Brian McCLELLAN: Promise of Blood

“Her name is Ka-poel,” Taniel said. “She’s a Dynize, from a tribe in western Fatrasta. Pole,” Taniel instructed, “remove your hat.” He gave his father an apologetic smile. “I’m still teaching her Adran manners. Their ways are very different from ours.”

“The Dynize Empire has opened their borders?” Tamas seemed skeptical.

“A number of natives in the Fatrastan Wilds share blood with the Dynize, but the strait between Dynize and Fatrasta keeps them from suffering their cousins’ isolationism.”

“Does Dynize concern the Fatrastan generals?”

“Concern? The mere thought gives them heartburn. But the Dynize civil war has shown no signs of stopping. They won’t turn their eyes outward for some time.”

“And the Kez?” Tamas asked.

“When I left, they were already making overtures of peace.”

“That’s a pity. I’d hoped Fatrasta would keep them occupied for some time yet.” Tamas gave Taniel a look up and down. “I see you’re still wearing frontier clothing.”

“And what’s wrong with that? I spent all my money on passage home.” Taniel tugged on the front of his buckskin jacket. “These are the best clothes on the frontier. Warm, durable. I forgot how bloody cold Adro can be. I’m glad I have them.”

“I see.” Tamas stepped over to Ka-poel and gave her a look-over. She held her hat in both hands and boldly returned Tamas’s gaze. Her hair was fire red, and her light skin was covered in ashen freckles – an oddity unseen in the Nine. Her features were small, petite. Not at all the image of a big, savage warrior that most of the Nine had of the Dynize.

“Fascinating,” Tamas said. “How did you come across her?”

“She was the scout for our regiment,” Taniel said. “Helped us track Kez Privileged through the Fatrastan Wilds. She became my spotter, and I saved her life a few times. She hasn’t left my side since.”

“She speaks Adran?”

“She’s a mute. She understands it, though.”

Tamas leaned forward, looking into Ka-poel’s eyes. He examined her cheeks and ears as well, as one might a prize horse. Taniel wondered if Tamas would check the teeth next. Ka-poel would bite him for that. Taniel almost hoped he did.

Taniel said, “She’s a sorcerer, a Bone-eye. The Dynize version of a Privileged, though their magic is somewhat different, from what I gather.”

“Savage sorcerers,” Tamas said. “I’ve heard something about them. She’s very small. How old is she?”

“Fourteen years,” Taniel said. “I think. They’re a small-statured people, but demons on the battlefield. Not bad with a rifle either. Ah,” he said as he suddenly remembered. “I wanted to show you something.”

He pointed to his rifle. Ka-poel undid the knot holding his satchel to it and brought it to him. Taniel grinned and held the rifle out to his father.

“Is this…? Is this the rifle you used for that shot?” Tamas asked.

“Sure is.”

Tamas took the rifle by the barrel, flipped it up, and sighted. “Awfully long. Good weight. Rifled bore and a covered pan on the flintlock. Beautiful craftsmanship.”

“Take a look at the name under the barrel.”

“A Hrusch. Very nice.”

“Not just the design,” Taniel said. “Made by the man himself. I spent a month with him in Fatrasta. He’d been working on it for quite some time, made it a gift to me.”

Tamas’s eyes widened. “Genuine? I’ve not seen better-made rifles. We bought rights to the patent a year ago and have been churning them out for the army, but I’ve only seen one made by the man himself.”

Taniel felt warmth at his father’s wonder. Finally something new. Something Tamas might be proud of. “The Kez tried to buy the patent too,” Taniel said.

“Really? Even though they were at war with Fatrasta?”

“Of course. The Hrusch rifle kicked their asses on the frontier. Hardly a misfire, even in the worst of weather. Hrusch wouldn’t sell it to them, not for a chest of gold and an earldom. And Kez gunsmiths can’t replicate his work.”

“No one can, not unless they’ve been trained by the man himself.” Tamas examined the rifle closely for several minutes before handing it back.

“You like it?” Taniel said.

“Remarkable.” His interest seemed to wane suddenly, his attention becoming distant.

Taniel hesitated. “Then you’ll like this.” He held out a hand to Ka-poel. She brought him a wooden case, a little longer than a man’s forearm and made of polished mahogany.

“A gift,” Taniel said.

Tamas set the case on a table and flipped open the top. “Incredible,” he breathed.

“Saw-handled dueling pistols,” Taniel said. “Made by Hrusch’s oldest son – who they say is a better gunsmith than his father. Refined flintlock with a rainproof pan and a roller bearing on the steel spring. A smoothbore, but more accurate than most.” Taniel felt the warmth return as his father’s face lit up.

Tamas lifted one of the matched pair of pistols and ran his fingers up and down the octagonal barrel. Ivory inlay caught the lamplight, the polish on it shining beautifully. “These are incredible. I’ll have to provoke an insult, just so I can use them.”

Taniel chuckled. That sounded like something Tamas would do.

“These are… wonderful,” Tamas said.

Taniel thought he saw something glisten in his father’s eyes. Was he proud? Grateful? No, he decided, Tamas doesn’t know the meaning of those words.

“I wish we had more time to talk,” Tamas said.

“On to business?” Of course. No time for chatting. No time to catch up with a long-absent son.

“Unfortunately,” Tamas said, either missing or ignoring the sarcasm. “Sabon,” he called. The Deliv appeared in the doorway. “Bring in the mercenaries.” Sabon disappeared again. “Now, where is Vlora? We need you both. Did Sabon tell you about our losses?”

“Sabon told me. Sad news. I imagine Vlora will be along eventually,” he said with a shrug. “I didn’t exactly talk to her.”

Tamas scowled. “I thought–”

“I found her in another man’s bed,” Taniel said, feeling a jolt of satisfaction at the shock on Tamas’s face. The shock turned to anger, then grief.

“Why? When? For how long?” The words tumbled from Tamas, a moment of true confusion that Taniel wondered if any had ever seen in Tamas, or would again.

Taniel leaned on his rifle and fought back a sneer. Why should Tamas care? It wasn’t his fiancee. “For several months, from the gossip. The man was paid to seduce her. Some nobleman’s son, in it for the thrill and the money.”

“Paid?” Tamas asked, his eyes narrowing.

“A scheme,” Taniel said. “Petty revenge. No doubt hatched by a wealthy nobleman.” Taniel hadn’t taken the time to find out who the culprit was, but he had little uncertainty. The nobility hated Tamas. He was common-born and had used his influence with the king to prevent the wealthy from purchasing commissions in the army. Only the capable rose in the ranks. It flew in the face of tradition, but also made the Adran army one of the best in the Nine. The nobility feared Tamas too much to attack him directly, but they’d strike him any way they could, even through his son.

Tamas’s teeth clenched in a snarl. “I’ve arrested half the nobility this very night. They face the guillotine with their king. I’ll find out who paid, and then…”

Taniel suddenly felt tired. Years fighting a war that wasn’t his, followed by months of cramped traveling, only to come home to betrayal and a coup. His anger had been sapped. He thumbed a line of black powder onto his hand and snorted it. “The guillotine is enough. Save your men.” Save your anger, though Kresimir knows you have enough of it. No pity, though. None for your son, the betrayed.