Promise of Blood (48 page)

Adamat said, “No. As I told you, my research came up with nothing. Passages were ripped completely from the books, expunged by someone who didn’t want this information known.” This alone had troubled Adamat from the beginning. But he was not one to speculate. “My knowledge of Kresimir’s Promise comes from Privileged Borbador alone.”

“That is unfortunate.” Tamas touched a hand to his forehead and swayed slightly. He was not well. “I hesitate to give in to hysteria, but I must guard against the possibility that there is some truth to it. Bah! Summoning gods. Who thinks of such things? I have sent the fourth brigade to Shouldercrown. That should be more than enough to hold the pass against the Kez.” He made a dismissive gesture. “I am sorry I interrupted your investigation, Inspector. I did want to tell you one thing before you go.”

“Sir?”

“If I do not survive this surgery, or my recovery goes badly, I want you to continue your investigation.”

Adamat felt a thrill of fear. “With all due respect, sir, I’d be dead in a ditch within hours. I suspect only fear of suspicion keeps me from falling prey to assassins. Fear of you, to be precise.”

“You will have a guard,” Tamas said. “If I am dead, justice will be served not from a trial but from cold steel. The seventh brigade will assist you with some glee, I suspect.”

Tamas really thought he might die. Adamat’s fear deepened. If Tamas died, everything would fall apart. Especially with such contingency. The army would go after the rest of the councillors; every man would be for himself. Chaos would descend upon the country. There would be no winners. And if he lived, Adamat would be forced to continue to betray him, telling all to Lord Vetas. Where had his integrity gone? For the hundredth time, Adamat weighed the risks of telling Tamas all and asking for his help. No, he decided again. His family’s safety was more important than integrity or honor.

Adamat’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a tall, fat man with long black hair tucked back in a ponytail behind him. He carried himself like a king, though he wore the apron and tall hat of a chef. He held a silver tray above his head and a ladle big enough to brain in a man’s head hung from his apron.

Tamas regarded him with some wariness. “Mihali?”

“Field Marshal,” Mihali said. “I’ve brought you a broth to drink before your surgery. It will aid in your recovery, I think.”

The doctor scowled at Mihali. “No food or drink,” he said.

“I insist!” Mihali held the tray out for Tamas.

“Absolutely not. Food or drink can cause complications during the surgery, I…”

Tamas waved the doctor off. “I think I will manage,” Tamas said. “You aren’t even giving me ether.”

Adamat was about to slip off, leaving Tamas to his broth and surgery, when the door burst open. Adamat recognized the arch-diocel by the robes he wore, if not by his face. Charlemund was a man with a fearsome reputation, and he did not give many public sermons. He was not well liked among the lower classes, as arch-diocels went.

“Tamas,” Charlemund said. “I am glad to see you alive and safe, but I’ve come on business. My men say your soldiers will not give up this blasphemous cook of yours. There was some kind of scuffle yesterday when my guard tried to come for him…”

He paused, a frown crossing his face when he saw Mihali, Adamat, and the rest.

“Surely Mihali is of little import,” Tamas said.

“If it were my choice, I would leave him in your hands. What is a mad cook to me? Yet arch-diocels more zealous in the faith than I are demanding his arrest. They are putting pressure on me, Tamas. They are threatening the Church’s neutrality.”

“You’ll have my decision later,” Tamas said.

“I must insist that it be now.” Charlemund squared his shoulders. His gaze fell on Mihali. “You are he, are you not? The blasphemous cook?”

Mihali set the platter down gently beside Tamas and turned to Charlemund. He took a deep breath, sucking in his enormous gut. “I am a chef, sir, and you will speak to me as such.”

“A chef! Ha!” Charlemund threw his head back and laughed. His hand went to the hilt of his smallsword. “Tamas, I arrest this man in the name of the Church.”

“Get out.”

The words were quiet, yet Adamat felt as if all warmth had been sucked from the room. He turned to Tamas, but it wasn’t Tamas who had spoken. It had been the chef.

“How dare you.” Charlemund drew a handspan of steel.

“Get out!” Mihali bellowed. His ladle appeared in his hand, for all the world like he was holding a sword. The large end pointed steadily at Charlemund’s nose. “I will not have you here. You false priest, you abhorrent fool! Give me a reason and I will strike you down!”

Charlemund’s face contorted with rage. “What kind of madness is this? I arrest you in the name of the Church! I don’t fear your ladle, you ungodly glutton!”

Mihali advanced suddenly upon Charlemund. The arch-diocel backpedaled a few steps, drew his sword, and lunged. Mihali caught the blade with his ladle, swung it expertly to one side, and backhanded Charlemund hard enough to throw him over the sofa.

The room was silent. Olem rushed to Charlemund’s side.

“Did you just kill the arch-diocel?” Adamat asked.

Mihali sniffed. “I should have,” he said. “Drink your broth, Field Marshal.” He left the room without another word.

“He’s alive, sir,” Olem said. “Unconscious.”

Adamat exchanged a glance with Tamas. He could see his own disbelief reflected in Tamas’s eyes. The field marshal held his leg in pain. “Olem, see that the arch-diocel is put in a room downstairs. Let it be known he had a bad fall down the stairs. Find witnesses. Inspector, I’m sure you saw it.”

Adamat smoothed the front of his jacket. “It was a very nasty fall. He tumbled two flights before we could catch him.”

“I believe that was the case,” Tamas said. “Doctor, what could you prescribe for Charlemund?”

The doctor looked down his nose at the unconscious form of the arch-diocel. “Arsenic?”

“Now, really. Something to give him a quality headache and a great deal of memory loss.”

“Cyanide.”

“Doctor!”

“I’ll find something,” the doctor mumbled.

“Olem.”

Olem paused, his arms beneath Charlemund’s shoulders as he dragged him from the room. “Sir?”

“What was that bit about the men scuffling with Charlemund’s guards?”

“I was going to tell you sir, after the surgery.”

“I’m sure you were. What happened?”

Olem paused with his hands under Charlemund’s arms. “Just that, sir. The boys don’t want to lose Mihali. Say he’s a good-luck charm, cooking or not. I had nothing to do with it. At least, not too much.”

“How the pit is he a good-luck charm? What has he done to warrant that?”

“Filled their bellies,” Olem said.

“Were there any casualties?”

“There might be next time.” A cloud passed across Olem’s face.

“And if I give a direct order?”

Olem looked down. “I’m sure the men will follow it, sir.”

Tamas closed his eyes and rubbed them. “What do you suggest, Inspector?”

Adamat started. “I’m not sure I know enough details, sir.” He felt like a fly on the wall here. This was not an event he was meant to witness. This Mihali character—Adamat would need to find out more about him.

“Pretend you do,” Tamas insisted.

“It’s a poor commander who gives in to the whims of his troops,” Adamat said. “And an even worse one who ignores their wants and needs. Yet there are mitigating factors.” He jerked his head toward the arch-diocel, whom Olem had resumed dragging out the door.

“Olem.”

The bodyguard paused once more. “He’s coming around, sir.”

“I’d rather he not yet.”

There was a sound like a hammer hitting meat. “He won’t.”

Tamas put his head in his hands. “Let it be known that Mihali has been conscripted by the seventh brigade of the Adran army. Send a note to Hassenbur, letting them know they may send a doctor to watch over him. We will cover all expenses, and Claremonte will be spared any embarrassment.”

“And the Church?”

Tamas sighed. “They can send a priest to talk to him, if they like. To convert him or some such nonsense.”

“So Mihali is the legion’s official cook now, eh?”

“Chef.”

“Right, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Tamas waited until the soldier was gone to begin eating his broth. A few moments passed, the only sound that of his satisfied slurping. He looked up. “Inspector?”

“Yes?” Adamat had found his mind wandering again.

“You’re dismissed.”

As Adamat left the room, he heard Tamas say, “Let’s get on with this, Petrik.”

He paused in the hallway. Tamas handled that well enough. The field marshal was not a man to tolerate fools questioning his orders. He was not a good man to cross. Adamat wondered again if he should tell Tamas about Lord Vetas. If Tamas discovered Adamat’s betrayal on his own, Adamat would lose any chance of rescuing his family. But if Adamat attempted a rescue, even with the help of Tamas’s soldiers, his family might die. The risk was just too great.

Chapter 28

Come on, you idiot,” Tamas said. “Prop me up. Put the pillow there.” He paused and gripped the edge of his desk as the room spun around him.

“Sir?” Olem said. He chewed on the end of his cigarette.

“I’m fine. Go on.”

Olem wedged a cushion between Tamas and his chair.

“Down farther,” Tamas said. “Perfect. Turn the chair a little. I want to look casual.”

Tamas gave a few more orders until he was satisfied. He sat behind his desk, pointed toward the office door, his back propped up straight so he looked taller. Olem stepped back.

“Do I look like an invalid?” Tamas asked.

“No.”

“You hesitated.”

“A little beat up, sir,” Olem said. “It’ll do.”

“Good.” Tamas didn’t dare lean forward, hardly even to look down, so he felt blindly to a desk drawer and removed a powder cartridge. He broke the end with his thumbnail and poured it out on his tongue. He fought off a bout of dizziness, then darkness as his consciousness tried to retreat before the wave of awareness that flooded his senses. The taste was sulfuric, bitter. To Tamas it tasted of ambrosia.

His exhaustion ebbed. The pain in his leg receded to a steady hum in the back of his mind, a simple reminder that his leg had been cut open, the flesh torn and the bone reset but without the agony that should accompany it.

“Three capsules in an hour, sir?” There was a hint of worry in Olem’s voice.

“Save it for someone else,” Tamas grunted. “I’ve no time to worry about going powder blind.” Truth be told, he admitted to himself, the euphoria of the powder trance clung to him. He needed it, longed for its strongest embrace like a long-absent lover. He would deal with signs of addiction later. For now, there were more important matters. Despite the powder trance, one of the deepest he’d ever been in, he could barely move. His body still felt the pain, still cried out over his lack of rest—his brain simply did not register it.

“Tell me about Brigadier Sabastenien,” Tamas said.

“He was an orphan,” Olem said, “adopted into the Wings of Adom as a bullet-boy. The Wings of Adom are his family—Adro his mother, the army his father.”

“As I’ve heard as well.”

“He helped me track you,” Olem said. “Ryze’s betrayal burned him deep.”

“Does he know Ryze is dead?” Tamas asked.

Olem shook his head.

“And you didn’t say a word of Ryze’s innocence?”

“Not one, sir,” Olem said.

“Good. Send him in.”

Brigadier Sabastenien was one of the youngest commanders of the Wings of Adom, barely twenty-five years old. Tamas knew that brigadiers were not elected at whim. They were quick, they were intelligent, brave, and fanatically loyal to the Winceslav family and to Adro. Or they had been, until Brigadier Barat.

Brigadier Sabastenien was a shorter man, with dark, unruly hair cut just above his eyes. He had grown muttonchops to give him a better appearance of maturity, and wore them better than most men of his age.

“I’m glad to see you back in good health, sir,” Sabastenien said.

“Thank you,” Tamas said. “I understand you helped Olem track me.” Tamas nodded to his bodyguard, and then dismissed him with a jerk of his head. Olem slipped out onto the balcony, while Tamas’s head reeled from the sudden movement.
Careful
, he reminded himself.

“I provided what service I could,” the brigadier said. “Pray tell me if there is more I can do. I’ve already begun gathering men to hunt Brigadier Ryze with Lady Winceslav’s blessing. He’ll not escape.”

“There is one thing you can do,” Tamas said.

“Anything, sir.”

“It’s a small thing. You see that screen there?” Tamas pointed toward the corner of the room, where a divider stood of the type a man or woman might change behind. “I’d like you to stand behind it and listen.”

“Sir?” Sabastenien said.

“You’ll understand soon enough,” Tamas said. “Please. For the whim of a beat-up old man.”

Brigadier Sabastenien gave him a hesitant nod. “Now?”

Tamas glanced at the clock. “Yes, that would be about right.”