Sharpe did what came natural when presented with a superior officer and saluted using the heavy cavalry sword in his hand.
The heavily bearded man appeared to appreciate his automatic instinct and nodded slightly back at him in brief acknowledgement.
"Sergeant Harper, see to the men," Sharpe commanded loud enough for all the Rifles in the courtyard to hear.
"Yes, Major," the large Irishman replied by rote to his superior.
"And make sure they're ready to quick march out of town. This stiff bastard may want a three penny show," Sharpe added more quietly to his friend, who thanks to the exercise against the men was standing nearby. "Captain Frederickson, Lieutenant Minver, with me," he called in a louder voice as he pointedly gestured with the sword for the guests to go back through the door to the barracks. Tzimiskes and his general didn't fuss, but simply turned around and went back inside from where they first came. Sharpe and his two officers quickly tossed aside their shields and helmets, sheathing swords as they followed.
Upon entering, Sharpe saw that another person had joined the pair of natives. This one was a short, chubby man who wore the blue robes of a priest of Phos. All three were slowly walking around the barracks, clearly investigating it. They came to a stop in the corner were Sharpe kept his bunk. Tzimiskes pointed at the Baker Rifle leaning against the wall, Sharpe hadn't needed his to train against the men. The other two promptly bent down to stare at it closely and quickly began mumbling among themselves.
Frederickson quietly pointed at a jug of Imbros' cheap, overly sweet wine sitting by his own bed. Sharpe nodded in agreement.
When the investigation of his rifle appeared to be drawing to a close, he cleared his throat. The trio looked over at him almost guiltily. 'Don't know what ta make of it, do you?' He smiled at them. "Wine?" he offered. They returned grins and started over towards him. "Bring it over, Tzimiskes," he attempted his mangled Videssian. The man understood well enough and so brought the rifle over with him.
William filled and handed out the mugs. When each had one, he pronounced, "To the Avtokrator."
"Gavras!" the two soldiers responded, with the priest adding, "May Phos bless him." Then all three spat into the rushes. Happily, none of them seemed upset that neither Sharpe nor his officers contributed any phlegm to the end of the toast, though Minver did murmur a soft "Phos" to himself.
They all took proper sips and smiled politely at each other, saying nothing. Sharpe wondered who would speak first. The shaved head priest solved that by suddenly blurting, "I smell no blah, blah, magic, blah, blah," as he pointed at the rifle Tzimiskes had leaned against the table.
"He can't detect any magic in the rifle, Major," Frederickson translated what Sharpe had already figured.
Sharpe realized the priest's presence made sense, that the blue robe must be a wizard like Apsimar, who'd healed his festering head wound. Sharpe had later learned from Tzimiskes' deputy Mouzalon that the magic gift was far from common; so it was no wonder that whatever Lords and Generals running the army from Videssos the City had sent one of them to discover the truth of Tzimiskes' claim of fire wielding warriors.
"No," he agreed. "Magic not in rifle, magic in powder," he said in his rudimentary Videssian. And with that Sharpe pulled out a cartridge and tossed it on to the table. The three jerked back a bit in surprise as the thing clacked across the surface before coming to a stop, but they promptly stiffened up to hide whatever nerves they were experiencing. "Who you?" he added at the blue robe
A cheerful smile split the blue robes dark beard, making him look younger than Sharpe had first guessed. "I'm called Nepos. I hold blah, blah, blah."
"He says he holds a chair of sorcery in the Videssian Academy. Like a Don at Oxford or Cambridge. He asks if he can open the cartridge," Frederickson said, decoding the complicated Greek gibberish.
In response, Sharpe picked the paper cartridge up, tore it open with his teeth, and spread the contents out on the table. Tzimiskes looked a trifle unimpressed, while his superior officer Khoumnos appeared outright dubious. Nepos however gazed intently at it and then looked up at Sharpe with large eyes and an inquiring hand. Sharpe gestured back, "Go," he said.
Immediately the priest began incanting something and waving his stubby fingers over the spilled cartridge. The exposed skin on Sharpe's lower forearms and hands began to tingle. Goosebumps broke out on the back of his neck. Some barely perceptible energy was passing out of the priest; the granules of powder and the lead ball started vibrating and shifting about.
"Jesus," Minver murmured.
Nepos stopped his sorcery. A stubby finger dabbed into one of the mounds of powder he had conjured and brought it to his lips. "Skotos stink. θεῖον."
"Sulphur; damnit, he knows," Frederickson whispered, trying to keep the hotness out of his breath.
The bald man delicately touched his tongue to his upper lip several times. "Vιτρων."
"Hell," William swore openly.
Sharpe didn't need any translation to know the clever priest had guessed 'saltpetre.' A sinking sensation struck his belly. The medieval bastards were too clever for the Rifles' own good. Still there were tricks to making powder, let alone stuff good enough for even one of those near useless Congreve rockets.
Nepos next poked at the lead ball with a stubby finger. "Not powder. Blah, blah, magic, blah."
"He asks if the lead is a talisman. Apparently it's not much used by his coven of witches."
Sharpe gave a deadly grin, "Tell him that's the killing talisman and that the powder magic drives the ball faster than the eye can follow at the enemy." William did so.
Tzimiskes nodded his head in agreement while the two newcomers frowned slightly in evident doubt. "Can you show them?" the akritai captain asked.
Frederickson started to interpret but Sharpe had caught the gist of it. "We light powder," he replied in badly fractured Greek.
Tzimiskes grinned. "Your Videssian get much better while I gone."
Nepos gestured impatiently. "Light? Like light of Phos?" the priest queried with some excitement.
Sharpe now frowned. "Fire," he said in Greek. "Oh, explain it to them better for me, William."
"Yes, Major," Frederickson answered and then rattled off in Greek for thirty seconds before he picked up the Baker Rifle, cocked the lock and pulled the trigger. The flint struck and tiny sparks shot out. Frederickson made a boom sound. The Videssians all went, "Oh," in some semblance of understanding.
Sharpe scrapped a bit of the powder from the various mounds into one by side of the table. "Lieutenant, please retrieve a burning ember from the mess fire." Minver grinned wickedly and jumped right up. A few moments later he was back. "Go ahead and light it. Carefully."
The lieutenant slowly lowered the tongs holding the lightly glowing coal to the now not so properly mixed powder on the table. A flash and a pop and a puff of smoke happened in an instant.
Nephon Khoumnos and Nepos eyes widened in surprise, while Tzimiskes smiled in approval at the partial truth of the words he must have passed along in Videssos the city being proven accurate.
"Like see rifle shoot?" Sharpe asked.
All three men nodded vigorously.