The Autumn Republic

“They went west because they hit the rear of the camp and it was easier and faster to take the western road and skirt brigades than it would have been to fight through them. And you don’t think he would have done this? Your father, who authorized the sacking of Alvation in order to turn Deliv against Adro? Your father, who by your own admission is just as likely to have you executed for your failure to stop me as he is to welcome you, his son, back from a harrowing campaign?” Tamas shook his head. “Explain it to me. And use small words, for I fear I’m not as nimble-minded as you on this matter.”

Beon scowled at Tamas, and Tamas was reminded of Ipille’s famous temper. Would Beon reach over and strike him for that? And would Olem shoot him the moment he did? Part of him wanted to find out. But this wasn’t the time. “This isn’t Kez,” Tamas said softly. “And you decided to march with me instead of with the Deliv. You will be accorded respect, but your royalty means little here, son of Ipille.”

“Not even my father would break a flag of truce,” Beon said after a moment, chewing on his words as if he hoped to convince himself of their truth.

“I think he would. I know he did. You can go see the bodies of those grenadiers yourself, if you like. They’re in some wagons back near the rear of the column. I intend on flinging them at your father’s feet before I fling him in a dungeon and ransom him back to Kez for all the krana in your damned country.”

Beon drew himself up, fingers tightening on the hilt of a cavalry saber that wasn’t there. “You go too far.”

“Sir,” Olem said quietly. Tamas tore his gaze away from Beon long enough to look at his bodyguard. Olem held his cigarette to his lips with one hand, gazing over his fingertips calmly at Tamas.

Tamas felt his anger slip. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said to Beon.

“Then see his messengers!” Beon said. “You can avoid more bloodshed.”

“No, no. You’re not right about your father. You’re right that I went too far and I apologize for that. Your father attacked us under a flag of truce-likely unaware that the Deliv were as close as they were. He will pay for that crime, though I suspect it is his people who will pay the price and not he himself. Further bloodshed is unavoidable.”

There was something that bothered Tamas. Ipille must have known that the Deliv forces were on their way. He must know that Deliv had already invaded Kez from the northwest. Why would he dare such a raid against the Adran camp?

Each time he pondered it, he came to the same conclusion: Ipille had somehow learned of Ka-poel and her power over Kresimir and had gambled everything on her capture. Perhaps even now he was learning how to bring Kresimir out of his slumber so that the god could destroy everything in his path. Had Ipille grown so desperate? The stories Taniel had told Tamas about the night he stole Kresimir’s bloody bedsheets had made Tamas’s skin crawl. How could even Ipille want anything to do with such a creature as this mad god?

Tamas wondered briefly if the Deliv royal cabal would be able to put up any kind of fight in the face of such power.

This wasn’t information Tamas was about to relay to Beon. Instead, he said, “Your father’s messengers are a delaying tactic. He will try to put me off as long as possible while he brings up fresh troops from Kez. I will not allow that to happen.”

Beon relented and stared at his saddle horn in contemplation. Tamas welcomed the silence, hoping that Beon would remain that way, and wondered how Taniel had reacted to his sending Vlora and Gavril to help. It had been a difficult decision-one that might drive Taniel to distraction, but Tamas hoped that Taniel’s drive to save his savage lover would force him to work with Vlora. There was no deadlier pair in the powder cabal than those two, save Taniel and Tamas himself.

Maybe Gavril could keep their heads level.

Olem drew Tamas’s attention to a messenger galloping down the lines. She wore the blue-and-silver uniform of an Adran dragoon. The woman was covered in sweat and dust, and Tamas noted blood on her silver collar. She reined in ahead of him and saluted.

“Corporal Salli reporting, sir, of the Seventy-Ninth Dragoons. Sir, a moment to catch my breath, sir!”

“Granted,” Tamas said, exchanging a glance with Olem. The Seventy-Ninth were supposed to be scouting the western plains. Had the Kez Privileged from the other night tried to cut across the plains and run into his dragoons? “General Beon, if you would excuse me.” Tamas waited until the Kez prince had fallen back out of earshot, then said, “Are you wounded, soldier?”

A quizzical look crossed her face, then she touched her collar. “Oh, this? Not my blood, sir. Belongs to some Kez cuirassier.”

Olem brought his mount up next to hers and offered his canteen, which she took gratefully, draining half in one go and splashing a little on her face and neck before handing it back. “Thank you, sir.”

“Your report?” Olem asked.