#### Chapter 11

The Public Archives are just above us,” Adamat said. Somewhere behind him, SouSmith’s lantern wobbled to a stop, and the sound of sloshing stilled.

“You sure this time?”

Adamat held his own lantern up to the rusted iron ladder rungs in front of him. There was a plaque on the bricks between the rungs, supposedly to say which building this accessed, but the letters had been worn away long ago. The storm drains beneath Adro were not kept in the best of shape. It was a miracle most of them had survived the earthquake—and a testament to Adran engineering.

“I may have a perfect memory,” Adamat said, his voice echoing in the long, shoulder-height tunnel, “but all these damned drains look alike.”

“Heh. I liked the women’s bathhouse.”

“I bet you did,” Adamat said. “Wonder anyone’s using it, what with Tamas lobbing shells all over this section of town.” He rubbed his finger over the plaque, trying to make out any kind of letters. “This has got to be it.”

SouSmith sloshed up beside him. The big boxer was bent almost double. Adamat’s knees and thighs ached from trying to move around in the storm drains, but SouSmith had to be hurting far worse.

“I’ll check,” SouSmith said. He handed Adamat his lantern and pulled himself up the iron rungs. The ladder squeaked in protest of his weight. “Lantern,” SouSmith said, reaching down a hand.

Adamat heard a grate move to one side, and SouSmith disappeared. Somewhere above them, closer than Adamat would have liked, he heard the deep thump of artillery.

“Come,” SouSmith said, his voice muffled.

Adamat followed him up the ladder and found himself in a high-arched basement. The walls were made of cement, damp and moldy, and a half inch of stagnant water covered the floor. No one had been in this room for a decade.

“This is it,” Adamat said.

“Really?” SouSmith looked doubtful.

“I used to play in these drains as a boy,” Adamat said. “Mother’d get furious. I must have explored half the basements in Adro.” He grinned at SouSmith. “I knew we were close when we found the bathhouse.”

“Spent a lot of time under there, eh?”

“For certain. I was once an adolescent boy, after all.”

They passed through a series of identical arched storage rooms before they found a narrow flight of stairs leading up. The door rattled when Adamat tried it.

“SouSmith,” he said. He stepped back, letting the boxer squeeze past him. SouSmith braced his hands on either wall and kicked the door. The lock snapped and the door crashed inward, then fell off its hinges. They glanced at each other as the sound echoed through the building.

They left their lanterns beside the basement door and carried on cautiously. Adamat had his cane, SouSmith a pair of short-barreled pistols. They came out of a long corridor into the main floor of the Archives.

The building was as large as a parade ground and stacked four stories high. Shelving stretched from one wall to the next. Adamat headed down an aisle. Outside the brick walls, he could hear the sound of rifle and musket shots. The air was dusty, the smell of the books almost overwhelming—the scent of glue, paper, and old vellum, of age and mustiness.

“No one here,” SouSmith said.

Adamat glanced back. SouSmith was inspecting the shelves of books with something akin to suspicion. When a man solved his problems by punching them, books were often a foreign thing. “Not surprised,” Adamat said. “General Westeven has given large grants to at least a dozen libraries throughout the Nine, including this one. He won’t let it be touched.”

They came out of an aisle and found themselves in the middle of the library. A wide space, free of shelves, was filled with tables for the patrons. Light came from a skylight that went up all four stories directly through the center of the Archives. The tables were all clear.

Except for one. Adamat placed a finger to his lips and signaled for SouSmith to follow. A number of books had been laid out on a table in one corner. They were open, as if left there only moments ago. His frown deepened as they approached. The books were obviously missing pages, and whole paragraphs had been blotted from them. He flipped one of the books to the cover. In Service of the King.

Adamat drew his cane sword in one swift motion and spun around. He heard the click of SouSmith’s pistols.

A woman had stepped out between them. She wore a wool riding dress and jacket and had gray in her shoulder-length hair, and wise, dark eyes that reminded Adamat of a raven. She wore Privileged’s gloves and had a hand pointed at both himself and SouSmith. An artillery blast made the building tremble, kicking up dust from the shelves of books.

Adamat licked his lips. SouSmith’s eyes were wide, and his finger brushed at the trigger.

“You’ll get us both killed,” Adamat said to SouSmith.

“Don’t like this,” was the response.

“Neither do I. Who are you?” he asked the Privileged, though he already had some idea.

“My name is Rozalia,” she said.

“You’re the Privileged that Tamas is hunting.”

Her silence was enough of an answer for Adamat. His eyes darted to the books on the table.

“Are you going to kill us?”

“Only if I have to.”

Adamat slowly lowered his cane sword. He gestured to SouSmith to put away his pistols.

“You’re a Knacked,” Rozalia said.

“Yes.”

“Are you looking for me?”

“No.”

The Privileged looked confused. “Then why are you here?”

Adamat jerked his head toward the books. The Privileged still hadn’t lowered her gloved hands. It was making him nervous. He said, “Have you been removing those pages? Blotting those books? And taking the ones at the university?”

Rozalia slowly lowered her hands. “No,” she said.

“You didn’t take the books at the university?”

“I did take those. But I never ripped the pages out. She did.”

“Who?”

The Privileged did not answer.

“What are you doing with the ones you took?”

“The same as you, it seems,” she said. “Looking for answers.”

“Kresimir’s Promise,” Adamat breathed.

Rozalia scoffed. “Simple things,” she said. “There are more questions than you know.”

“All I care about is Kresimir’s Promise,” Adamat said. “What is it?”

She tilted her head to one side and regarded Adamat as a cat would a mouse. The sharp crack of rifles filled the silence, and a canon roared outside.

“I need a message delivered,” she said.

“What?”

“A message. One that needs to be delivered in person.”

“I’ll deliver your damned message. Tell me what the Promise is. Give me evidence.”

“I don’t trust you,” Rozalia said. “If you deliver my message, then I will tell you.” Her eyes darted suddenly as the thump of rifle butts on a door reached them. The Privileged made a hissing sound in the back of her throat. “Field Marshal Tamas is here. I must go. You won’t find the answer in any of these books. Only from me.”

Adamat calculated the chance he’d have of catching her unawares. A signal to SouSmith, a blow to the back of the head. They could hand her over to Tamas and let him get the answer out of her. Adamat saw that path ending with his death by Privileged sorcery.

“Who’s the message for?”

“Privileged Borbador,” Rozalia said. “The last remaining member of Manhouch’s royal cabal. He’s at Shouldercrown Fortress. Tell him that she will try to summon Kresimir.”

“That’s it?” Adamat said.

Rozalia gave a curt nod.

“And Kresimir’s Promise?”

She laughed. It was a sharp noise. “Ask Borbador. He’ll know.”

There were boots on the marble in the Archives’ main foyer. Rozalia turned and ran, vaulting a table like a woman half her age. She had just disappeared down a far aisle when soldiers appeared from the shelving aisles on the opposite side. They wore the colors of the Wings mercenaries and they pointed their rifles at Adamat and SouSmith.

Adamat raised his hands and sighed. “Tell Field Marshal Tamas that Inspector Adamat is here to see him.”

The mercenaries glanced at one another.

“Well?” Adamat said. “He’s nearby, isn’t he?”

One of the mercenaries headed back down an aisle. SouSmith glowered at Adamat.

“Not a word,” Adamat whispered. “If I’d known Tamas was going to take the Archives today, we wouldn’t have spent the last two days mucking through storm drains.”

“Bastard,” SouSmith said, glancing down at his sodden shoes.

“Inspector?” Field Marshal Tamas emerged from one of the shelving aisles. He carried a saw-handled dueling pistol, the powder on the barrel suggesting it had been used recently. “What the pit are you doing here?”

“Inspecting, sir,” Adamat said.

“Of course,” Tamas said distractedly, looking Adamat and SouSmith up and down, and sniffed. “Have you been in the sewer?”

“The storm drains.”

“Very resourceful.” Tamas glanced at the mercenaries behind him. “Stand down. Inspector Adamat is under my employ. Check the rest of the library.” The mercenaries headed off, and Tamas turned back to Adamat. “Have you solved my riddle, Inspector?”

“I have a lead, sir. Nothing definite yet. The books I’m looking for have come up defaced or entirely missing.”

“I expect you to do more than spend your days leafing through books.”

“That’s often exactly what investigating entails, sir,” Adamat huffed. “One follows any lead one can.”

“Very well. Carry on. Wait.”

Adamat paused.

“What do you know about the Black Street Barbers?”

Adamat summoned up his knowledge of them, thinking it over for a moment. “Their leader is a man named Teef. Among Adro’s underworld they’re considered the top assassins. They’ll take any job, is the rumor, as long as it pays well. At least a dozen Barbers have tried killing Adran kings over the last few hundred years, when the price has been right. None have succeeded, not with the royal cabal there to protect them. I’ve met Teef. He’s the… least mentally unbalanced of the crew. Frankly, the entire gang belongs in an insane asylum. I hope you’re not thinking of…”

Tamas nodded briskly. “Thank you.” He strode away.

“… employing them,” Adamat finished quietly.

Adamat retrieved his cane from where he’d dropped it when the mercenaries arrived. He glanced the way Rozalia had gone and pondered her cryptic message. “Time to go to Shouldercrown,” he said to SouSmith.

“Jakob!” Nila pushed past a royalist soldier and tripped over brick rubble that had spilled out into the street from the latest artillery blast. She lifted her skirt and was back on her feet, stumbling along as she shouted the boy’s name.

There was blood on her dress. The cannonball had whistled over her shoulder and taken the head off a man named Penn as they’d sat over a meager breakfast. She could still hear the sound in her head like a horrible kettle, instantaneous death passing inches from her ear. The cannonball had knocked a hole in the wall behind Penn, straight through Jakob’s room in one of the more intact buildings behind the barricades. Penn’s body still sat in his chair, shoulders slumped, one hand clutching a spoon. Jakob should have been in bed. He wasn’t.

Nila found one of Jakob’s Hielmen guards picking grit out of his uniform. His name was Bystre, and he was about thirty-five. A steadiness about him reminded her of the bearded sergeant back at Duke Eldaminse’s townhouse.

“Where’s Jakob?” she asked.

“He’s not in bed?” Bystre said.

“No.”

“Pit, he must have wandered again.”

A canister shot exploded overhead, sending everyone diving for cover. Nila found herself on the ground, beneath Bystre.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine. Find Jakob.”

He helped her to her feet and they ran through the street, calling Jakob’s name. Nila heard the crack of muskets and was struck by the choking smell of spent powder. Down the street was one of the barricades. Royalist soldiers and volunteers crouched behind it, shooting at unseen Adran soldiers on the other side.

The parley had been five days ago. Every day since, Field Marshal Tamas’s soldiers had pressed the attack. Cannon and musket fire resounded day and night. The air reeked of sulfurous black powder.

Someone shouted a warning. A moment later, blue uniforms swarmed over the top of the barricade like water bursting through a dam.

“Run,” Bystre instructed. “Fall back to the next barricade!” he shouted at nearby volunteers.

Bystre grabbed Nila by the arm. “We have to find Jakob,” he said. He spun suddenly, his plumed hat falling from his head as an Adran soldier appeared from a nearby alleyway. Bystre drew his sword, parrying the thrust of a bayonet. The soldier cracked him across the jaw with a rifle butt. Bystre fell to the ground. The soldier stood over him, bayonet ready.

Nila could barely lift the paving brick she grabbed. She swung it up over her head and brought it down on the back of the Adran soldier’s neck. The man collapsed to the ground without a sound. Bystre held his jaw and tried to shake off the blow.

She pulled him to his feet.

“There!” she said. She caught sight of Jakob running across the street, closer to the barricade. A bullet kicked up dirt in front of the boy, startling him, and he fell with tears in his eyes.

Adran soldiers had taken the barricade. They were barely a hundred feet from Jakob. Nila was half that distance. She lifted her skirts and ran. She could hear Bystre right behind her. The soldiers on the barricade were more interested in securing their victory than they were in a stray child in the street. Nila fell to her knees beside Jakob and swept him up in her arms. Bystre helped her to her feet, and they both ran toward safety.

Nila stopped short when she realized Bystre was not beside her anywhere. She turned to see him staring back toward the fallen barricade.

“It’s lost,” she said.

“Him!” Bystre drew his sword.

“What are you…” She saw it. Field Marshal Tamas stood on the barricade with his men, surveying the street beyond. Beside him, she saw someone familiar. The bearded sergeant who had saved her that night in the townhouse kitchen.

“Bystre, we have to get Jakob to safety.”

“Nothing is safe from that treacherous bastard.”

“General Westeven…”

“The General is dead.”

Nila didn’t know what to say. She knew General Westeven had been wounded at the parley, but the royalists had been told he’d survived. Only he could match someone like Field Marshal Tamas in strategic maneuvering. Now their cause was truly lost.

Nila looked toward the next barricade. Royalists waved her forward to the relative safety. She clutched Jakob to her chest. He held his hands over his ears, and she could feel his shoulders heave as he sobbed.

“Bystre,” she said, pleading. Where was Rozalia? She was their only hope now. She could bring down her Privileged sorceries on Tamas and his army and drive them from the streets.

Bystre snatched up a spent rifle from a dead soldier and checked the bayonet. He dusted the powder from the pan and, clutching the rifle with both hands, charged alone toward the fallen barricade.

The bearded sergeant pointed toward Bystre and lifted his rifle. Field Marshal Tamas turned. He tilted his head, as if bemused by the enraged Hielman rushing toward him. He drew a pistol and pulled the trigger. Bystre jerked and fell, his body rolling once with forward momentum before twitching and falling still. The bullet had pierced his eye at more than one hundred paces. Field Marshal Tamas waved the smoke from the barrel of his pistol.

Nila screamed.

She saw the field marshal gesture toward her and waited for another bullet to come and pierce her brain. It never came. Instead, Adran soldiers ran down the barricade and toward her. She stared at them, in shock, until she remembered Jakob in her arms.

Nila turned to run to the next barricade. She had a lead on the Adran soldiers, but they were far faster. She tripped and struggled on the hem of her dress. Forty feet away, the royalists fired from behind the next barricade to give her cover. Bullets ricocheted off the paving stones around her, the scent of gunpowder making her choke. Thirty feet to go.

Someone hit her from behind. She fell, turning to see Adran soldiers upon her. She screamed and struggled, but Jakob was pulled from her arms. One of the soldiers turned to her, bayonet ready to shove through her belly. He twisted the rifle at the last second and pushed her away with the stock and the soldiers retreated, taking a screaming Jakob with them.

Nila struggled to her feet and staggered after them. They couldn’t take him. Not now, not after she’d protected him this long. She stopped beside Bystre’s body. He lay on his belly, his one remaining eye staring sightlessly across the street. Flies had already started to buzz around the bloody hole in his skull. She fell to her knees and vomited.

Someone pulled her out of the street and into a rubble-strewn alley before the shooting resumed.

Nila sagged against the partially intact wall of a tenement. “You let them take him,” she spat at her rescuer.

Rozalia glanced out into the street, her gloved fingers poised at the ready until some unapparent danger had passed. She let her hands fall.

“This is no longer my fight,” Rozalia said.

“You could have stopped them,” Nila accused. “You could have killed Tamas right then. You could have protected Bystre.” She heard her voice crack and felt the tears on her cheeks. She wiped them away with a grimy sleeve.

“General Westeven is dead,” Rozalia said. “There is no reason to prolong this fight any longer.” She paused for a moment, staring back into Nila’s accusing eyes. “Yes, I could have killed Tamas, but damage has been done on a scope you cannot imagine. At this point, killing Tamas would only multiply that damage.”

“Bystre,” Nila said.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Rozalia said. Her voice softened suddenly. “You are a brave girl. A smart girl. I only expect you to move on. Tamas has the boy. Westeven is dead. The other royalists will drag this out for as long as they can, but Tamas will win eventually. Get out while you still can. There is a path through the rubble in the southwestern corner of the barricades. Neither side knows about it. Take that way out. Gather what money you can and live a full life far from here.” Something wistful entered Rozalia’s eyes. “Fatrasta is nice this time of year.”

“What will he do to Jakob?” Nila asked.

Rozalia held out a hand. Nila accepted and got to her feet.

“Jakob,” she said again when Rozalia did not answer. “What will Tamas do with him?”

“Tamas is pragmatic,” Rozalia said. “If he were to allow a monarchal heir to survive, he could have this situation all over again. He’ll do away with the boy quietly.”

Nila dried the tears in her eyes. She felt something harden in her heart at the thought of Jakob’s blond head dropping into a basket.

“Leave Adro,” Rozalia said. “That’s what I’ll do, when my work here is done. Here.” She dug something from a pocket sewn into her jacket and pressed it into Nila’s hand. A hundred-krana coin.

“Thank you,” Nila said. Rozalia waved dismissively and picked her way down the alley, away from the barricades. Nila waited a few moments, thinking of the coin in her hand and the silver hidden outside the city. She could still see Bystre from the alley. His body lay unmoving beneath the constant exchange of gunfire between royalists and Adran soldiers. Nila made a fist around the coin. It was enough for new clothes and a coach all the way to Brudania. Along with her silver, it was enough for a new life.

She saw Field Marshal Tamas in her mind as he coolly gunned down Bystre.

She couldn’t start a new life, not with memories of what had happened.