The Autumn Republic

“Oh. Oh, yes! Go on. Wait, take these.” Tamas put the gold bars into her hand, then folded her fingers over them. He had the sudden urge to bend and kiss her on the forehead gently, a blessing for a daughter, but he stifled it just long enough for her to lunge forward and hug him. Tamas found himself returning the embrace. Then she was off, and Tamas watched her for a moment.

“Uh, sir,” a voice said.

Tamas turned to find a secretary waiting nearby. “What is it?”

“Inspector Adamat is waiting for you.”

“Ah. Yes. Of course. I’ll come right away.” He tossed one more glance in Vlora’s direction, but she was already gone.

Adamat shifted from one foot to the other and stifled a yawn. It was almost midnight, and there was still no sign of the field marshal. Should he go? Should he wait?

No doubt that Tamas wanted to question him about the series of events that culminated in Vetas’s death. It had all been in his report, of course, but a report was never as good as the real thing. Tamas was the kind of man who liked to be thorough. Adamat just hoped he wasn’t going to be too thorough.

Any questions about Josep, Adamat had already decided, would be evaded as well as possible.

Adamat ran his hand through his hair and scratched at his bald spot. He’d spent countless hours examining that Warden in his mind and he had come to the conclusion that a perfect memory was most certainly a curse. Without it, he may have convinced himself that it was just a trick of the light: That Warden was nothing like his son, and the missing ring finger was simply a coincidence.

But the more Adamat considered the deformed back and twisted but still boyish jaw and the smooth cheeks, he was convinced that his boy had been turned into a Warden.

What had they done to his innocent boy? First a captive, then a powder mage sold into slavery, and now this. Adamat tried to remember everything he knew about Wardens. They were regular men transformed by Kez sorcery into twisted creatures devoid of anything but rudimentary intelligence and brainwashed to obey Kez commanders. These new Black Wardens, created out of powder mages, were only a recent development. Some of the soldiers whispered that they had been created by Kresimir himself, as none of the other Privileged would be powerful enough to twist a powder mage.

What suffering had that caused? What pain had the villainous god forced upon Adamat’s son? Adamat replayed the scene in his head over and over again, and examined the eyes of the creature. He expected, upon a closer look, to find anger and sorcery-fueled rage in those eyes.

But there was only fear, of the kind seen in a dumb ox being driven to slaughter.

“Inspector?”

Adamat heard the rustle of the tent flap, wiped hastily at his eyes, and straightened his coat. “Sir, I’m here.”

“Inspector, what are you doing standing here in the dark?” Tamas asked. Adamat could hear the field marshal rummaging about on his desk, then a match was struck and a lantern lit.

“Just waiting. I didn’t want to bother anyone.”

“We can provide a light, man. I’m sorry to be so rude. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Tamas peered closely at Adamat’s face and Adamat flinched away. “You did not.”

“Pit, you look as bad as I do. Have you been sleeping? Did they get you a proper tent and gear?”

“They did. Thank you.”

“I’m sorry to keep you in the camp like this. You understand I’ve had a lot to catch up with.”

“Of course. I do look forward to getting back to my family.” Do I? How will I explain what I have seen-what Josep has become-to Faye? Adamat realized with a start that he had already considered his son as good as dead. But then, what else could he consider? He’d stared into those eyes in his memory for so long, he knew that the Josep he loved was no more.

“Are you certain everything is all right, Inspector?”

“It is.”

Tamas lowered himself into a seat, looking far worse for the wear, and Adamat pulled his mind off his own troubles to examine the field marshal. Troubled by a dozen wounds, or so it seemed, Tamas had aged ten years in the last three months. What little trace of black might have remained in his mustache was gone, and he moved carefully, painfully, favoring his right side.

Adamat had seen that kind of behavior before in men in the Adran police force. Tamas had a knife wound-between the ribs, lucky enough to miss anything vital, but painful as all pit and likely to fester. There were rumors that Hilanska had stabbed Tamas before he fled. They certainly fit.

“Inspector?”

Adamat snapped out of his own thoughts. Tamas had been talking. “I’m very sorry, sir. Could you repeat that?”

Tamas tilted his head to one side, a twitch of anger crossing his face. “I asked if you know why I didn’t arrest you after you confessed your treachery.”