Nikslaus screamed. He stumbled back, clutching his left hand. He slammed into the column with Charlemund’s bust. The bust clattered to the floor, shattering a marble tile, and Nikslaus tripped over the column and fell to the ground.
Tamas got to his hands and knees, ignoring the pain in his leg. He used the longer piece of his cane to leverage himself onto one foot. He hopped over to Nikslaus. He lit some powder. Nikslaus screamed again as a bullet laced through his right hand, tearing the arcane symbols on his Privileged’s glove. Nikslaus stared at his hands, matching bullet holes through the palms of each. The white gloves were covered in blood, obscuring the remaining runes.
“Now you know what it’s like to have your power taken from you,” Tamas said. He drew his sword and knelt down beside Nikslaus. He took one of the sorcerer’s hands in his and pulled off the glove. Nikslaus whimpered.
“Those are some delicate fingers,” Tamas said.
Chapter 39
Adamat reined in his hired mount at the front gate of the villa. His horse tossed its head, sides lathered from the long gallop. Adamat wiped sweat from his forehead and patted the creature’s flank. He could also see the very top of the villa, and the carriages rumbling toward it.
“The arch-diocel isn’t taking visitors.” These were Tamas’s men; soldiers in their dark-blue uniforms, lapels stained silver. One of them gestured to Adamat with his bayoneted rifle. “Go on,” he said. “Read your newspaper tomorrow.”
Adamat rested just a moment to get his breath, his mount prancing beneath him.
“You don’t look like you ride much,” the soldier said with a lopsided smile.
“I don’t,” Adamat snapped. “I have to warn Field Marshal Tamas.”
The soldier’s easy manner disappeared. He stepped close, while his partner circled around to Adamat’s other side.
“Listen,” Adamat said as his horse shied away from the soldier. He sawed at the reins. “I’m Adamat, the field marshal’s investigator. Tamas is walking into a trap.”
The soldier gave Adamat a hard look. “I’ve heard the name passed around,” he said slowly. “Go on. Don’t make an idiot of yourself.”
Adamat nodded desperately, still breathing hard. He’d not ridden like this since he was at the university.
The gate was pushed open and Adamat urged his mount through. They were on the cobblestone drive, and he kneed the poor animal into a gallop. He bent down next to the creature’s neck, white-knuckled grip on the reins. The carriages were to the house now, circled around the fountain in front of the villa.
Rifle shots rang out, startling the horse. It missed a step and stumbled, pitching sidelong into a ditch. Adamat cried out as he was thrown. He cleared the ditch completely, hitting the ground hard, and rolled. A vineyard post arrested his roll. He got to his hands and knees, clutching a pain in his side.
“Rosvel’s ass!” There was blood on his hand from some minor cut. He wiped it on his coat, pulling himself up and checking his chest and sides. No broken bones, but some mighty bruises. His mount lay on its side in the ditch, flanks heaving. “You won’t be getting me any farther, will you?”
The shots continued. Shouts followed. He was too late. Vetas’s man had already warned the arch-diocel. Adamat closed his eyes. What could he do? This was his fault. He had no rifle—just a pistol and a sword. He returned to the drive, eyes cast up toward the house. A carriage had overturned, soldiers had scattered to the vineyard, exchanging fire with unknown assailants. No muzzle flashes or powder smoke from the house. What were Tamas’s men shooting at? He shook his head. Air rifles, of course. Damn it.
Adamat went back over the ditch and into the vineyard at a run. He gave the house a wide berth, cutting through the vineyards and then back behind a stable. He glimpsed blue coats here and there, soldiers crouched in cover. The rifle shots were becoming too few and far between. It did not bode well.
He leapt a course of firewood and nearly landed on one of Tamas’s soldiers. The man swung his rifle toward Adamat, almost sticking him with the bayonet. He was a young man, unseasoned and more than a little wide-eyed. “Name!” he demanded, voice quavering.
“Get that out of my face.” Adamat grabbed the rifle by the barrel, shoving it away. “I’m Adamat. Does Tamas have the whole property covered?”
The soldier regarded him warily. His hands were shaking. He’d probably never seen live fire