A soldier broke off and ran for the vice-chancellor. He grabbed Prime’s coat. The old man shrugged him off with surprising force. Beyond him, far into the crowd, Mihali still stood on his table. He’d ceased to yell and now stood gazing down into the mob, a frown on his face. Despite the violence of the rush, no one came within ten paces of his table.
Until a Barber broke through.
“My pistol,” Tamas said. “Quickly!”
Another Barber stumbled from the crowd and into Mihali’s circle of calm. He shook his head, as if confused, and then exchanged looks with the other. A third joined them, and they began to advance on Mihali.
“Weapon!” Tamas yelled.
The soldier had no luck in dragging Prime toward the building. Tamas caught sight of the old vice-chancellor out of the corner of his eye. Prime’s shoulders slumped. Then he reached slowly into his pockets and removed a pair of white gloves with red and gold runes. He pulled them on and raised his hands.
Tamas looked on, astonished. The vice-chancellor, the spectacled old overweight professor of histories, was a Privileged? How had Tamas never known? Prime worked his fingers in the air like an orchestra conductor. An audible wump split the air and the crowd was divided in two. A pathway as wide as a carriage opened up. An invisible force pressed people away. Some clawed and thrashed as if at a glass wall, while others were crushed up against it like boats upon the rocks.
“Get your soldiers in there,” Prime said over his shoulder.
Tamas hesitated. “Go,” he said after a moment. He hobbled toward the vice-chancellor, grabbing his rifle from a soldier and aiming at a Barber. He only had one shot and no spare powder charges. It was too far to make the bullet bounce, and his men wouldn’t get there in time. The analysis lasted just a fraction of a second. He aimed at the biggest, most dangerous-looking of the Barbers and pulled the trigger.
The Barber evaporated. The bullet went through a fine red cloud of mist and hit a woman in the shoulder. Tamas felt his eyes widen. He pointed the pistol straight in the air and looked at the barrel. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He looked back toward Mihali.
The second Barber paused, eyes on the cloud that had once been his comrade, his mouth slightly open. The red mist disappeared like the smoke from a pipe in a stiff breeze. The third Barber charged toward Mihali, razor in the air. Tamas thought he heard a slight pop, and this one disappeared as well. No clothes, no metal blade remained. Nothing but the red mist, which was gone with the breeze. The second Barber turned to flee, and with a subtle pop—not imagined—he was gone. Tamas shook his head as more pops filled his ears. Someone screamed.
The square began to empty. Mihali was left alone, standing upon his table, arms folded. He looked sternly out across the paving stones as the last of the fleeing crowd took off down the avenues. Food was strewn about the ground; tables and chairs overturned; plates, bowls, and cups abandoned. There a pot had been overturned, porridge slowly spreading along the ground, and here the bodies of bystanders lay unmoving. A woman groaned in pain.
“Help her,” Tamas told a soldier, pointing.
Behind him, the doors of the House of Nobles swung open. Soldiers poured out.
“What happened, sir?” Vlora asked, rushing to his side.
“The Black Street Barbers,” Tamas spat. “Adamat and Sabon didn’t do their job.”
“Where the pit are they?”
“I shot a couple. They’re…” Tamas stopped. The wounded Barbers were gone. He blinked. Was that a red mist where they’d been? “I saw more. They must have fled with the crowd.” He brushed past Olem and hobbled down the stairs. He paused next to the vice-chancellor. Prime stood with his hands in his jacket pockets, surveying the empty square with a firm look of consternation.
“Who the pit are you?” Tamas said. His hands trembled. The sorcery that had washed over him minutes before was gone, hidden again. It had clearly come from Mihali, but then what of the vice-chancellor? A Privileged this whole time? Tamas would have seen it.
Prime removed his hand from his pocket and drummed his fingers on his belly. He’d taken off his Privileged gloves.
“You’re one of them,” Tamas said when it became clear Prime would not answer his question. “One of the Predeii. Like Julene.” It was true. All of it was