Brian McCLELLAN - The Autumn Republic

One of the hotel’s kitchen lads brought in a wooden crate and the messenger climbed up, while Fell clinked a spoon on her glass.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the messenger said. “It is my honor as representative of the vote counters to reveal the identity of the First Minister of Adro.” He paused, removing an envelope from his jacket and breaking the seal.

Taniel licked his lips, wishing he had something to drink, and wiped his palms on his trousers.

“I am pleased to announce that the First Minister of Adro… is the honorable Ricard Tumblar!”

A cheer went up through the crowd more deafening than cannon fire. Taniel stumbled as Ricard suddenly grabbed him in an embrace. His hand was snatched by a dozen different people and shaken until he thought his arm would come off at the elbow. He heard a cork pop, and a champagne glass was thrust into his hand and then immediately taken away so he could shake hands with someone else. Congratulations were shouted in his ear and he was shoved around the room by well-wishers until he thought he might snap at any moment.

The silence that suddenly swept through the room hit Taniel like a punch to the gut. Someone’s laugh cut through it, then dissipated awkwardly. Taniel blinked away the haze of the excitement as the crowd scattered and Lord Claremonte stepped into the dining room.

Claremonte was dressed in the sharpest of black suits with tails, a top hat held in one hand. His eye wandered lazily over the assembled guests and he lifted his hands to gently clap. “I see that the messengers reached me faster than they did you.”

Ricard gazed back at Claremonte warily. Taniel put his hand on the hilt of his smallsword and set his jaw. Tamas’s stern command to hold it together kept running through his brain.

“You know the results?” Ricard asked.

“If I didn’t already, I do now. I heard the cheering from the streets.”

Taniel could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart. The room was deathly silent, and though the guests didn’t know Claremonte’s true nature, there was a palpable air about him that threatened danger. Taniel caught Vlora’s eye, and saw the pistol in her belt half drawn.

“And,” Claremonte continued, “well earned, I say.” He swept one leg back in a graceful bow. “Congratulations, Mr. First Minister, and to you, Second Minister. I wish you all the greatest success!” He stepped forward suddenly and shook Ricard’s hand, ignoring the shocked look on Tumblar’s face.

“You’ll be leaving the city, then?” Taniel asked, his voice low.

Claremonte met his eye, the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “As I gave my word. I just have a few things to wrap up before I go. Well done, Mr. Two-Shot. Enjoy your victory.”

Claremonte was gone before Taniel could respond. He withdrew graciously, offering congratulations to Ricard’s staff and waving all the way out the door. Slowly, the conversation resumed, and Taniel pulled himself out of the middle of the room and made his way over to Vlora. Just as he reached her, he heard another champagne cork pop and turned to find Ricard holding the foaming bottle.

“Fell,” Ricard shouted. “Tell Tamas to start the parade!”

Taniel gripped the hilt of his sword and turned to Vlora. “Get to your position.”

Tamas lay his hand on the neck of his charger to calm the horse as it stepped nervously in place at the head of a long column of sharply dressed Adran soldiers. The column snaked along the main road leading out of Adopest in the midst of a great crowd.

He could sense the excitement of his men. Though every one of them stood at parade rest with feet apart and eyes forward, bayoneted rifles down, he could feel the buzz of energy that emanated from and surrounded them as Adran citizens gathered along the streets ahead laughed and children ran up and down the sides of the column, throwing garlands of fresh flowers, trying to loop them around the bayonets.

“Field Marshal Tamas!” a voice shouted above the din.

Tamas looked up, and it was Olem, who pointed out one of Ricard’s men riding toward them down the main avenue out of the city. The man shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the mob of revelers.

“Speak up!” Olem shouted back.

The messenger pulled up a dozen paces away. “We’ve won! Ricard Tumblar is the First Minister of Adro! Lord Claremonte has admitted defeat.” Tamas could hear the news being relayed by the citizens lining the street and watched the exclamations and the curses. There was a clamor as the information was spread, opinions barked back and forth. A fistfight broke out, but was quickly put down by the people themselves.

Tamas exchanged a look with Olem, and could see his own optimistic trepidation reflected in the bodyguard. “Well. That’s that, then.”

“We hope,” Olem said.

“We hope,” Tamas echoed. “Colonel, if you’ll do the honors.”

Olem pointed to a nearby drummer boy, and a long, steady beat suddenly broke through the noise. People all along the road paused in their celebrations.

“General Arbor, the parade is at your command.”

General Arbor swung his horse around to face the column behind them. “Parade!” he bellowed. “Attention!” The sound of five thousand pairs of boots shuffling together rang out as every man came to attention. “Parade advance!” The drummer boy clicked his sticks four times on the rim of his snare, then snapped out the beat, and the column moved forward.

Tamas sat straight on his charger, sword over his right shoulder, as they marched into the crowded city streets, the path clearing ahead of them. He could hear happy shouts, and saw flower garlands thrown from the tops of buildings to float down onto the marching soldiers.

The parade led through the Factory District and the New City, winding up and down a dozen streets as the people cheered and waved. Women reached out to touch the soldiers as they passed, and men shouted congratulations. Tamas saw more than one tavern owner running up and down the column to tell the soldiers they could drink for free all night at his pub.

Tamas kept his back straight and his bearing regal, but he watched the crowds and the shop windows and the rooftops with trepidation. Every time he thought he could give in to his pride and let himself relax, he felt as if hostile eyes were on his back. He tried to tell himself that old instincts never died. He tried to tell himself that it was finally over.

The parade proceeded toward the bridge over the Ad River, and Tamas raised his fist at the sight before him.

“Parade halt!” General Arbor yelled.

The brigade came to a stop and Tamas eyed the lone wagon abandoned in the middle of the road not far from the bridge. He felt his hand creeping toward the butt of his pistol and could see Olem’s sword half drawn.

“Orders, sir?” Olem said.

“Wait.” Tamas glanced at the surrounding buildings. There was no sign of ambush, no Brudanian uniforms flashing in windows.

Suddenly, a dozen revelers ran out into the street and surrounded the wagon. With some effort, they managed to push it out of the way, and a young girl climbed to the top of the wagon waving an Adran flag, planting herself like a conquering hero.

“Parade advance!” Arbor called.

They passed over the river and continued on to Elections Square, where the greatest part of the crowd had gathered. The balcony of Tamas’s office – now the office of the First Minister of Adro – was festooned with Adran blue and red, banners stamped with the teardrop symbol of the Adsea draped halfway down the building.

The crowd was cleared away from the middle of the square as the parade marched in and fell into rank before the People’s Court. Tamas looked up to see Ricard Tumblar on the balcony, decked out in his finest suit, Taniel standing beside him looking somber in his uniform.