A sudden gale ripped through the street. Rina grabbed for her hat as it was lifted off into the sky. The fighting animals separated, their flanks covered in blood, the three dogs still miraculously alive. Every animal regarded Bo warily. The wind whipped around them and pushed. The dogs tumbled through the air, leaving the cave lions behind. They slammed into Rina, lifting her up with them. Bo stepped back inside the door. Dogs and woman followed close behind, and the door slammed shut, leaving them in darkness.

Something thumped into the door. Taniel put his back to it. He was joined by others. The muffled growls of cave lions came from outside. Someone lit a match.

Bo lay on the floor in a heap with the dogs and Rina. One of the dogs whined. Bo and Rina were unconscious-or dead, as far as Taniel knew. By the light of the match Taniel regarded his companions. Their faces were coated in sweat, lined with fear, covered in... what? Ash? Where had that come from? Taniel examined the floor. There was ash there, ancient, coating the floor a foot thick. At some point a fire must have raged through the building, destroying everything inside. Only the shell remained. He stared into the faces of his companions. They'd come all this way. For what? To be hunted like animals by cave lions in a dead city?

Taniel felt the horrible weight of failure. "Where is Del?" he asked. The monk was nowhere to be seen. Taniel called his name. No answer. A set of footprints in the ash led off toward the center of the building. Taniel heard another thump at the door and the scrabble of claws on wood.

Taniel, his back still against the door, snorted a pinch of powder. His senses grasped at any light-pinpricks, high above-to let him see. They were in a vast, open space. A dark container that seemed more like a mine than a building. He took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. "This doesn't look like a palace," he said.

"Taniel!"

The voice echoed around them.

"Del?" Taniel said.

"Over here, Taniel. Quickly!"

"Bo's hurt," he said.

"No time. You must come."

Another thump against the door. A cave lion outside whined.

"Can you hold it?" Taniel asked.

"Go on," Fesnik answered. "We've got it. Go take the shot."

"Stay here," Taniel said to Ka-poel. "Help them keep the door shut."

He ignored her gesture of defiance and turned to run. The floor was polished, perfectly level. It might have been marble beneath the ash. He distanced himself from the light of the burning match behind him and tried to follow Del's voice. He gave up, keeping his eyes on the footprints in the ash instead. Pinpricks of light from far above gave him just enough light to see in his powder trance.

He found Del standing near an enormous staircase of the type built inside the ballrooms of kings. It had no railings, and must have been made of the same rock as the walls of the palace in order to have survived whatever fire had gutted the building long ago.

"This doesn't look like a palace," Taniel said.

Del was quaking terribly. He barely seemed able to stand. He held out both hands to Taniel as if to plead. "It was once a mighty place," he said. "Thousands upon thousands of rooms filled with gold and the finest woods and carpets. If you had light, you'd see the ashes. Only the husk was created from hardened rock. Kresimir did that. The inside was built by men, with wood and tools. All burned now. All gone." His voice echoed eerily.

"No windows?"

"Come," Del said. He pointed to the staircase. "We've got to get high enough to see the coliseum. The solstice is very soon."

Olem helped Tamas to his feet and out of the ditch. Tamas straightened his jacket, brushed off his knees, adjusted his belt. "My sword," he said. They hobbled to the carriage, where Tamas turned his back on the villa and bent next to Sabon's body. "I'm sorry, my friend," he said. "My arrogance walked us into this trap. It's about to walk me into another one. Forgive me."

"Sir." Olem handed him his sword and slipped him a sack of powder charges. Enough to kill a whole company.

"Bullets?" Tamas said.

Olem patted the breast pocket of his uniform.

Tamas buckled on his sword and turned toward the villa. He took it one step at a time with one hand on his cane and another on Olem's shoulder. Let them think him weak. He was, but they'd think him less than he even was. With each step, Tamas expected to hear the pop of an air rifle or to see the rainbow flash of sorcery. He reached the front door.

"Not dead yet," he said.

Olem gave him a long look. "I'm not reassured."

One of the double doors of the villa opened. A Warden, an air rifle under one arm, stood in the doorway. Olem helped Tamas up the steps and inside. He paused in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light. He counted four Wardens and three Church guardsmen, air rifles leveled at him.

The foyer was a simple place, white marble covered every inch with built-in benches on the walls to either side. A single marble bust of Charlemund stood on a half column in the center of the room, a testament to his ego. The minimalism of the foyer couldn't be taken at face value. Tamas could see off into well-lit rooms full of vibrant color and art, with gold and velvet trim.

"Leave the door open so that my men can see me safe," Tamas said to the nearest Warden. The Warden sneered.

Charlemund entered the foyer from a side room. "Take him," he said.

Someone shut the door behind Tamas. Tamas reached for his sword, but a Warden grabbed his wrist. Another Warden slammed Olem in the stomach with the butt of his air rifle. Olem grunted, dropping to his knees. Tamas sagged without Olem's support, the pain of his leg flaring through his powder trance.

"You call this good faith?" Tamas snarled.

"I call you a fool," Charlemund said. "Besides, I didn't lie. No harm will come to you in my care. I can't promise the same when you reach South Pike."

"South Pike?"

Charlemund flattened a crease on the front of his duelist's uniform with one hand. "Yes."

"What do you mean, South Pike?" Olem said. He began to climb to his knees.

"Silence that dog," Charlemund said.

A Warden whipped Olem across the face with his air rifle. Olem fell to the floor, blood spilling from his brow.

Tamas clenched his fists and stopped himself from igniting powder. He needed Nikslaus in the room, too. "You had better hope he's all right."

"I'd like to know what you mean, Your Grace." Nikslaus came into the room, patting sweat from his brow. His Kez uniform was dirty and wrinkled from the sorcerer's box. "Tamas isn't going to South Pike. He's going with me, to Kez."

Charlemund turned to Nikslaus. "Not anymore. Kresimir will arrive today. The only hope we have of preventing Adro's complete destruction is to take this low-born swine."

Nikslaus tugged at his Privileged's gloves. "I don't follow your superstitions, Your Excellency, nor do I report to the Church. I report to my king, and he wants Tamas's head on a block."

"There will be no Adro left for us to divide if we don't appease Kresimir," Charlemund said.

Nikslaus squeezed his hands into fists. "You won't get out of this country without me," he said.

"Nor you without me."

Olem stirred beside Tamas's foot. Tamas leaned on his cane and bent over, giving Olem a shoulder to pull himself up by. "Can you stand?"

Olem's brow had been split. He wiped some blood from his eyes and felt his temple tenderly. "Send them to the pit, sir."

Tamas stood up straight and rested both hands on his cane. Nikslaus turned toward him, sensing danger. The sorcerer narrowed his eyes.

Tamas felt Nikslaus open his third eye. "He can use his sorcery!" Nikslaus's hands flashed up, fingers working through the air.

Tamas lit powder. Olem tossed the bag of bullets into the air, and Tamas concentrated on that. The bag ripped apart, shredded pieces falling to the floor. Bodies dropped, air rifles clattering to the pristine marble, blood spraying the walls. Light flashed in front of Nikslaus where bullets hit a hastily erected barrier of air.

"Flee!" Nikslaus screamed. His fingers worked frantically.

Charlemund stared at Tamas for one moment before he turned and ran.

"Don't let him get away," Tamas said. He couldn't take his eyes off Nikslaus. One mistake and Tamas would be dead. He had to keep Nikslaus's hands busy. Tamas lit powder, feeding off it in the smallest amounts, keeping a dozen bullets in the air and spinning. He threw them at Nikslaus. Nikslaus's fingers danced nimbly. Tamas's third eye revealed flashes of color as his bullets struck invisible shields. Tamas lit more powder, throwing the bullets harder.

Olem scrambled to his feet. He raced past Nikslaus, sword in hand, only to stop as five Church guards rushed into the room. They looked toward Nikslaus and Tamas, regarded their silent battle, and turned on Olem.

Tamas gripped the head of his cane. His advances were getting closer to Nikslaus as the sorcerer's defense weakened. He could only deflect the bullets so fast, and Tamas wouldn't give him the time to erect a better barrier with his sorcery. Tamas flicked his gaze toward Olem. The soldier had taken down one enemy, but there were too many. He was being pushed back, almost even with Nikslaus.

Tamas was running out of powder. Charlemund was getting away.

Nikslaus brushed his nose with one of his gloved hands, giving Tamas a moment to whirl a handful of bullets at Olem's assailants. The bullets went through eyes and mouths, dropping the men instantly. Olem lunged forward, leaping the downed bodies, and took off after Charlemund.

Nikslaus brushed his nose again.

Tamas grinned. "Allergies?"

Nikslaus took a step back. Tamas leaned on his cane, hobbled a step forward. Nikslaus gritted his teeth, stepped back. Tamas clicked the tip of his cane on the marble.

Nikslaus's fingers twirled and jumped. Sweat began to trickle down his brow as Tamas sent more bullets at him. Each bullet careened away, deflected. Tamas was running out of powder. He sucked in a raw breath, the smell of spent powder sending his blood pumping. The powder trance was a deep one.

Nikslaus flung his hand in a wild gesture and uttered a hoarse cry.

Tamas yelled out as he tumbled to the floor, his concentration broken. He stared at the two halves of his cane, then up at Nikslaus. The Privileged advanced and stood above him. He held his fingers just so, as if he was about to snap them. His shirt was soaked with sweat, his hair wild. He looked down at Tamas. "You old fool."

"You win," Tamas said, lighting a touch of powder.

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 before, outside of his drills.

Adamat grabbed the soldier by the front of his uniform. "You hear those shots? They've been ambushed in the front. It's got to be a distraction. Charlemund will use that cover to escape."

The soldier hesitated. "I don't trust you," he said slowly.

"Holy pit, look!" Adamat pointed toward the house.

The soldier whirled. Adamat brought his elbow down hard on the boy's neck. "Sorry," he said, taking the rifle. He pushed the boy's unconscious form up against the firewood stack and looked about, trying to spot more of Tamas's soldiers. He caught sight of one near the edge of the house, creeping about toward the front-more concerned about his comrades in the firefight than with anyone escaping out the back.

"Damn it, I'm going to be doing this alone." He ran, half crouching, until he was fully behind the villa. He stopped behind a shed and listened. The shots had stopped. He ducked around the shed for a look. The back of the villa was an open portico, a sun garden with large parasols and awnings for shade. There was a thin gravel maintenance drive. A single-horsed carriage waited in the drive, with a familiar, miserable-looking driver. Tamas checked for guards-there were none. He ran forward.

"Siemone," he said. The driver looked up. The young priest had a stricken look about his face-he was disturbed enough that he forgot to avoid looking Adamat full in the face. For a moment.

"What are you doing here?" Siemone said, averting his eyes. "Get out, before the arch-diocel sees you."

"You're helping him escape," Adamat said. He grabbed the horse by the bridle.