Date: 2015-01-06 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Novella; Fiction; Epic Fantasy; Short Stories; High Fantasy; Science Fiction Fantasy; Magic; Steampunk
Description: Captain Vlora is a powder mage in the Adran army. Once the favored, adopted daughter of the field marshal, she is now a pariah amongst those she called her family. Her superior officers would like nothing more than to send her to a far off posting and forget about her, but no one is exempt when there is a war - and powder mages are desperately needed. When a traitorous guard captain goes on the run with information that could harm the war effort, Vlora is sent on his trail. She has three days to find him; she will have to make new friends and test the limits of her skills. Fail, and good soldi
Publisher: Orbit

Return to Honor

A short story in the world of the Powder Mage Trilogy

Brian McClellan

www.orbitbooks.net
www.orbitshortfiction.com

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Return to Honor

Captain Vlora stood the first honor watch over the grave of her fallen comrade.

She could feel the cool breeze of a summer storm blowing away the heat of the day. The small graveyard with its high brick walls cast deep shadows in the moonlight, but a sprinkling of black powder on her tongue gave her catlike vision. Powder mage sorcery enhanced her senses, calmed her nerves, sharpened her reflexes, but right now she just wished it would help her forget.

Vlora wore her dress uniform—dark Adran blues with silver buttons, red trim, and a silver powder-keg pin. Her rifle rested on her shoulder, a pistol and sword at her belt, and arms and shoulders at attention. The breeze tugged at her black hair pulled back in a tight braid.

The gravestone was a marble monolith nearly six feet tall, tapered to be slightly thinner at the top. It bore a stamp in the likeness of her own powder-keg pin and the name Special Commander Sabon.

She felt a grimace cross her face.

Sabon. The man who, nine years ago, had first noticed her as a little orphan girl with an unnatural inclination toward guns, and had directed Field Marshal Tamas to seek her out. The man who had been like an uncle to her—a little distant, like Tamas himself, but always willing to show her a new trick with gunpowder or switch between the roles of friend and superior officer as needed.

She could still remember looking out the window of her carriage and seeing the first shot of the ambush blow Sabon’s brains across the gravel drive of Charlemund’s villa. She could close her eyes and hear the screams of soldiers caught in the initial volley, remember how her heart had thundered in her ears as she fled, dragging a wounded soldier toward cover.

She wished that Charlemund had not been captured. That he was still out there so she could find him and wrap her fingers around his throat and make him suffer for all the lives his betrayal had cost.

She wanted to take the next few weeks to grieve properly for Sabon, but she did not have that luxury. Not with a war on. The most she could do was stand a four-hour vigil at his graveside.

The whine of the iron cemetery gate brought Vlora back to the here and now. She lifted her eyes to find a figure standing just inside the wall. He was a tall man in his sixties with gray hair and a mustache. He wore a uniform that matched hers, save for the golden epaulettes on his shoulders, and he carried a bicorn hat under one arm.

Vlora fought to keep herself outwardly calm. Sabon had been the field marshal’s closest friend, but she expected Tamas to avoid the grave during her watch.

“Good evening, sir,” Vlora said.

Tamas didn’t answer. He came to stand beside the monument, looking down at the mound of earth. He remained in silent contemplation for nearly five minutes, still as any of the obelisks in the graveyard, before he seemed to notice her presence.

“I have work for you, Captain,” he said tersely, without a word of greeting.

Their relationship had been more than strained since the end of her engagement to Tamas’s son. The brusqueness was expected, but it still stung. To have a man she once considered her adoptive father behave so coldly, even in private, kept Vlora up at night.

“Sir?” she asked.

“I’m leaving for the front in the morning,” he said.

“I’ll have my things ready to go,” Vlora said.

“You’re not coming yet.”

Vlora swallowed. She didn’t like the sound of that.

“A Prielight guard escaped the battle at the villa,” Tamas said, glancing down at the grave. “A man named Wohler.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wohler means to go to the enemy with all of the intelligence that Charlemund gleaned during the meetings of my council, including troop movements and supply records. We’re not entirely sure how much information he has, but we know it has some value. I want you to find him. Capture him. Secure that intelligence and then join me at the front in a week.”

“Are you certain you want me on this, sir?” Vlora had no delusions. She was one of Tamas’s best powder mages, invaluable on the battlefield. To have her hunting spies seemed like a waste of her talents.

Tamas made fists with both hands. She could see him trembling. “Taniel is in a coma. The enemy knocks on our southern gates. I can barely stand the sight of you, yet here I am. Yes, it’s important.”

Vlora avoided meeting his eyes. “Yes, sir. Sir, the ambush at the villa was a week ago. Wohler may already be over the border.”

Tamas visibly brought himself under control. “Our borders are closed, and Wohler is a cautious man. He’ll be waiting for the fighting to start so he can sneak over in the chaos.” Vlora opened her mouth, but Tamas seemed to have anticipated her next question. “It’s important,” he said, “but I can’t spare any more men. You are completely on your own.”

Vlora did some mental math. If he wanted her to join him at the front in a week, that only left her three days to find Wohler. “And if I fail?”

“Then so be it,” Tamas said simply. “The war will go on, and the enemy will have a new advantage.” Tamas turned on his heel and left Vlora alone to finish her watch in the graveyard.

She watched him leave and worked to steady her breathing. Three days until she could head to the front, where she would arrive either with an extra notch on the stock of her rifle or empty-handed.

This mission would give her a chance to clean up after the villa, to give Sabon’s death some kind of meaning. If she read Tamas right—and she had known him for many years—this was an olive branch. Perhaps a test of sorts, a chance to win her way back into his good graces.

She had better not fail.

*  *  *

Vlora could count the number of people she considered friends on one hand. She’d been a loner as a child, and through her teens she’d never really needed anyone but Taniel. It was four in the morning, a full twenty-four hours after receiving her assignment, and she was wishing she had spent a little more time developing other relationships.

She had wasted the entirety of the last day canvassing the city for any sign of Wohler, only to find out the man—like her—had no friends in Adopest. All his known associates had been members of Charlemund’s guard and were either dead or captured, and none of the captives knew where he might have gone to ground. His wife and family lived in Brudania. Vlora had exhausted every lead she could think of.

Which brought her to the officer’s mess in downtown Adopest. The mess was surprisingly busy at this hour of the morning. Most of the officers were shipping to the front within twenty-four hours with their commands. The room was filled with the sound of drunken laughter, heated conversation, and gambling—soldiers enjoying their last hurrah before heading toward the front.

The tables nearest the door went silent as Vlora passed. She tried not to notice, giving a few of the men a thin smile, and headed over to the bar, where the barkeep eyed her silver powder-keg pin before pouring her a beer.

She turned around and leaned against the bar, letting her eyes roam over the large room with its vaulted ceiling, crimson drapes, and white tablecloths. It was lit by half a dozen chandeliers, the fireplaces roaring to take off the chill of the approaching storm.

The occupants of more than one nearby table noticed her gaze and they none-too-subtly pulled in an open seat or even glared back at her, openly hostile.

She told herself that they weren’t worth her time. She had work to do, and nothing was going to distract her from it.

She found the person she was looking for at the other end of the room, sitting at a small table by herself, an open book in her hands. Vlora drained her beer, ordered two more, then threaded her way through the tables.

Colonel Verundish was a striking woman with black skin and long, straight black hair. She wore a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar and cuffs, her uniform jacket hanging over the back of her chair. She looked up over the top of her book as Vlora took the empty chair across from her and set both glasses of beer on the table.

“Hi, Verie,” Vlora said.

“That’s Colonel Verundish to you, Captain,” Verundish responded coldly. Her eyes went back to the book in her hands.

That hurt. Vlora closed her eyes and took a deep breath, fighting off the urge to leave. Would it be so bad to fail this assignment? Surely Tamas would have put more men on it if he really thought Wohler had intelligence of importance.

Would her success even gain her the approval she desired?

Giving up would be the easy way out. She would only fall even further in Tamas’s eyes and—perhaps more importantly—in her own.

“Colonel Verundish,” Vlora said. “I need your help.”

Verundish turned a page. “I’m surprised you’re showing your face around here after what you did to Taniel.”

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that there’s anyone in this Kresimir-damned army that doesn’t know?”

“That you cheated on the field marshal’s son? Everyone’s favorite powder mage, who just so happens to be on the verge of death?” Verundish snorted.

Vlora stared at her glass, feeling the anger boil in her blood. This was a waste of time. She had no friends here. “Not that it’s anyone’s goddamn business.” Her voice rose sharply at the end, and Vlora found herself gripping the edge of the table. She was trembling.

The outburst drew enough glances to make Vlora’s cheeks grow warm. She stood up. “But yes,” she continued calmly, “I did do that. It was a foolish, juvenile mistake that has cost me the respect of everyone I hold dear.” She turned to go.

Verundish sighed and set down her book. “Sit down.”

“No, it’s fine,” Vlora said. “Forget I was here.”

“Sit. Down.”

Against her better judgment, Vlora returned to her seat. She gripped her glass to keep herself from shaking with anger.

Verundish noticed the extra beer Vlora had brought her and picked it up. “Everyone makes mistakes,” she said, letting out a sigh, the cold demeanor softening a little. “I’ve made a few myself. What do you need?”

Vlora drained the rest of her second beer to give herself courage. “I’m looking for someone,” she said. “A Prielight guard by the name of Captain Wohler.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“It should. He was the head of Charlemund’s personal guard.”

Verundish turned and spit at the mention of the name. “Traitorous sack of shit.”

“Agreed,” Vlora said. “Wohler escaped the battle at the villa, and he’s got a whole case of army intelligence that he’s going to hand to the enemy. I have three—sorry, two days to find him and capture him.”

Verundish idly flipped the pages of her book with the fingers of her right hand, drumming the fingers of the left on her glass. “I don’t know where he is,” she said. “And believe me, I’d tell you if I did. Everyone in this room wants to get a hold of one of Charlemund’s men after what happened to Commander Sabon. Anyone who escaped has been keeping out of sight.”

“Shit,” Vlora said.

“My guess is the Prielight guards are hiding in some church cellar. Maybe even Kresim Cathedral. Any place that will give them sanctuary.”

“Think they’ll stick together?”

“Wouldn’t you, if the city suddenly turned hostile?”

“No,” Vlora said. “I’d ditch everything I owned and hide out in plain sight.”

“Yeah, well, you were tutored by Tamas. Normal people don’t think like that. Normal people are like sheep. They huddle.”

Vlora nodded unhappily. If Wohler was hiding out with a group of his compatriots, he might be easier to find, but capturing him would be a whole other story.

“When do you leave for the front?” Vlora asked.

Verundish shook her head. “No time soon. I’m on special assignment with a few squads. I’ll be staying in the city.”

“If I can find Wohler,” Vlora said, suddenly hopeful, “could you give me a squad of your men to help me bring him in?”

Verundish considered this for a moment, then reached around and pinched the shoulder of her uniform jacket. “See this?” The jacket had a pin with a chevron over a powder horn. Vlora had seen a couple of those around, but she didn’t know what they meant.

“I’m part of Captain Olem’s new Riflejacks,” Verundish said. “Special company that reports directly to Field Marshal Tamas. I can’t pull those men away from their duty.” She paused, barking a quiet laugh. “Not unless you’ve got seventy-five thousand krana on you.”

“Seventy-five?” Vlora asked. “That’s your price, eh?”

Verundish waved her glass. “Everyone has one.” She paused, waited a beat, then chuckled. “I joke, I joke.”

Vlora had the feeling it hadn’t been entirely in jest. But even if Verundish were serious, where would Vlora get that much money?

“Really,” Verunish said, “I wish I could help.”

Vlora swore to herself. Verundish had been her best shot. There was no one else around who would help her without a direct order from Tamas, and he had made it clear she wasn’t getting help. Which meant she had to locate a company of Prielight guards and then carve through them herself in the hopes of finding Wohler. Even for a powder mage, it sounded like a good way to get killed.

“Well,” Vlora said, tapping her empty glass. “Me too. I better get moving. Thanks anyway.”

“Wait,” Verundish said.

Vlora paused halfway out of her seat, then lowered herself back down.

“He probably won’t lend you any men,” Verundish said, “but if anyone can find where the Prielights are hiding, it’ll be Captain Olem. I’d suggest you see him.”

“Olem? He’s Tamas’s personal bodyguard. You think he’d help me?”

Verundish shrugged. “Olem’s a good man. Try him. Never hurts to ask.”

Yes, Vlora said to herself. Yes it does. She lifted her head to scan the room. “Is he here?”

“Pit, no. Olem doesn’t like officers’ messes. They make him uncomfortable. He’ll be at the Giggling Pig over on Flatfoot Lane.”

“That’s the worst bar name I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s not a bar. It’s a whorehouse.”

Of course. Where the regular infantry spent their time. Vlora opened her mouth to protest the earliness of the hour when she remembered that Olem’s Knack—his minor sorcery—was that he needed no sleep, a fact that made him an ideal bodyguard for Tamas.

Vlora was trying to think of another excuse to not ask Olem for help when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up, and then up some more into the bloated red face of a major wearing the red-striped Adran blues of a dragoon. The man’s jacket was undone, and he smelled of whiskey and sweat. Vlora sought to remember his name. Emerson. Major Emerson.

“Captain Vlora, you are not welcome here,” he said, pausing between words so that he didn’t slur.

Vlora opened her mouth. She had been about to say she was just leaving, but a spike of anger had broken through her carefully measured calm. She felt her eye twitch. She would take this shit from Taniel’s family and closest friends, but Emerson wasn’t one of them. Just some idiot trying to curry favor with the field marshal by publicly humiliating her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m an officer in the Adran army. I am as welcome here as you.”

Emerson drew himself up. “I shall show you the door.”

“No,” Vlora said, looking pointedly at the hand on her shoulder. “You won’t.” She removed a powder charge from her pocket and bit the end, the sulfuric taste of the powder spilling out onto her tongue. She felt a surge of energy and a heightened buzz as her senses sought to take in every smell, sound, and sight in the room all at once. She mentally brought the powder trance under control and stared up at the major.

“I said you should leave,” Emerson slurred.

“I’ll leave when I’m damn well ready.”

“I am your superior officer,” Emerson said. “I order you to leave.”

“And I’m a powder mage. Field Marshal Tamas is my superior officer. Remove your hand, or I will remove it for you.”

Through the whole exchange, Verundish had remained quiet. At Vlora’s threat she stood up and took Emerson by the arm. “Go sit down, Major,” she said. “You’re drunk.”

Emerson jerked his arm from Verundish’s grip and tightened his own on Vlora’s shoulder. His whole body trembled. “Remove yourself, or I will throw you out the door.”

Vlora reached up and grabbed Emerson by the front of his shirt. She kicked out with one foot, knocking his knee sideways, and brought his face down onto the table with enough force to knock the wind out of an ox. He bounced with a drunken shout, somehow still conscious, and struggled to reach for her.

Vlora leapt to her feet and hauled Emerson up to his, holding him by both lapels, then slammed him down into the table. She was half his size, but the powder trance would allow her to manhandle five men just like him. A second thumping took the fight out of him completely.

“Vlora,” Verundish said sharply.

Vlora’s hands were wrapped in Emerson’s jacket, her arms shaking with rage. She could barely see through a cloud of red.

“Vlora,” Verundish repeated, louder this time.

Vlora let out her breath and released her grip, stumbling backward. The whole room was staring at them. She’d assaulted an officer in front of dozens of witnesses. Even if she was on Tamas’s good side, she might not have gotten away with it. Now…

Verundish caught her by the arm. “Time for you to step outside,” she said.

“Yeah,” Vlora muttered. She suddenly felt very small and far away, like she was looking at her actions from another place and time. How could she let herself be provoked like that?

Vlora allowed herself to be escorted to the door, where Verundish took her by the shoulders and forced her to meet her eyes. “I’ll see what I can do to clean this up. Go on. Don’t worry about this trash. You’ve got work to do. If anyone can help you find Wohler, it’s Olem. Tell him I sent you.”

*  *  *

The Giggling Pig was a large whorehouse down where the Ad River flowed into the Adsea, just north of the docks in Adopest. Vlora had been in a few seedy parts of the city—either exploring with Taniel or on assignment for Tamas—but she usually stuck to the streets. She only had to open the door to see this was going to be a whole new experience.

Soldiers lounged about the great common room with prostitutes of both sexes, all in various states of undress. Like the officers, the infantry preferred to spend the night in vice when they knew they were shipping off the next day. The drink flowed freely and dice rattled. Raucous laughter filled the room, and it smelled of beer and sex.

Vlora took a deep breath of outside air and stepped inside. She half expected the whole room to freeze, turning to look at her, like when the villain steps on stage during a comedic play. But the only person who seemed to notice her was a tiny old woman in a rough-spun dress and apron.

The woman’s head bobbed in a half curtsy, taking in Vlora’s rank insignia and silver powder-keg pin with sharp eyes. “Good evening, Captain,” she said. “My name’s Madame Gourina, and welcome to the Giggling Pig. What’s your pleasure this morning?”

Vlora licked her lips, wondering when was the last time she shared a bed. Oh, right. That asshole she let seduce her, putting her in this whole mess. “I’m looking for Captain Olem,” she said.

“And who can I say is looking for him?”

“Captain Vlora.”

Gourina gave her a pained look. “Captain Olem? I haven’t heard of him.”

“Excuse me? You just asked…”

“I’m old and addled, Captain. You’ll have to excuse me, I must not have heard you at first. Now, if there’s not something I can get for you, I really must see to my other patrons.”

Vlora snorted. Did she have a reputation that reached even into this shit hole? Or… “You can tell him that it concerns Field Marshal Tamas.”

Gourina seemed to perk up at that. “Well, now. Why didn’t you say so? I’ll go see if he’s around.”

Vlora didn’t wait for the old woman to come back and find her. She followed her toward one of the many back rooms, waving pipe smoke from her face. Olem, it seemed, couldn’t be bothered if it didn’t have to do with Tamas. Not that Vlora blamed him. He had only been made Tamas’s bodyguard and aide in the last few months. He had Tamas’s ear, and that meant that everyone who wanted anything from Tamas probably came looking for him.

Gourina went down a passage at the back of the room, then knocked on a door before entering. Vlora stole up the hallway after her. She feared what she’d see inside, but she’d already come this far. An eyeful of the captain wouldn’t kill her.

She was surprised to see a rather spacious room with a round table and half a dozen men and women quietly playing cards. The room was lit by a fireplace and a handful of torches. There were two privates, a sergeant, a pair of lieutenants, and Captain Olem with his back to the open window, a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip.

Olem was a man of medium height, in his mid-thirties, with a pleasant, boyish face made serious by a neatly trimmed beard, though military regulation forbade anything but a mustache and muttonchops. He had a reputation as a soldier’s soldier, preferring to take food and recreation with the men rather than with the officers, and of course there was his Knack, which kept him from needing sleep.

Vlora imagined he played a lot of cards.

Olem’s head was tilted, listening as Madame Gourina whispered in his ear. He glanced toward where Vlora watched from the hall. A smile crossed his face—the kind a man gets when he tells himself a joke in his head—and he lifted a hand to Vlora, gesturing her inside.

Vlora squeezed past Gourina.

“Beer for the captain,” Olem called after Gourina as the madam left. “Unless you’d like something else? I don’t recommend the Starlish vodka. Tastes like troll piss.”

“Beer is fine,” Vlora said. “Thank you.”

The card game had stopped. Six sets of eyes stared at her expectantly, and Vlora was suddenly afraid of a repeat of what had just happened in the officers’ mess. Olem broke the silence. “Care to join us?”

One of the lieutenants, a middle-aged woman with short hair, cleared her throat. “We’ve got a full table.”

“Room for another chair,” Olem said, shooting her a glance.

“No thank you, really,” Vlora replied, eyeballing the lieutenant. “I just needed to see you briefly, if I may.”

Olem nodded, raising one finger. He squinted at his cards for a long, silent moment, then tossed one of them down on the table faceup.

“Son of a bitch,” the sergeant said, tossing his own cards down in disgust.

The crack of a smile appeared on Olem’s face. He gathered a handful of coins from the middle of the table and scooped them into a pile in front of him. “I’ll be back for the next round.”

Vlora followed him out into the hallway, where Madame Gourina brought them both a glass of beer. The glasses were dirty and the beer bitter, but somehow it tasted better than what she’d been drinking at the officers’ mess.

“Step into my office,” Olem said, kicking open the door across the hallway. He stopped, made a face, and said, “Let’s go down the hall.”

Vlora caught a whiff of some ungodly smell before following Olem to an empty room near the end of the corridor. He opened the window and ashed his cigarette out it, then sat on the rumpled bed, gesturing for Vlora to take the chair.

“Thank you,” Vlora said, sipping her beer. “You know, I expected a little better out of a man of your reputation.”

Olem’s eyebrows rose, and Vlora immediately cursed herself silently.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. Powder mages didn’t get drunk, not like other people. But that didn’t mean a third beer had been a good idea. “That didn’t come out like I meant it to.” She once again felt herself going red. Here she was again, wasting more time. Tamas’s message had been clear—she wasn’t getting any help. No sense in even looking for it. “Sorry, I should go…”

The shadow of a smile appeared on Olem’s lips. “No, no. I’m curious where you’re going with this.”

“Look, I’m sorry, it’s just…” she trailed off.

“Go on,” Olem said. The smile grew. She expected it to turn cruel or condescending, but it touched his eyes in a way that said he was laughing with her and not at her.

Vlora looked around. Well, she was here, wasn’t she? Might as well dig her grave a little deeper. “The whorehouse. You’ve got a reputation as a gentleman. Private in your, er, affairs.” Pit, she didn’t even know if he was married.

“I come here for the company, not for the whores,” Olem said.

“I thought the whores were the company in a place like this.”

“They’re better people than you think, but I’m here for the infantry. Far more fun to play cards with people in that room over there”—he jerked his head—“than with anyone at the officers’ mess. There are exceptions, certainly, but…”

“Like Colonel Verundish?”

Olem nodded. “Like Verundish. You know her?”

“We’ve been friends for a few years. Took me under her wing when I started taking soldiering seriously. She’s the one who recommended I come find you, actually.”

“Oh? So what kind of help are you looking for?”

He didn’t question her coming to him, even though he knew better than anyone that she was on Tamas’s shit list. Vlora silently thanked him for that. “I’ve got an assignment to find a man named Wohler. He was the head of Charlemund’s personal guard until the villa, and now he’s on the run. Tamas wants him brought in.”

“And the field marshal sent you to me?”

“No, that was Verundish. Tamas, well, he made it clear I’m not getting any more help.”

Olem cocked one eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Look, I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t for Verundish. She said you might know where the guards are hiding out in the city. I honestly don’t have any idea where to start, and…”

“And?” Olem urged.

“And I have to leave to join Tamas on the front in two days. If I fail, Wohler gets away.”

Olem took a drag on his cigarette, found it had gone out, and relit it with a match. Smoke curled out his nose, his eyes narrowed, and he stared thoughtfully at a spot over Vlora’s shoulder. The silence dragged on for nearly a minute as he puffed hard, smoking the cigarette down to his fingertips before discarding it.

“Look,” Vlora said to break the silence, “I don’t want to put you in a position of going against Tamas.”

“This Wohler,” Olem said as if he hadn’t heard her. “You’ve asked after any friends or relations he may have in the city?”

“Yes,” Vlora said. “I interrogated his captured compatriots and asked around at a dozen different chapels. He doesn’t have anyone he would go to ground with.”

“Everyone has someone,” Olem mused.

“Not everyone,” Vlora said quietly.

Olem glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was going to hate him if there was pity in his eyes, but he merely rolled a new cigarette and held it out to her.

“Don’t smoke,” she said.

He shrugged and lit it for himself. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment before his face lit up. “Attached to a retinue a thousand miles from home. The man’s going to have a mistress.”

“You think so?”

“He’s a captain in the Prielight guard. He certainly will have the money for one. If he doesn’t drink or gamble with anyone else, then he has to have a woman somewhere in the city.”

It made sense. Vlora slowly nodded, a flutter of relief in her stomach. “It’s worth a try. I’ll go ask around.”

“You’ll need help,” Olem said. “Two days isn’t much time. We better get moving.” He left the room before she could say another word.

Back in the card room, Olem gathered his coins. “I’m out for the night, friends,” he said. “Duty calls.”

“Tomorrow night?” the sergeant asked.

“Plan on it. I’ll send word if I can’t. See you all then. And Filly, stop picking your damn teeth every time you have a shit hand.”

The group chuckled, and Olem stepped back into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.

“You don’t have to leave your game,” Vlora said.

“This sounds more important,” he replied.

“Really, I can manage on my own. I was told I wasn’t getting any more help.”

Olem shrugged. “It’ll be unofficial, then. Things are always easier with two. Let’s go find out where Wohler takes off his boots.”

*  *  *

Six hours later, Vlora stood in a doorway across the street from a cobbler’s shop in one of the more affluent parts of West Laden, a district of Adopest. It was nearly two and a half days since she last slept. Her hands trembled and her eyelids felt heavier every minute, and she had to take progressively more powder every hour to keep from collapsing.

The mistress, it turned out, owned the cobbler’s shop. Only one of the captured church guards had known about her, and he’d been reluctant to give up the information. Olem had helped persuade him.

Vlora wanted nothing more than to kick down the door and rush inside, but Olem had insisted they do things right and had rushed off to see another one of his friends.

She checked her pocket watch. Ten after noon. She’d give Olem another fifteen minutes before she headed inside.

Afternoon traffic was heavy as everyone sought to get their daily errands done before the storm that had been threatening for almost two days finally broke. Vlora could tell it was going to be a big one, with thick sheets of rain that rivaled the monsoons in Gurla. The old soldiers called it a hundred-year rain.

More than one company of Adran soldiers passed her on their way out of the city. No one recognized her in her civilian clothes, hat pulled down and greatcoat buttoned against the wind. Vlora was thankful for that. She’d not heard anything else about her conflict with Major Emerson, but when she next reported for duty, she couldn’t imagine anything less than a formal reprimand. Would Tamas strip her of her rank?

She thrust the thought from her mind as Olem slipped out of the crowd and joined her in the doorway, flashing a folded piece of paper.

“Warrant,” he said by way of explanation. “New government regulations requires us to have one of these for entry into a civilian’s home.”

Vlora was impatient to be through the doors of the cobbler shop, either to lay hands on Wohler or to question his mistress. “Why bother?” she asked.

Olem seemed taken aback. “We’re not savages. We want the people to trust us, not fear us.” He snorted. “How would you like someone bursting into your place of business with no more authority than a common thief?”

“I wouldn’t like anyone of any authority bursting in,” Vlora said. “But I don’t mind doing the bursting.”

“Double standard,” Olem countered. “Are you ready?”

Vlora unbuttoned her greatcoat to reveal the two pistols and the sword at her belt. By the bulkiness she saw under Olem’s coat she guessed he carried the same.

“You sense any powder in there?” Olem asked.

Vlora closed her eyes, reaching out with her sorcerous senses toward the cobbler’s shop. She moved down into the cellar and up into the second floor, where the owner likely lived. “Powder charges upstairs,” she said. “Could be Wohler, but it could also just be a pistol the mistress keeps for protection. If either of them tries to use it, I’ll suppress the ignition. Ready?”

Olem nodded, and Vlora led the way across the street.

A bell rang as Vlora pushed open the door. The main floor of the building was one large room with two windows in the front and a staircase leading upstairs tucked into one corner. The room was a workshop with benches and shelves, and hundreds of pairs of shoes in various stages of repair, each of them carefully tagged with a name and date.

A woman with long dark hair, wearing trousers and an apron, sat next to one of the benches with a pair of shoelaces in her hands. She looked up, a word of welcome dying on her lips as Vlora drew her pistol.

“Cobbler Karin?” Vlora asked.

The woman threw her hands up, scrambling backward. Vlora leapt forward and caught her by the wrist, twisting it around behind her with one hand and shoving her against the workbench.

“Where’s Wohler?” she demanded.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about!”

“Captain Wohler, where is he?”

Olem drew his pistol and ran upstairs. Vlora heard his footsteps up there, her senses attuned to the powder she’d sensed earlier, waiting to suppress the shot if someone was waiting in ambush. Olem returned a moment later, shaking his head.

Vlora leaned forward, her mouth next to Karin’s ear. “Where,” she said, “is he?”

The woman shook her head. She was trembling.

“Let her up,” Olem said.

Vlora opened her mouth to protest, but Olem’s scowl silenced her. She released Karin’s wrist and stepped back. “Sit down,” she told her.

Karin returned to her seat and looked up at the two of them.

Olem said gently, “We’re soldiers in the Adran army. My name is Captain Olem, this is Captain Vlora. We have a warrant here for Captain Wohler’s arrest.” He took the folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Karin.

“If you’re soldiers, where’s your uniforms?”

Vlora produced her silver powder-keg pin. Karin’s eyes narrowed. “What are the charges?” she asked, raising her chin. She rubbed her wrist and shot Vlora a glare, having apparently recovered from and now resenting the manhandling.

“Treason,” Vlora snapped.

“It wasn’t treason!” Karin said. “He didn’t choose to be part of Charlemund’s guard. It was an assignment.”

“During which he arranged an ambush that saw dozens of Adran soldiers killed.”

“I don’t believe you,” Karin said.

“Maybe it was just an assignment,” Olem said with a quiet, reassuring voice. “But now he’s carrying documents of national importance that could do a great deal of damage to the war effort. We have to bring him in.”

Vlora chewed on the inside of her cheek. She could see the calming effect Olem’s demeanor had on the girl. Doing her best to level her tone, Vlora said, “We’d prefer to bring him in alive. If he tries to flee, we can’t guarantee his safety. Do you know where he is?”

The bell on the door interrupted whatever Karin was about to say.

“We’re closed,” Vlora said over her shoulder. “Come back tomorrow.” She cast a quick glance toward the door, then returned her gaze to Karin.

Karin stared at the doorway, so Vlora took another look.

A man in his early forties stood there in a greatcoat and tricorn hat. There was a piece of bread in his mouth and a pie in one hand. His eyes were wide at the sight of Vlora and Olem, and he reached for his sword with his open hand.

“They’re Tamas’s soldiers,” Karin blurted.

Vlora spun, raising her pistol as Captain Wohler hurled the pie at Vlora and jumped backward out the door. Vlora dodged the flying pastry and pulled her finger off the trigger as Wohler disappeared into the noonday traffic on the street. Without looking back, she flung herself after him.

The wind and impending storm had everyone carrying umbrellas and wearing hats and greatcoats, and Vlora would have lost Wohler immediately if she hadn’t seen the hem of his coat disappearing around the corner into the alleyway to her left. She sprinted after him, fumbling for a hit of powder, and skidded around the corner in time to see Wohler run into traffic on the next street over.

She sprinted after him, keeping an eye on his hat and greatcoat. He might have lost her if he had stopped and tried to blend in, but he had elected to run.

And he was fast, she had to give it to him. He maneuvered through the press of bodies with the learned deftness of a bodyguard, barely slowing despite the shoulder-to-shoulder traffic. Vlora bowled her way through with the strength of a powder mage, curses following her.

She gained on Wohler until she was right on his heels. Just one more person to shove out of the way and…

Wohler whirled so quickly that only an instinctual jump backward saved Vlora’s life. The tip of his sword whooshed inches from her throat in three quick slices. He pulled back on the third slice, and Vlora took the chance to draw her own sword and attack.

Wohler parried her thrust, then performed a riposte that nearly skewered her. They exchanged a flurry of blows, Vlora’s frustration growing as her advantage in strength and speed only barely kept her even with him. A woman screamed and men shouted as she and Wohler hacked at each other, ignoring the widening circle of onlookers around them.

Tamas had once told her that a sufficiently skilled fencer could hold off a powder mage, but she’d never believed him. Now she had the chance to witness it firsthand. She kept trying for the pistol in her belt, but every time her off hand wandered too close, Wohler would press the attack.

Vlora tried to read his patterns, learn his tells, seek out some kind of weakness. It didn’t work. Wohler’s technique seemed to change every few heartbeats, and it was the only thing she could do to keep up. She could feel herself weakening, the days without sleep fouling her speed and concentration. Any second he would get the better of her.

Wohler’s foot moved back and she saw the same riposte he had used a moment ago. She would let him follow through and then counter his thrust. She almost barked out a victorious shout as he batted aside her attack and pushed forward.

The bark came out a cry as Wohler’s blade sliced up the side of her hand to the hilt of her smallsword and neatly disarmed her. She stumbled back, forced to dodge as he followed with a thrust and then a second. Her off hand snatched for her pistol and drew it as she fell.

Wohler threw himself sideways into the crowd of spectators that had grown around them. Vlora hurled a curse and lowered her pistol, forcing herself into the crowd after him, snatching for a handkerchief to wrap around her bleeding hand.

She leapt onto a nearby sidewalk and hooked her good hand around a lamppost, pulling herself up to look around. No flutter of a greatcoat, no hats moving violently to reveal a hasty retreat.

She had lost him.

*  *  *

Back at Karin’s cobbler shop, Vlora found Olem picking strawberry pie off the front of his greatcoat. He had a fresh palm print on his cheek and a sour look on his face. Shoes had been thrown everywhere, display benches knocked over. It looked like there had been a wrestling match.

Karin sat in the corner sulking, hands tied behind her back, the rope looped around the leg of a workbench.

“What happened here?” Vlora asked.

“She leapt on my back the moment you took off after Wohler,” Olem said. He picked up a shoe and used the sole to scrape pie filling off his shoulder. “And thanks for dodging that pie, by the way. I caught it with my chest. Wohler?”

“Lost him,” Vlora said.

“And I’m glad you did,” Karin said. “He’s a good man.”

Vlora held up her hand, wrapped in a bloody handkerchief. “Your good man just attacked an Adran soldier. If I see him again, I’m going to put a bullet through his eye.” She began pacing the room, kicking discarded shoes out of her way. “Where will he have gone?” she demanded.

Karin shrugged.

Vlora wanted to go slap the smug look off her face. She looked at Olem.

He picked up the pie pan with the remnants of the pie still in the bottom and dug out a chunk of it with his finger. He chewed thoughtfully before offering the pie to her. Vlora shook her head.

“We’ll have to start from scratch,” Olem said.

Vlora paused in her pacing. Maybe not, she thought, going over and taking the pie pan out of Olem’s hands. “Hold me back,” she said in a whisper.

She whirled, hurling the pie against the wall. “No, we don’t,” she said angrily. She pointed at Karin. “We have her. We’ll take her to the nearest barracks and let the soldiers go to work on her.” She began to advance on Karin.

Olem threw an arm across her chest. “Back off, Captain,” he said.

“We’ll find out where he is,” Vlora said. “She knows. She must know.”

“That’s not how we do things.” Olem set his shoulder and shoved her back roughly, putting himself in between her and Karin.

Vlora bore her teeth at him. “Then I’m going to tear this place apart until I find those files.”

“No,” Olem said, shaking his head. He seemed to get what she was up to. “We need another warrant for that.”

“Piss on the warrant. She attacked you!”

“Just a little scuffle,” Olem said. “Nothing to throw her to the wolves over. No sense in ruining someone’s life for protecting their lover.”

Vlora barked a laugh. “That lover is endangering Adran lives. Out of my way.”

“Outside!” Olem said. “Now.”

Vlora locked gazes with him, forcing every bit of anger onto her face. She held the pose for a few moments before looking over Olem’s shoulder at Karin. “We’ll be back in a few hours with that warrant, and the city police. We’ll see how you like this place torn apart brick by brick.” She whirled around and stalked out into the street.

She waited out there for about five minutes before Olem joined her. He took her by the arm and led her away as if by force, keeping his grip until they had gone around the corner.

“You know,” he said, “I was eating that pie.”

“Sorry. Do you think she fell for it?”

“Shit, probably. I thought you were going to go through me to get to her for a moment.”

“We better hope she did too,” Vlora said.

They doubled back and entered a milliner’s shop across the street from the cobbler’s. Vlora took up a position by the front window and watched for Karin.

“Can I help you?” the milliner asked.

“Just waiting for a friend,” Olem said, pulling out a pocketbook and handing the hatter several bills.

“I see,” the milliner responded. He made himself busy in the back of the shop, keeping an eye on them.

Olem came up beside Vlora and hooked a thumb in his belt loop, a new cigarette clenched in his lips. “That intelligence might be inside the building,” he said. “Our best bet is to get some men and ransack the place.”

“I thought you said we needed a warrant?”

“I was just playing along. The warrant we have already covers a search.”

Vlora bit her lip. It was tempting. A partial victory was still a victory. “Tamas wants the intelligence and Wohler,” she said. “I’m not gonna hand him just one.”

“And if we lose them both?”

“Then I’m in deeper shit than before.” Vlora shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t think I can get much deeper.”

Olem took the cigarette out of his mouth and blew a smoke ring. “Yeah, I think you can,” he said with a wry smile.

“That’s really not reassuring.” Vlora resisted the urge to ask him what Tamas had said about her, and if there was anything else she could do to win back his trust. If Olem had anything to say, he’d say it when he was ready. Until then, Vlora could only hope she was making a good impression.

Not that she had any confidence that she was.

“How’s the hand?” Olem asked.

Vlora lifted the handkerchief. “Superficial cut. Lots of blood at first, but it won’t slow me down.”

“Have a surgeon take a look at it, make sure it doesn’t need stitches.”

“It won’t.”

“Better safe,” Olem countered.

They fell into a comfortable silence for the next twenty minutes. Olem watched the street, and she watched him chain-smoke through several cigarettes.

“It would be awfully lucky if he decided to come back,” Olem said, breaking the silence.

“And stupid,” Vlora said. “He’s not that dumb, and I’m not that lucky.”

“He a good fighter?” Olem asked.

“Damn good with a sword. Didn’t have an ounce of powder on him, otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Maybe lead with a bullet next time.”

“I plan on it.”

“Good,” Olem said. “Wait. Karin’s looking out the window.”

Vlora sidled up to the front window of the hat shop and took a peek. “She see you?”

“I don’t think so. There she is.”

Karin emerged from her shop with a large, black bundle under one arm. She was wearing a green dress and a matching hat pulled down to hide her eyes. She stopped outside her shop just long enough to lock the front door, then looked both ways before heading down the street.

Vlora and Olem followed at a distance.

Karin hailed a hackney cab at the next corner. Vlora kept after it on foot until Olem caught up with a cab of his own, and she jumped onto the running board, head up so as not to lose Karin.

They crossed the river and wound through the dock district, taking a few erratic turns before heading north along the riverbank, up past Kresim Cathedral. They continued north to the outskirts of the city, stopping in front of a small chapel about a quarter of a mile from the river.

Karin left her cab, still clutching the bundle, and went inside the front door of the chapel.

“Think that’s the hiding spot?” Olem asked.

Vlora watched the chapel for several moments. A man in a bicorn and overcoat loitered on the street beside the door to the chapel, smoking a pipe, a wine bottle on the ground beside him. “Only one way to find out,” she said. “Roll me a cigarette. And give me your hat and coat.”

“Should I ask why?” Olem asked, already removing his coat.

“Because they’re older than mine, and bigger. Pit, give me your shirt too. Baggy is better. Driver!” she called. “Take us around the corner.”

She had the cab drop her several blocks from the chapel, well out of sight, leaving her weapons inside with Olem. She hunched her shoulders and tucked her hair up, then, armed with Olem’s hat and cigarette, headed back toward the chapel.

She approached slowly, walking without a purpose, pausing every few moments to look up at the sky and mutter angrily to herself until she came up even with the man sitting outside the chapel with his pipe and wine bottle.

“Hey, mister.” She coughed, pulling the cigarette out of her pocket. “You have a match?”

The man had watched her approach, eyes intent, but at her request he looked past her, up and down the street. He took a swig from his wine bottle. “No. Get out of here.”

“Come on,” Vlora whined. “Don’t be all high an’ mighty. Yer smokin’ a pipe. I’m not sober, but I’m not stupid either.” He didn’t respond, so she reached for the front door of the chapel. “Maybe ’em damn priests’ll have un.”

“Wait, wait.” The man sniffed once, then patted his pockets. She caught a glimpse of a brass belt buckle and a flash of purple, then the polished butt of a pistol, before he came up with a match.

“Thank ya,” Vlora said, striking it on the brick of the chapel before heading slowly on her way. She took a long drag at the cigarette, hoping the man didn’t see her shake and stumble as she held in a lung full of smoke. She blew it into the air over her head, trying to look nonchalant.

The cab picked her up three blocks later, and she discarded the cigarette before getting inside, wiping her mouth. “How the pit do you smoke those things?”

“Habit,” Olem said.

“Maybe I should ask why.”

“It relaxes me. Find anything out?”

Vlora stripped off Olem’s jacket and shirt. He had the decency to blush when she caught his eye as she buttoned up her own shirt. He turned quickly to look out the window. Vlora snorted a laugh. “The man outside is a lookout. He’s wearing a Kresim church belt buckle.”

“Our missing Prielight guards, eh?”

“That’s my guess.”

“Think Wohler will be inside?”

“Well, Karin went in there with something. That’s gotta be it. Now that we’ve spooked Wohler out of his hiding place, it seems likely he’ll come here for safety in numbers.”

“Agreed,” Olem said.

“And now he’s going to be surrounded by Kresimir knows how many of his fellow Prielights.”

“Sounds like we have a problem,” Olem said.

Vlora smiled at the way he said we. It felt nice to have someone on her side. Seemed like ages since that had happened. “Right,” she said. “I think our best bet is to spook him, get him to run. Flush him into the open so I can get a shot at him.”

“Even if we succeed,” Olem said, “It won’t take long for his friends to figure out there’s only two of us. We won’t be able to recover either him or the intelligence.”

Vlora sucked on her teeth, forcing herself to think. She could feel the lure of the easy way out—giving up—tugging gently but persistently at the back of her mind. She fought it down. She needed this victory for when she arrived at the front.

To the pit with the victory and Tamas’s approval. This was about catching the man who caused Sabon’s death. She would do this for the late commander and all the other men who died in the ambush.

“Would you be able to bring anyone else into this?” Vlora asked.

“How many?” Olem asked.

“As many as you can. I know what I’m asking, and if you can’t, I perfectly understand.”

Olem seemed to mull this over for a few moments. “Prielight guards are excellent fighters,” he said. “Some of the best in the Nine.”

“I know.”

“We don’t know how many are inside.”

“I know that too.”

“Nor do we know if there are any civilians inside. Spouses, mistresses, diocels, or even children.”

“We’ll have to go in through every entrance,” Vlora said. “Surprise them, keep them at bayonet’s length until we can disarm the lot. They’re not protecting anyone, just hiding out. They have no reason to die in a fight.”

Olem began to roll a new cigarette. He was quiet for a time before meeting Vlora’s eyes and giving a sigh. “Well. What the pit is the use of forming an elite fighting unit if we don’t give them some practice?”

*  *  *

Vlora kept watch on the chapel from a safe distance while Olem was gone. She could feel the weight of the air, see the rolling storm clouds moving in off the Adsea. The long-delayed storm would be here any minute.

Just in time to foul gunpowder and make the cobbles slippery. Perfect weather for a fight.

Olem returned two hours later, leaping from a hackney cab. Inside, Vlora counted three more faces, and two more hackney cabs had pulled to the side of the road to wait with the first one. It was beginning to get dark, and it was drizzling lightly.

“He’s in there,” she reported to Olem. “Came in about twenty minutes ago. Karin left ten minutes later, but Wohler is still around.”

“Unless he went out the back,” Olem said.

“True,” Vlora conceded. “Did you bring me a rifle?”

“I did.”

“How many men do you have?”

“Thirteen was all I could gather on short notice. I couldn’t find Verundish, but she’s supposed to be staying out of sight.” Olem snapped off a salute that was half mocking. “Orders, Captain?”

“Send four men around back to take care of the lookout they’ll have there,” Vlora said. “Tell them to do it quietly, and to be ready for anyone who makes a run for it.”

“My boys are a bit conspicuous. Either lookout is going to see us a mile away.”

“That’s what we’re for.” Vlora hitched her belt up so that the tip of her sword wasn’t visible beneath the hem of her greatcoat, then took one pistol and slid it up the sleeve of her coat, barrel first. “I want them to be in position around back in three minutes,” she said. “Tell your men to start counting.”

Olem snapped off a barrage of quiet orders to the men in one of the cabs, and it headed to the next street over, behind the chapel.

Vlora gave them a minute and a half before she took a deep breath. “Take my arm,” she said.

Olem raised an eyebrow and put his arm out for her to loop hers around. Together, they walked around the corner and headed toward the front door of the chapel.

The rain began to fall a little heavier, and Vlora drew herself closer to Olem, feeling the warmth of his body beneath his greatcoat. “Lower your head,” she said. “Pretend you’re talking to me.”

“But I am talking to you,” Olem said.

Vlora punched him lightly on the shoulder.

“If you get any of my men killed,” Olem said, “I’m going to be very cross.”

“I’ll do my best not to,” Vlora said.

The lookout had spotted them. He was watching their approach, but he hadn’t gotten up from his spot near the door.

“This is nice,” Olem said, looking up at the sky. “I mean, the weather could be better. But the company’s not so bad.”

“Contrary to popular opinion,” Vlora said.

“Quite so,” Olem replied cheerfully.

They were coming up beside the chapel and the lookout was eyeing them just a little too keenly. One hand itched toward the pistol hidden beneath his coat.

Vlora turned suddenly to Olem and got on her toes, kissing him. Olem’s eyes went wide, and when Vlora pulled away, she said, “Let’s get married!” in a loud voice.

The lookout made a sound in the back of his throat—a strangled laugh at the look on Olem’s face, perhaps—and studied his boots.

Vlora dropped the pistol she had hidden up her sleeve, catching it by the barrel. Her swing took the lookout in the side of the head before he could call out, and he slumped to one side.

Vlora wiped the blood off the butt of her pistol. Behind her, Olem rubbed his lips. “Well, that took me by surprise.”

“Him, too,” Vlora said. The two other cabs pulled up in front of the church and Adran soldiers poured out. They fixed bayonets to their rifles, trying to keep the pans dry against the rain. Vlora readied her own rifle. “Fifteen seconds!” she said above the sound of rain hitting the cobbles.

The soldiers spread out, three on each side of the front door, the rest moving along the north side of the chapel and taking up positions below the windows.

Vlora reached out with her senses, taking stock of the powder inside the chapel. There was plenty of it in there—at least a hundred charges and several powder horns. She guessed there were as many as ten Prielight guards inside. None of the powder was moving, which meant they weren’t falling into position for an ambush.

“Five, four,” Vlora counted down, tensing.

Vlora’s powder mage senses picked up a sudden shout from the other side of the chapel, and then the unmistakable sound of soldiers scrambling inside. Olem’s men had tipped off the lookout around back.

“Shit,” Vlora said. “Now!”

She slammed one shoulder into the door, only to find it barred from one side. A vision of disaster flashed through her mind—of Olem’s men around back being overwhelmed and killed, of Wohler and his compatriots fleeing, of a running chase in the street that took more lives.

Olem stepped up beside her. “One, two!”

Vlora set her feet and the two of them slammed into the door together. It burst inward, and Vlora leveled her rifle as Olem’s soldiers streamed in behind her.

She took in the building—the chapel was one large room, with pews in the middle and an altar to Kresimir at the front. The pews had been covered in blankets to form makeshift beds. Eight men and women, some of them still wearing the purple of the Prielight guard, scrambled for their weapons.

Vlora detonated the powder of the first Prielight to snatch up her pistol. The crack of the blast rang in her ears and the woman stumbled back with a scream, clutching the remains of her hand.

Glass broke as Olem’s men shattered the windows along the side of the chapel and thrust the barrels of their rifles through the openings. The blast of a rifle went off in Vlora’s ear, and a second Prielight guard stumbled and fell, sword half-drawn. Olem kept his smoking rifle raised, bayonet forward.

The rest of the Prielight guards froze in their places.

The entire entry had taken fewer than five seconds. Vlora searched the room, and panic set in. she didn’t see her target.

He had to be in here somewhere. Maybe in a cellar? Hiding behind the altar? Unless he’d gone out the back before the ambush, or managed to slip out just as they arrived.

“Where’s Wohler?” Vlora demanded.

“Right here.”

Every sense pricked as Vlora felt the tip of a blade press ever so gently against her throat. Her breathing grew shallow and she fought the urge to jerk back, not trusting her reflexes to be fast than Wohler’s. She’d seen what he could do with that sword.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Wohler had been concealed by the door as it burst open. No one had swung to cover that side of their approach. Sloppy. Wohler was still half-behind the door now, his arm extended to press the tip of his sword against her throat.

“I can kill every one of your men before you kill me,” she said.

“Detonating their powder?” Wohler asked. “Certainly. But they’re not my men. Just church guards.” Vlora reached out with her senses. Wohler didn’t have an ounce of powder on him.

“Sir,” one of Olem’s men outside the side windows shouted. “I have a clear shot.”

Vlora could feel the tip of the sword tighten against her throat.

“Stand down,” Olem shouted. “Damn it, I said stand down!”

“Drop your rifle, woman,” Wohler said.

Vlora lowered her rifle to the floor.

“Have your men drop their rifles,” Wohler said to Olem.

Olem snorted. “That’s not going to happen.”

“I’ll kill her,” Wohler said.

“And we’ll kill you,” Olem responded coldly. “And we’ll make sure it takes a very long time. Nobody wins that way.”

Wohler sneered. “You have a proposal?”

“Give us the intelligence you took from Charlemund’s estate and we’ll let you walk free,” Olem said.

“Like pit we will,” Vlora said. “He killed Sabon.”

Wohler ignored her. “Bloody Charlemund hasn’t brought me anything but trouble. You can have the intelligence. You swear on your honor as an officer?”

“I do,” Olem said. “None of my men will come after you.”

Vlora felt the prod of the blade and had to take a step to the side to keep from being skewered. Wohler forced her into the middle of the room as he came out from behind cover, the two of them moving together. Wohler, his blade still in place and his eyes on Olem’s soldiers, bent over one of the pews. He lifted a thick case and threw it to Olem’s feet.

“Olem,” Vlora said, “I don’t like this.”

Olem picked up the case and leafed through the papers inside. “You don’t have to like it, Captain,” he said. He nodded to Wohler. “I gave my word as an officer. You can go, Captain Wohler.”

Vlora’s body trembled with anger. How could Olem let this man walk free? Did he really think her life was worth letting Sabon’s killer get away? She watched for a break in Wohler’s focus, but his sword blade was unwavering.

Wohler directed Vlora’s movement again with the tip of his blade. He grabbed his jacket and threw it over one shoulder, then took his hat and forced Vlora between Olem’s soldiers and out into the rain.

They walked together out into the street and down to the end of the block. Vlora waited for the pain of the thrust, for Wohler to take his chances with killing her and making a run for it. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Olem’s soldiers watching their retreat from the door of the chapel.

“Wohler!” Olem’s voice called.

Wohler stopped. He peered back through the rain.

“Wohler,” Olem repeated. “I gave you my word that none of my men would come after you. I forgot to tell you: Vlora isn’t one of my men.”

Vlora let her right leg drop out from beneath her and brought her left arm and shoulder up, slapping the blade away from her throat. The fingers of her left hand grasped the hilt of his small sword. Wohler jerked back, sawing the blade along her arm, slicing through her jacket and into the flesh. She knew that to let go would allow him to bring the tip around to thrust at her chest.

Instead, she jerked on the hilt, bringing Wohler to her. She slammed her right fist into the side of his face. The blow should have broken his jaw, but it glanced off and the two of them stumbled together, tripping on the curb.

Wohler’s forehead connected with Vlora’s nose. She felt a crack, and tasted the blood streaming down her chin. Wohler rolled away from her, slipping from her grasp. He slashed halfheartedly toward her as he leapt to his feet, then dashed down the street.

She wasn’t going after him unarmed, and he knew it.

Instead, Vlora sprinted for the chapel.

She burst past Olem and the soldiers, ignoring Olem’s worried inquiry, and snatched up her rifle before heading back into the street.

She looped the rifle over her shoulder and hauled herself up the metal gutter of the chapel, her left arm slippery with blood, staring up into the black sky. The rain was coming down in sheets as she gained the roof, scrabbling up the slick tiles until she reached the apex.

Her hat had fallen off in the climb, and she had to wipe water out of her eyes. Her left arm was torn up by Wohler’s sword, so she propped it lamely on the apex of the roof and lay the barrel of her rifle across it, sighting down the street the way Wohler had gone.

She stared into the gloom, worried she’d taken too long.

“Come out, you bastard.”

There he was, emerging from an alley four streets over, running for the cover of the next building. He was over three hundred yards away. An easy shot for a powder mage in good conditions. But against a moving target, in the rain and the gloom? Vlora took an extra sniff of powder, willing all of her focus on the running figure. He’d reach the next alleyway and be out of her vision in thirty paces.

Twenty-five.

Twenty.

Fifteen.

Vlora remembered the first time she ever shot in the rain. Target practice when she was thirteen, up near the King’s Forest. She had trembled with anxiety, worried about disappointing Tamas. Sabon had stood next to her, the rain dripping off his hat, and whispered for her to focus on her breathing.

Vlora didn’t pull the trigger—the powder in the pan was already soaked. She set off the dry powder in the barrel directly with her mind, then focused on the flash in the barrel, stabilizing the bullet with her sorcery, letting the energy of the powder charge carry it forward. It cut through the rain, covering the distance in a moment’s time, then blew through Wohler’s left ankle.

Vlora let the muzzle of her rifle drop and watched as Wohler gave out a cry and fell to the ground.

She wasn’t giving him the luxury of an easy death.

*  *  *

Vlora was awoken by the swish of her blinds being thrown open, and the cruel morning sunlight stabbed her eyes about half a day sooner than she would have liked. She wiped the drool of the side of her mouth and lifted herself onto her elbows, squinting over her shoulder.

“Who the pit is it?”

“Olem,” a voice said.

She rolled over, clutching the sheet to her chest, and held up a hand against the light. The smell of cigarette smoke pricked her nostrils. “Olem?”

“That’s what I said. Looks like you had quite a party last night.” Olem stood by the window, dressed in his uniform, hat under one hand.

Vlora looked around at the piles of clothes and discarded wine bottles. Her head pounded, and she couldn’t remember much of anything after dragging Wohler screaming through the streets and delivering him to the Adopest police. “It takes a lot to get a powder mage drunk,” she said.

Olem lifted one of the bottles and held it to the light. He swirled the contents and sniffed it, then took a swig.

Vlora tossed the sheet away and reached for her pants, pausing to smile when Olem turned hastily away from her nudity. She pulled on her shirt and boots, then stood up and ran her fingers through her hair, trying to make herself presentable. Olem offered the half-empty wine bottle. She took it with a word of thanks and took a large gulp.

Foul.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “We caught Wohler, didn’t we?”

“That we did. Good work. The intelligence is secured and Wohler will be talking to our boys about any of Charlemund’s other secrets he may be privy to.”

“So, uh, what are you doing here?

“I thought you might like to go get some breakfast down the road.”

Vlora raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh?”

Olem gave her a grin. “Indeed. You’ll want a full stomach. We’ve got a long way to ride today.”

“We?”

“I’m done with my recruiting, and my men and I need to be in Budwiel in four days. I thought you might want to come with us.”

Vlora blinked lazily, her mind still trying to catch up. That’s right, she had captured Wohler, which meant she was welcome back at the front. She gave a sigh of relief. Two days ago she had all but resigned herself to failure. Now she had succeeded, with Olem’s help.

To be honest, it felt like a hollow victory. It was all for what? To impress Tamas and go to the front, where she could get back to killing? No, she reminded herself. It was so Sabon could rest easy.

“Was this meant to be a test all along? Were you here to watch me?”

Olem looked around for someplace to ash his cigarette, then opened the window to do it outside. “No,” he said. “I was told to bring you if you succeed, leave you if you failed.”

“And you weren’t supposed to help me?”

“I was told not to, actually. But I figured that was just the field marshal’s mood talking.” Olem extended a hand. “Shall we?”

Vlora clasped the hand. “Breakfast first?”

“I don’t start the day any other way. Besides, there’s going to be a battle at Budwiel, and a damned big one. I figure it can wait for a good meal.”

Meet the Author

Photo by Kevin Kempton

Brian McClellan is an avid reader of fantasy and a former student of Brandon Sanderson. When he is not writing, he loves baking, making jam from fruit grown in northeast Ohio, and playing video games. He currently lives in Cleveland, Ohio, with his wife. Find out more about Brian McClellan at www.brianmcclellan.com.

Also by Brian McClellan

POWDER MAGE TRILOGY

Promise of Blood

The Crimson Campaign

The Autumn Republic

SHORT FICTION IN THE POWDER MAGE UNIVERSE

Forsworn (e-only novella)

Servant of the Crown (e-only novella)

Hope’s End (e-only short story)

The Girl of Hrusch Avenue (e-only short story)

Face in the Window (e-only short story)

Return to Honor (e-only short story)

If you enjoyed
RETURN TO HONOR
look out for

THE AUTUMN REPUBLIC

BOOK THREE OF THE POWDER MAGE TRILOGY
by Brian McClellan

1

Field Marshal Tamas stood in the ruins of the Kresim Cathedral in Adopest.

What had once been a magnificent building with golden spires that rose majestically above the surrounding buildings was now a pile of rubble being picked over by a small army of stonemasons in search of usable marble and limestone, and birds that had built their nests in those spires now wheeled aimlessly overhead as Tamas inspected the ruin by the light of the rising sun.

The destruction had been wrought by Privileged elemental sorcery. Granite keystones had been cut apart with an almost casual indifference, and entire sections of the cathedral were melted away with fire hotter than the center of any forge. The sight turned Tamas’s stomach.

“Looks worse from far off,” Olem said. He stood beside Tamas, hand resting on the butt of his pistol beneath his greatcoat, eyes scanning the streets for signs of Brudanian patrols. He spoke around the cigarette clenched between his lips. “This must have been the column of smoke our scouts saw. The rest of the city seems intact.”

Tamas scowled at his bodyguard. “This cathedral was three hundred years old. It took sixty years to build. I refuse to be relieved that the damned Brudanians invaded Adopest just to destroy the cathedral.”

“They had the chance to level the whole city. They didn’t. I call that lucky, sir.”

Olem was right, of course. They had ridden hard for two weeks, dangerously far ahead of the Seventh and Ninth brigades and their new Deliv allies, in order to determine the fate of the city. Tamas had been relieved to see Adopest still standing.

But now it lay in the hands of a Brudanian army and Tamas was forced to sneak about in his own city. There were no words to describe the anger he felt.

He pushed down that rage, trying to get control of himself. They’d arrived on the outskirts of the city only a few hours ago, sneaking in under cover of darkness. He had to get organized, to find his allies, scout his enemies, and find out how an entire city could fall into Brudanian hands with no sign of a fight. Pit, Brudania was eight hundred miles away!

Had another one of his council betrayed him?

“Sir,” Vlora said, drawing Tamas’s attention to the south. She stood above them on the remains of a buttress, watching the Ad River and the old quarter of the city beyond it. Like Tamas and Olem, she wore a greatcoat to conceal her Adran uniform, and her dark hair was tucked beneath a tricorne hat. “A Brudanian patrol. There’s a Privileged with them.”

Tamas eyed the rubble and considered the lay of the street to their south, formulating a plan to ambush the Brudanian patrol. He forced himself to stop that line of thought. He couldn’t risk any open conflict. Not without more men. He’d only brought Vlora and Olem ahead of the army and while they might be able to cut through a single Brudanian patrol, any kind of firefight would bring more running.

“We need soldiers,” Tamas said.

Olem ashed his cigarette on the ruins of the cathedral altar. “I can try to find Sergeant Oldrich. He’s got fifteen of my Riflejacks with him.”

“That would be a start,” Tamas said.

“I think we should make contact with Ricard,” Vlora said. “Find out what happened to the city. He’ll have men that we can use.”

Tamas acknowledged the advice with a nod. “In good time. Pit. I should have brought the whole powder cabal with me. I want more men before we go see Ricard.” I don’t know if he’s turned on us. Tamas had left Taniel’s unconscious body in Ricard’s care. If someone had harmed his boy, Tamas would…

He swallowed bile and tried to gain control of his pounding heart.

“Sabon’s trainees?” Olem asked.

Before Sabon’s death he had been tasked with setting up a school for powder mages just north of the city. Early reports were that he had over twenty men and women with some talent and that he was already teaching them how to shoot and fight and control their powers.

They’d had only a few months of training. It would have to be good enough.

“The trainees,” Tamas agreed. “At the very least we can get Telavere before we go to Ricard.”

They headed across the Ad River in the cool dawn as the streets began to fill with people. Tamas noted that Brudanian patrols, while they were frequent and the street guards plentiful, seemed to leave the citizens unmolested. No one questioned him or his companions as they passed through the old city’s western gates or as they left the city once again to reach the suburban northland.

Tamas saw Brudanian ships in the harbor along the river and their tall masts out in the bay to the south. The mountain-crossing canal that Ricard’s union had been building must have been a success, he noted wryly. It was the only way oceangoing vessels of that size could reach the Adsea.

Tamas lost track of the number of destroyed churches and monasteries. It seemed as if every other city block had a pile of rubble where a church had once been. He couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the priests and priestesses that staffed them and why they in particular had been targeted by the Brudanian Privileged.

It was something he’d have to ask Ricard.

Their journey took them an hour north of the city by foot, where the school stood on the bank of the Ad River. It was an old brick building, a decommissioned clothing factory with a field off to one side that had been turned into a firing range. As they came off the road, Vlora grasped Tamas’s arm. He sensed panic in her touch.

Tamas felt his chest tighten.

The windows of the dormitory above the school were shuttered, and the main door hung off its hinges. A wooden placard, emblazoned with the silver powder keg of a powder mage, had been knocked from its place above the door and lay broken in the mud. The grounds around the school and the firing range beside it were quiet and abandoned, the grass overgrown.

“Vlora,” Tamas said, “take the south side by the river. Olem, swing around to the north.”

The two moved off with a “yessir” and no further questions. Vlora removed her hat and crept through the tall grass, while Olem continued up the street past the school, sauntering casually, before cutting across the firing range to approach the school from uphill.

Tamas waited for them to be in position before he continued cautiously down the path to the school. He opened his third eye to look into the Else, searching for signs of sorcery, but it revealed nothing about the contents of the building. If anyone lay waiting inside, they weren’t Privileged or Knacked.

Nor could he sense any powder mages, for that matter. Why was the school empty? Telavere had been left in charge. She was a powder mage of little raw power but excellent technical skill, a perfect choice to teach the recruits. Could she have taken them into hiding when the Brudanians arrived? Had they been attacked?

Tamas drew his pistols as he neared the school, pausing only to sprinkle black powder on his tongue. A powder trance gripped his body, his eyesight, hearing, and smell sharpening and the pain of the ride ebbing away behind a curtain of strength.

A low sound filled his ears, almost drowned out by the sound of the gentle flow of the Ad River. He couldn’t quite place the sound, but he knew the smell that filled his nostrils. It smelled of iron and decay. Blood.

Tamas checked the front window of the school. The glare of the morning sun prevented him from piercing the darkness within. The low sound seemed a roar now in his trance-enhanced hearing, and the scent of death filled him with dread.

He kicked the front door off its hinges and dove in with both pistols ready. He froze in the entryway, eyes adjusting to the dim light.

His caution was unwarranted. The foyer was empty, and the silence stretched throughout the building—but for the low drone of what he now saw were thousands of flies. They buzzed and churned in the air, dancing against the windowpanes.

Tamas shoved both pistols into his belt so he could tie a handkerchief about his mouth and nose. Despite the flies and the smell, there were no bodies in the entryway, and the only sign of violence was the smear of rust on the floors and splatters on the wall. Men had been killed here, and the bodies dragged away.

He followed the trail of smeared blood from the entryway and proceeded deeper into the old factory building, one pistol held at the ready.

The factory floor, an immense room that had no doubt once been home to dozens of long tables where seamstresses worked at their sewing by the hundred, was empty now but for a dozen desks along one side. There were fewer flies here except for the ones hanging out around a half-dozen stains and rusty puddles where men had died.

The smears continued along the factory floor and out through a door in the back corner.

Tamas whirled at a sound, leveling his pistol, but it was only Vlora coming down the stairway from the dormitory above. He noted plenty of blood on the stairs as well.

“What did you find?” Tamas asked. His voice echoed eerily in the large room.

“Flies.” Vlora spit on the floor. “Flies, and half the back wall of the school is missing. Plenty of scorch marks. Someone detonated at least two horns of powder up there.” She swore under her breath, the only crack in her professional demeanor.

“What happened here?” Tamas asked.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“No bodies?”

“None.”

Tamas gritted his teeth in frustration. Plenty of blood—that’s what the flies were attracted to—and more than a little gore. Dozens of men had died in this building and not all that long ago.

“They dragged the bodies out the back,” Olem said, his voice echoing in the large room as he stepped through a small doorway at the far corner of the room.

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.”

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Table of Contents

1. Cover
2. Title Page
3. Welcome
4. Return to Honor
5. Meet the Author
6. Also by Brian McClellan
7. Bonus Material
8. About Orbit Short Fiction
9. Orbit Newsletter
10. Copyright

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1. Begin Reading

2. Table of Contents

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Brian McClellan
Excerpt from The Autumn Republic copyright © 2015 by Brian McClellan
Cover design by Wendy Chan
Cover photo © Shutterstock
Cover copyright © 2015 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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First eBook edition: January 2015

ISBN: 978-0-316-30022-3

E3

Table of Contents

- Cover
- Title Page
- Welcome
- Return to Honor
- Meet the Author
- Also by Brian McClellan
- Bonus Material
- About Orbit Short Fiction
- Orbit Newsletter
- Copyright