The Autumn Republic

Tamas put powder on his tongue to increase his trance a little, and watched as the group on the road split in two, the smaller half coming across the farmer’s field toward their hiding spot. Tamas called quietly for Olem and they walked out of the grove.

The Privileged at their head was a woman he had not met before. She had pale skin, large eyes, and hair so blond it might have been white. She was wearing her gloves, and she eyed Tamas suspiciously.

“Mage,” she said.

“Privileged.”

“You have something for us?”

“I do.”

“And we, for you.” The woman raised her hand, and a figure was brought forward. Tamas stifled a sigh of relief at the sight of Vlora. Her uniform was ripped and dirty, one cheek scraped raw and one eye bruised, but she was still alive.

“What are you trading for me?” she demanded.

“Nothing I want to keep,” Tamas said. Olem went to Vlora’s side, taking her arm and leading her away from the Privileged and back toward the grove.

The Brudanian Privileged raised one hand. “Your half of the bargain?”

“Olem! Bring it out.”

Olem disappeared into the grove with Vlora and came back a moment later, alone.

“Well?” Tamas asked.

“She’s objecting strenuously to the deal.”

“Would she rather go back with them?”

“That’s what she says.”

“I never wanted daughters, Olem. You can quote me on that.”

“I’m growing impatient, mage,” the Brudanian Privileged growled.

“I’m still here, aren’t I? Olem, go get it.”

Olem returned to the grove. A few minutes later Tamas heard the sound of wooden wheels trundling over dirt, and soon a wagon came into view from around the opposite side of the grove. It was pulled by two oxen and had a stone sarcophagus in the bed. Olem pulled it up and jumped down from the wagon.

“All yours,” Tamas said.

One of the Brudanian soldiers leapt into the wagon and opened the sarcophagus. He closed it a moment later, and nodded solemnly to his leader.

“Your Knacked can see in the dark,” Tamas said. “That’s handy.”

The Brudanian Privileged gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I should kill you right now.”

“What would your boss say to that?”

“I’m sure he’d find it in his heart to forgive me.”

Tamas took a long step forward, then leaned into the Privileged until their chests were almost touching. “Try it,” he whispered.

The Brudanian Privileged gave a low chuckle. “You think I’m scared of your powder mages hidden on the horizon? Or your pet Privileged hiding in the grove? I’ve already fought him once. He’d be dead if I hadn’t been in a hurry and feeling generous. Tell Borbador that he owes me his life.”

“I think you are afraid. Otherwise you’d have tried it already. Get out of here, Privileged dog. Take Kresimir back to your master. Remind him to keep his word.”

One of the soldiers took the reins to the wagon and the Privileged turned away. “He’ll keep whatever he desires. Even this miserable country.”

Tamas watched until the Privileged were long gone before he returned to the grove.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Vlora said.

“I’ve done a lot of things I shouldn’t. This isn’t one of them.” Tamas leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “It was worth it. Bo, that Privileged sends her regards.”

“I bet she does.”

“Bo,” Tamas continued.

“What?”

“A fight is coming. I can feel it. If you see her again, wipe the floor with her.”

Bo’s fingers flexed, his jaw clenching, and he exchanged a glance with Nila. “That would be my pleasure.”

Adamat sat on the northern section of Adopest’s old wall, his feet dangling off the thirty-foot precipice.

He crunched into an apple, feeling the juice run down his chin as he watched the Brudanian troop transports load by the evening light. The largest oceangoing ships had already set off up the Ad River, hauled against the current by teams of twenty oxen each on their long journey to the lock system over the mountains, while the troop barges were still only half full.

“I confess,” he mused aloud, “that I’m shocked to see him leaving.”

SouSmith didn’t reply. The big boxer leaned against the battlements. He wore a butcher’s canvas pants and white shirt, the bloodstained sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He removed a pipe from his shirt pocket and lit it with a match, puffing to get it lit. A few moments later the air was full of the sweet smell of cherry tobacco.

“He hasn’t,” SouSmith finally pointed out.

“True, true. The man himself is still here. But the fact that he is keeping his word about his soldiers boggles my mind.”

“Think he’s up to somethin’?”

“Of course I do. He’s a salesman and a politician. If he’s not up to something I’ll eat my boots.” Adamat felt in his pockets for a moment before remembering that he’d left his own pipe at home. He eyed the troop transports as the Brudanians filed onboard, then looked down the Ad to the south. From this position it was impossible to see where Kresim Cathedral once stood, but he remembered its destruction as starkly as he remembered everything else.

“He left his mark,” SouSmith said.