The Autumn Republic

Tamas found himself less and less inclined to exercise restraint. He crossed to the Deliv magus. “All the power at your fingertips and you’ll let a single magebreaker shut you down?”

Doranth opened his mouth.

“No,” Tamas said. “No excuses. This is war, not some stupid bloody political game. If you can’t win it with the tools you have, you make new tools. Something you damned Privileged will never understand.”

“You’re a fool.”

“And you’re a coward.”

Doranth unfolded his arms to reveal he had put on his gloves. He threw his arms wide, like a bear ready to swipe, a snarl on his lips.

Tamas stepped inside Doranth’s guard, even as Olem drew his pistol. He stared up at the towering magus. “No,” he said. “Not a good idea. I may be an old man, but I’m running a mighty powder trance right now and I’ll twist your balls off before you can twitch a finger. You might be able to kill me before I can end you, but you’ll die squealing a moment later. Remember what I did to the Adran Cabal.”

Doranth’s arms shook with fury. Moments passed, and Tamas could feel the sweat rolling down his back and wondered idly if he really could take the magus with him. He was getting old. His reflexes weren’t what they once were.

Doranth lowered his arms and tugged his gloves off. “I will kill you, Powder Mage.”

“I’ll probably be long dead before you get the chance.” Tamas stepped away. “Let’s go, Olem.”

It wasn’t until they were out of the Deliv camp that Tamas allowed himself a relieved sigh. “Pit,” Tamas said, wiping his brow, “I should not threaten allied Privileged.”

“I thought it was an interesting tactical choice,” Olem said.

“And I thought you were around to keep me from doing stupid things.”

“You looked in control from where I was standing.”

“Then why did you draw your pistol?”

Olem shrugged. “Just in case.”

“You’re a man to inspire confidence.”

“I try.”

Tamas could sense a plan forming in his head. “Find me Beon je Ipille. And that Privileged girl. Meet me in my tent in twenty minutes.”

“His name,” Beon said, “is Saseram.”

Tamas watched Beon through narrowed eyes. He’d undone his jacket, as his tent felt warm and muggy despite the cool breeze outside. There was an ache deep in his bones, and he wondered how many years it had been since he last had a drink. “That’s a Gurlish name.”

“That’s because he is Gurlish,” Beon responded.

“A Gurlish cavalryman, fighting for the Kez? That seems a stretch.” Tamas glanced at Olem, who had raised a skeptical eyebrow. Nila stood beside him, looking uncertain of herself. She’d changed out of her scorched dress and now wore a white daydress with a violet scarf.

“He changed sides during the third campaign-it was his defection that allowed us to take Delfiss. This was all when I was very young, of course. All I know is what I’ve heard from father.”

“I’ve always wondered about Delfiss. So he’s a magebreaker?”

Beon smoothed the front of his uniform. “Well, I didn’t want to give up any state secrets, but if you already know-yes. That was a condition of his defection. He was once a very powerful Gurlish Privileged. My father wasn’t interested in allowing a foreign Privileged the run of his army. The way he tells it, Saseram agreed almost too quickly. He willed away his Privileged powers and became a magebreaker.”

“Magebreakers are former Privileged who are able to nullify sorcery,” Tamas said to Nila, who was looking more than a little lost. “Most of them had little power to start with, and that’s reflected in how close a proximity they must be to stop magic. I hired one once. He was fairly weak and had to be within spitting distance to stop sorcery. A powerful Privileged turned magebreaker can stop quite a bit more.”

Beon glanced toward her. “May I ask who this is?”

“So he’s a Gurlish Wolf rather than a Kez. Why have I not heard of this man?” Tamas asked, ignoring the question.

Beon’s eyes lingered on Nila for a moment. “Because he changed his name when he entered Kez service.”

“And who was he before that?” The Gurlish Wars had been a bloody series of campaigns half a world away involving most countries in the Nine. Tamas could think of half a dozen powerful Gurlish Privileged who had died or disappeared under mysterious circumstances.

Beon smiled in response, and glanced at Nila, but Tamas shook his head. He wasn’t about to reveal Nila’s identity over this. Not just to sate his own curiosity. “Anyway,” Beon continued, “he’s been rotting in some border town for the last fifteen years. He’s a bloody good cavalryman, maybe even better than me-and an expert in guerrilla warfare. I imagine that you’ll have a very hard time catching him indeed.”

Tamas didn’t have time for this. A few hours ago, he had been ready to order his men to march through the night so he could catch the Kez forces at Auberdel. Now he discovered that his allies-fifty thousand strong, including a third of a royal cabal-had been cowed by a single regiment of Kez cavalry.

“Thank you, Beon.”