Powder Mage: The Autumn Republic Part 42

"It's a liquid mix of..."-Flerring paused-"Well, I'm not gonna give out trade secrets."

"I understand," Adamat said sympathetically. "What can you tell me without giving up too much? Does it explode similarly to gunpowder?"

"It's a high-velocity explosive. Far more destructive than gunpowder. It doesn't take much, either. A gla.s.s ball or tube of the stuff no bigger than my stub here"-Flerring wagged one arm-"is enough to crack stone. We planned on revolutionizing the mining industry with it. Just didn't work out in the end."

It didn't take an inspector to see an awfully significant gap between "going to make us rich" and "didn't work out." "What happened?" Adamat asked.

"We had a chemist named Borin on our payroll," Flerring said. "Nice lad, very smart. I'd thought about trying to marry him to Little here."

Little Flerring made a face as she handed her father a winegla.s.s. "That wouldn't have happened, Dad, and you know it."

"Thought about it, is all I said, hon." He hooked the winegla.s.s deftly and took a sip. "Anyway, Borin came up with the blasting-oil recipe about two years ago. Spent every waking moment since working to stabilize it. It was too volatile, you see. Killed two of our mixers in an accident early on. It explodes by shock rather than by flame, which makes it d.a.m.n near impossible to transport."

Shock. Now that was an interesting tidbit. Adamat thought about his theory that the explosives had been thrown into Ricard's headquarters. "So you haven't sold any?"

"Of course not! You think I'm in the business of blowing up my customers? I've learned my lesson with explosives." Flerring gestured to his scarred face with the metal paddle fixed to his left hand. "That's why we fired Borin, actually. He wanted to see the blasting oil put to practical use, so he sold a couple samples to a mining company."

"So he did sell it!"

"Yeah. Little found out, and we agreed we couldn't trust him anymore. We drew up a contract that let us keep a percentage of the profits if he wound up selling the formula to another company and we parted on good terms. That was only about two weeks ago."

Adamat was on the edge of his seat now. He had something solid. Someplace to take this investigation. If Borin still had his formula and had sold it to Ricard's attempted murderers, he could track them down. "Can you point me to him? I need to speak with Borin."

Flerring exchanged a glance with his daughter. "He's over there," he said, waving his hook vaguely to his right. "And over there. And there."

Little Flerring chuckled in an exasperated manner. "That's unkind, Dad."

"Look, I tell all my mixers and chemists that if they blow themselves up, it's their own d.a.m.n fault."

"Don't make sport out of the dead, Dad."

Adamat felt his heart fall. "Borin's dead?"

"Very. About as dead as a man can be this side of angering a Privileged. Best as we can guess, he was packing up his samples of blasting oil and dropped one at his foot. You might have seen that grease spot over by the river on your way in?"

"Yes."

"That used to be a very st.u.r.dy stone building. It's where our chemists worked. That building was built to survive any size explosion. It could have lasted through an artillery bombardment. Took out Borin and all of our ongoing experiments. There weren't even pieces of Borin left after that, and we're still finding bits of stone everywhere we walk."

Adamat leaned back in his seat and let out a sigh. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Flerring shrugged. "It set us back, but our people keep good notes. It destroyed every bit of the blasting oil we had left, which I think is a d.a.m.ned blessing."

"Dad..."

"Don't you 'Dad' me." Flerring shook his head at his daughter and turned to Adamat. "I've put a stop to all research on the blasting oil. Burned all but one copy of the notes, and only I know where the last copy is. Infernal stuff isn't going to get us all killed while I'm still alive. Once I'm dead, my girl here is welcome to blow herself up as quick as she wants. But not before that."

A dead end. Dead as Borin. There was no way to know if Flerring was telling the truth about any of this without the chemist to corroborate. Maybe Flerring killed Borin to cover his tracks. Adamat could bring in a dozen officers and tear the place apart, but that was the last thing he had time for. And SouSmith might not forgive him.

"Do you happen to know who Borin sold the stuff to?"

Flerring scratched his head with his hook. "A mining company. Do you know, hon?"

"There's a receipt somewhere," Little Flerring said. "I'll see if I can find it."

She disappeared for a few minutes, during which time Flerring and SouSmith talked about their boxing days. Adamat couldn't help but be amazed at how vigorous the boxer-turned-powder-maker was, despite his injuries.

His daughter returned holding a sc.r.a.p of paper and handed it to Adamat. "The Underhill Mining Coalition," she said.

Adamat paused as he reached for the paper and let his hand fall. "You sure?"

"Yes."

"I'll remember it, thank you."

Little Flerring shrugged and put the paper in her pocket.

"This mining company. You didn't happen to meet their representative, did you?" Adamat felt his heart begin to race.

"No. Borin did business with them behind our back. We wouldn't have agreed to the sale otherwise."

"Did Borin happen to tell you why they needed it?"

"They were looking for high-powered explosives," Little Flerring said as if it were obvious.

This wasn't helping at all. "But did they come to him or did he go to them?"

"Oh. They came to him."

"That's all we need to know. Thank you," Adamat said, getting to his feet. "I think it's time we go. I appreciate your help a great deal."

"Didn't think we were much help," Little Flerring said. "If you track down the samples Borin sold, let me know. I'd prefer they were destroyed."

"You were a great deal of help. And don't worry, I'll tell you." Adamat shook hands with Little Flerring, then tentatively grasped the Fist's offered hook. A few minutes later and he and SouSmith were back in their carriage headed toward Adopest.

"Good to see him," SouSmith rumbled.

Adamat barely heard him, deep in thought. "Yes, I'm sure."

"Been a long time. Girl's grown up."

"Oh? You thinking of settling down, SouSmith?"

SouSmith chuckled. "Too young for me." He paused. Then, "Why such a hurry?"

Adamat drummed his fingers on the head of his cane excitedly. "Because the Underhill Mining Coalition isn't a mining company," he said.

"Don't follow."

"They're a club. A group of thieves and smugglers who call themselves businessmen. They meet to drink and play cards at an exclusive-and hidden-location in Adopest. Most people know them as the Underhill Society and I happen to be friends with one of their members."

"Who's that?"

"Ricard Tumblar."

Nila and Olem hunted the Kez cavalry through the gorges and hills of Brude's Hideaway for three days. On the first day a low cloud cover descended over the area, obscuring the peaks of the Charwood Pile to the west, and on the second day a heavy fog rolled in. Nila wondered if the fog had some kind of sorcery behind it, but neither she nor Olem could sense anything amiss in the Else.

It was just bad luck.

Nila couldn't see the ends of their cuira.s.sier lines as they swept the ridges and bends of the highlands. The sun was obscured and the whole world seemed gray.

She stood in her stirrups the third day, wondering how any man or woman could possibly stay in the saddle for hours at a time, let alone several days. Everything below her waist hurt, and most of the things above it. Her knuckles were sore from gripping the reins and her spine ached from the jolt of her horse's stride. Her head spun from hour after hour of trying to maintain her vision of the Else, attempting to spot anything in the fog. Olem told her to drink more water.

Olem sat beside her at the top of a small hill looking to the south-or maybe the north, she couldn't really be sure, with no point of reference. There was a white chasm at their feet where the earth dipped beneath the fog, and she couldn't tell if this was merely a divot in the landscape or a valley a mile long.

"The good news," Olem said, puffing on a cigarette, "is that the fog screws with them as much as it does with us. They're left reading the ground and listening for echoes in the murk, same as us."

Nila sniffed. He'd become progressively more optimistic as the hours rolled past. He seemed to hold the opinion that every minute they spent circling the Gurlish Wolf in the fog was another minute he wasn't abusing the flanks of Tamas's army. Which, she supposed, was true, if the Gurlish Wolf hadn't slipped past them and was back on the plain already, attacking the Adran army.

"They have an advantage over us," Nila said.

"Oh?"

"They can smell your cigarette smoke from farther away than we can see them."

Olem took the cigarette from his mouth and stared at it sourly before putting it out on his ash-stained saddle horn and tossing it into the damp gra.s.s. "d.a.m.n it."

They sat in silence for several minutes before Nila said, "How do they communicate in this?"

"Pit if I know. I haven't heard a trumpet since the fog descended, so it's not that."

"Maybe they have a Knacked?"

"Maybe," Olem mused. "Someone with very precise hearing. A few years back I heard a story about a pair of Knacked twins that could communicate over a hundred miles just using their minds. That kind of thing is rarer than a Privileged healer, I'd imagine." He drew his tobacco and rolling papers from his breast pocket, stared at them for a moment, then put them back with a sigh. "No, I imagine they've done the smart thing and hunkered down in one of these valleys to wait out the fog."

Nila studied the ground beneath their feet, looking at the horseshoe prints in the mud-horseshoes marked by a Kez blacksmith. The tracks led into the gully below them. The Kez had split up after being run from their camp three days before. Their tracks seemed to lead everywhere, crisscrossing and doubling back without any clear path to follow.

And like a hound looking for a scent, Olem had patiently been following every one of those trails. He kept his formations tight, his scouts plentiful, and never stumbled blindly into one of the fog-concealed valleys.

It all seemed very professional to Nila, but she wouldn't have had any idea as to any of this if Olem hadn't been explaining it to her along the way.

"You're picking this stuff up quickly," Olem said.

"What stuff?"

"All this." He tapped the pocket where he kept his tobacco. "Cigarette smoke. Something I didn't think of, but a Kez cavalryman would. Good call."

Nila ducked her head. "Thank you."

"A fighting Privileged," Olem said. "Six months ago, if I had to guess what extraordinary thing you'd become, I would not have guessed that."

Nila knew it was meant to be a compliment, but it niggled at her all the same. "You don't think I'm capable?"

"You've shown yourself to be capable."

"But you wouldn't have thought that."

"That's not quite what I meant."

"And what did you mean, Colonel Olem?"

Olem removed the rolling paper from his pocket and was about to sprinkle tobacco on the center before he made a face and put it back. "Privileged are born to it. You were a laundress. No offense, but it didn't seem like something on your horizon."

Nila opened her mouth, ready to take the argument further, then decided against it. What was she doing, arguing like this? Olem was right, of course. A Privileged? Her? It was laughably unlikely.

"If you don't mind me saying," Olem said, "you've been on edge. More than just a chafed a.s.s."

Nila let out what she had wanted to be a dismissive laugh, but it came out as just this side of hysterical. "You could say that."

"The field marshal has a habit of using the hottest fire to temper soft metal," Olem said. "I'm not sure if he should have sent you."

"I'm soft metal, am I? No. It's not that. Well. It is that. But so many more things. I've never ridden before and my body hurts so badly I want to cry every moment. I'm untested, barely trained. This infernal fog!" Her voice rose a little too high and a nearby cuira.s.sier glanced at her.

Olem sat unmoved, listening for several moments before he said, "At least you know your failings."

"Oh, thanks."

"Really. I mean it. I've met dozens of officers who think their immaculate mustache can move the world. Not knowing one's weaknesses gets people killed."

Nila shook her head and gave a short laugh, relieved to hear this one sounding a little less desperate. "Little do they know that an immaculate beard is what it takes."

Olem grinned at her. "Right you are." His hand was halfway toward his rolling papers again before he swore under his breath.

"Are you with anyone?" Nila asked, the question leaving her lips before she could stop herself.

Olem glanced up in surprise. "Huh? Well..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Kind of. It's a tenuous thing."

Nila was surprised to find herself hurt by his answer. She had turned him down, after all, and that was months ago. Maybe she had hoped he would pine for her a little longer. "Another soldier?"

"Yeah."

"What's she like?"

"Long legs. Black hair. Very good at what she does."

"Oh? And what does she do?" She felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth when Olem's cheeks turned red.

"She's a powder mage."