restrain him. Gently."

Olem disappeared discreetly out the back of the tent and returned a few moments later. "It's done."

Tamas cleared his throat to get his officers' attention. "Thank you for joining us, Your Majesty," Tamas said. He paused to examine his officers once more. Fine men and women, every one of them. People he could place his confidence in, who would stand beside him against the world. He felt a sudden tightness in his throat, a cloudiness to his vision, and forced himself to choke down the emotion.

"Five days ago, King Ipille of Kez sued for peace. Not a terrible surprise considering the walloping we gave his army at Ned's Creek." There was a round of chuckles, which Tamas let die down on its own. "Just yesterday I met with him to begin peace talks that would end this war once and for all. The talks went better than I had expected and I returned to camp last night optimistic for the first time in five months that the bloodshed would end.

"Optimistic until I saw the flames, that is. As you are no doubt all aware, we were attacked by a contingent of Kez Privileged and grenadiers. The Thirteenth suffered heavy casualties, as did the Seventy-Fifth Dragoons, which tried to cut off their retreat from our camp. We..." Tamas chewed on his cheek for a moment, forcing down his rage. "Well, you all have the report on the attack. It ends with this: 'We were attacked under a white flag of parley.' "

There was an angry mutter among the officers, and Tamas continued. "This is a sin I will not forgive. This war has been one of defensive battles: Ned's Creek, Shouldercrown, Surkov's Alley, Budwiel. We have suffered betrayal and corruption. We have stood before the might of a sick and petty G.o.d. Today, my friends, my brothers and sisters, we go on the offensive."

Tamas paused to think of the foreign army that held Adro, and knew that this was just one of many offensives he would need to rally in the coming days. "Today I march to the enemy camp at Fendale. We will set upon the Kez army like a dog on a rat and we will rid this country of vermin. There will be no quarter given until every Kez cur has been driven from our borders. They have sullied our nation for long enough."

Tamas took another deep breath and clutched his trembling hands behind his back. "Do you march with me?"

A moment of silence followed, and then General Arbor's voice rang clear. "The First and the Third reporting and ready, sir."

"The Seventh is yours," Olem said.

"You have the Nineteenth," General Slarren called from the back.

More voices joined, until every one of the senior staff had given their cry of support. Finally, when the last zealous cheers had died down, King Sulem stepped forward. His gaze swept over the a.s.sembled officers and then he turned sharply toward Tamas and drew his sword.

Olem took half a step forward. Tamas's heart leapt to his throat.

Sulem took his sword by the blade and bowed low at the waist, holding the hilt toward Tamas. "You have my sword. You have my pistol. You have my Privileged and artillery. You have my sixty thousand. Our alliance will cause Ipille to quake and the Kez will pay for their crimes."

Tamas couldn't hide his amazement. He knew royalty. He had been honored by the old Iron King of Adro, as well as by the king of Novi. But he had never experienced anything like this before. Reaching out, he took Sulem's sword in hand, then held it over his head.

"I would die for my country. But I'd rather kill for it. Ready your troops. We march!"

CHAPTER.

25.

Adamat's carriage neared Adopest fifteen days after he'd initially set out south with Privileged Borbador, carrying a warrant for General Ket's arrest.

The city seemed strange to him when viewed from afar. The red of the fall leaves and gold of the fields seemed to hide the brick smokestacks and warehouses of the Factory District, and Adopest seemed less to him than it had been before. It wasn't until he had lost the view and entered into the southern parts of the city that he decided why that was so: The Kresim Cathedral no longer dominated the center of the city, standing like a beacon above most of the other buildings.

Adamat noted the wreckage of a dozen churches as his carriage wound through the southern suburbs and then through the Factory District and headed north toward his home. It was four o'clock, the autumn sun already well on its way to the western horizon, when he was dropped at his front door, and he had worked himself into a fury over Claremonte's men having destroyed all the churches in Adopest.

What right had they? This was not their city. Not their country. And yet no one had opposed them when they pulled the priests from their chapels and murdered them in the streets; when Claremonte's Privileged had torn down the churches with sorcery, laying waste to every brick.