The Autumn Republic

When Tamas and Vlora had joined him, Olem pointed at the floor where the lines of rust overlapped each other all the way out the back, disappearing into the tall grass between the school and the Ad River. “Whoever did this,” Olem said, “cleaned up after themselves. They didn’t want any bodies to tell a story.”

“The story tells itself,” Tamas snapped, striding back inside. He went to the front of the school, scattering flies in his wake. “They came in through the front.” He pointed to blood spatter and bullet holes in the wall. “Overran whoever was standing guard, then took the factory floor. Our mages made a last stand upstairs, using whatever powder was at their disposal…”

He heard his voice crack. These men and women were his responsibility. They were his newest mages. Some were farmers, two of them bakers. One had been a librarian. They weren’t trained for combat. They’d been slaughtered like sheep.

He could only pray that they had been able to take a few of the enemy with them.

“Death is a bloody painter and this is his canvas,” Olem said quietly. He lit a cigarette and drew in a deep breath, then blew smoke against the wall, watching the flies scatter.

“Sir,” Vlora said, stepping past Tamas and snatching something off the ground. She handed Tamas a round bit of leather with a hole in the middle. “Looks like it was behind the door. Whoever cleaned this place up must have missed it. Do you know what it is?”

Tamas spit to get rid of the sudden bitter taste in his mouth. “It’s a leather gasket. You have to keep spares if you carry an air rifle. It must have fallen out of someone’s kit.”

An air rifle. A weapon used specifically to kill powder mages. Whoever had done this had come prepared.

Tamas threw the gasket away and stuffed his pistol into his belt. “Olem, who all knew the location of this school?”

“Aside from the powder cabal?” Olem rolled his cigarette between his fingers, considering. “It wasn’t a closely guarded secret. They put up a sign, after all.”

“Who all knew directly?” Tamas said.

“A couple members of the General Staff and Ricard Tumblar.”

The General Staff were men and women who had been with him for decades. Tamas trusted them. He had to trust them.

“I want answers, even if someone has to bleed to give them. Find me Ricard Tumblar.”

CHAPTER 2

The Holy Warriors of Labor, the biggest workers’ union in all the Nine, kept their headquarters inside an old warehouse in the Factory District of Adopest not far from where the Ad River spilled out into the Adsea.

Tamas watched the building with some trepidation. There were hundreds of people coming and going. It would be almost impossible to get in to speak with Ricard without being seen-and probably recognized-by someone. The coming conversation could very well become bloody, and Tamas didn’t want to have it where Ricard’s guards were within screaming distance.

If not for the urgent pressure of his heart pounding in his chest, Tamas would have waited until nightfall and followed Ricard home.

“We could make an appointment, sir,” Olem suggested, leaning casually against the stoop. Across the street, one of the union guards was watching them with a frown. Olem waved to the man and held up a spare cigarette. The union guard cocked an eyebrow and then turned away, his interest gone.

“I’m not making an appointment,” Tamas said flatly. “I don’t want him to know we’re coming.”

“I think he’s going to know one way or another. He’s got more than twenty armed men on this street alone.”

“I only counted eighteen.”

Olem watched the foot traffic pass them with a feigned air of indifference. “Marksmen in the window above the shop thirty paces to your left, sir.”

“Ah.” Tamas saw them now out of the corner of his eye. “Something has Ricard spooked. The old headquarters had no more than four guards at any time.”

“Could be he’s worried about the Brudanians?”

“Or that I’ll return. There’s Vlora. Let’s go.”

They worked their way down the street, doing their best to avoid the attention of the union guards, and joined Vlora in the doorway of a small bakery. Tamas looked over the loaves stacked on the counter and wondered where Mihali had ended up. Was he still down south, with the main army?

Of course he was. If Mihali wasn’t holding Kresimir at bay, then Adopest would have been leveled by now. Tamas felt himself wishing for a bowl of the chef’s squash soup just about now.

Vlora led them through the bakery and out the back into a narrow alley filled with refuse and mud. “Down here,” she said over her shoulder as they picked their way down the alley. Tamas’s boots squelched as he walked and he tried to ignore the smell. The Factory District was by far the dirtiest part of the city-and the alleys were always the worst.

They navigated three more alleys, then climbed an iron ladder over a two-story building before they found the back entrance to the union headquarters.