Promise of Blood (66 page)

The duel could have been hours, as Adamat felt it, though he knew that only moments had passed. Olem retreated farther, and the two duelists moved past Adamat and closer to the carriage. Olem held his ground there for several seconds, sweat beading on his brow, eyes desperate for some opening. His face was easy for Adamat to read. He was growing tired, worried. He could not keep up with Charlemund.

He saw one, finally, and lunged. His cut nicked Charlemund’s side as the arch-diocel stepped aside. A dagger appeared in Charlemund’s off hand, and he stabbed Olem between the ribs. Olem’s eyes widened, his sword falling from his hand. Charlemund stepped away and drew his sword back for a finishing thrust.

Adamat looked away.
We’re finished.

Olem coughed out a laugh, drawing Adamat’s attention. Charlemund paused.

“You’ve worse than me to face,” Olem said.

Charlemund gave a quick glance toward the villa. He left Olem in the dirt and ran for the carriage. “Go!” he said, leaping onto the sideboard.

“Don’t do it!” Adamat called to Siemone.

The priest huddled on the driver’s bench, reins in hand. His arms shook. He didn’t move.

“Go,” Charlemund commanded.

Adamat thought Siemone was about to snap the reins. The priest looked toward the heavens, then at his hands. His lips moved silently.

“Fool,” Charlemund said. He swung up the sideboard and into the seat next to Siemone.

The priest cringed away from him. “I can’t do it,” he wailed.

Charlemund pushed him from the seat. Siemone gave a yell and tumbled from his perch. He hit the ground with the sound of a melon being split open and then lay still.

“Coward.”

The word wasn’t spoken loudly, yet it drew Charlemund and Adamat’s gazes all the same. Tamas stood on the back step of the villa, just above the garden. He leaned heavily on an air rifle, barrel down, in place of his cane. He looked like an old man then, tired and beleaguered. The front of his uniform was soaked in blood. Adamat remembered the mage’s quarters in Skyline Palace, and the specks that had covered Tamas then. He shuddered.

Charlemund hesitated. The reins were in his hands, and though he obviously wanted to snap them and make a run for it some kind of morbid curiosity held him back.

Adamat forced himself to his feet. He stumbled, winced at the pain, his head feeling light. He snagged the horse’s bridle. “No,” he said.

Charlemund barely seemed to notice him. The arch-diocel’s eyes were on Tamas.

“I see you’ve taken care of the good duke,” Charlemund said. He stood up, dropping the reins, and jumped from the driver’s bench. He landed in a crouch, stood up, and straightened. Adamat felt his heart beat faster.

Tamas seemed unimpressed. “He’s still alive,” he said. “He wishes he wasn’t. I have a lot of plans for him.” Tamas took the steps down into the garden slowly, leaning on the air rifle. “For you, too,” he said.

Charlemund drew his sword. “You’re out of powder,” he said. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be talking. You’re not afraid of my title, of the repercussions. You’d have put a bullet in my head from inside the house. Did Nikslaus use up all your reserves?”

Tamas’s face was iron.

“If you had any honor at all,” Charlemund said, “you’d be on your way to South Pike right now to sacrifice yourself to Kresimir in hopes of saving this country.”

“That’s rich,” Tamas said. “Coming from a traitor.”

“What are you going to do to me, Tamas?” Charlemund said. “On your best day you aren’t the swordsman I am.” Charlemund broke into a sudden sprint, rushing headlong toward Tamas, arms thrown back like the wings of a bird of prey.

Tamas let the air rifle drop from beneath his arm. He drew his sword, planting his bad leg back, wincing as he did so. Adamat took a sharp breath. That leg had been shattered. Tamas wouldn’t be able to maneuver. On a good day, he may have come close to matching Charlemund. As it was, a duel would be laughable.

Charlemund lunged forward, thrusting savagely as he closed with Tamas. Tamas parried, their blades crossed, and Charlemund was behind Tamas, spinning to give a death-dealing blow before Tamas could bring himself around on the bad leg. Charlemund’s shout of victory died in his throat, his eyes falling toward his sword.

The black smoke of gunpowder hung in the air by Tamas’s off hand. He opened his fist and let the burned wrappings of a powder charge fall to the ground, next to the blade of Charlemund’s sword. Charlemund stared at his swordless hilt. His face twisted in fury, eyes alight. He threw the hilt and leapt toward Tamas, who’d turned slowly to face him.

The thrown hilt hit Tamas’s forehead, leaving a shallow cut. He blinked, and thrust forward once, his off hand on his hip in a duelist’s pose. Charlemund’s own momentum carried him a handspan onto the steel. Tamas pulled back, stabbed again, then again. Charlemund stumbled away, clutching at the wounds, the crimson soaking into his pristine uniform. He staggered up against the carriage, one hand reaching, grasping at nothing. He slid down onto the gravel.

Adamat swallowed hard. Charlemund’s wounds didn’t look fatal, but there were several of them. He’d bleed out slowly, painfully—if Tamas let him. Tamas didn’t make any move to help, nor call out for his soldiers. He simply watched as Charlemund tried to stem the blood flow, hands shaking. Tamas wiped the blood from his sword on Charlemund’s discarded cape and sheathed it.

Adamat’s own wounds were bad, but he judged them survivable if he bound them better. He shrugged the thought off and went to squat down beside Siemone’s limp body. The priest’s neck had been broken in the fall. His eyes stared sightlessly off into a pasture, mouth open in a cry of despair. Adamat closed the eyes with his fingertips. He stood up and walked around to the other side of the carriage.

Olem and Tamas leaned upon each other, heads together in a conference. Tamas once again held the air rifle as a cane. They both looked to Adamat. “Olem says you delayed Charlemund just long enough for him to catch up.” Tamas gave him a slow nod. “You have my thanks.”

Adamat licked dry lips. Neither had a look of suspicion, an accusation on their lips. Why not? Adamat’s warning to Lord Vetas had just caused the deaths of a number of Tamas’s soldiers. They had yet to realize why he was there at all.

“Sir,” Adamat said. “I’m sorry. But my family…”

Tamas returned to the inside of the manor. Wardens and Church guards lay about, dead. He marveled at the perfect kills—bullets to the heart or the head, easy hits in the close proximity of a house. Blood pooled thick on the marble floors, making them slick. He found an ivory parasol stand in the corner of the foyer and appropriated a real cane, leaning the air rifle up against the wall.

Nikslaus was gone. Tamas bit the inside of his cheek, fighting against welling frustration. He’d left the Privileged lying on the ground writhing in pain. A blood trail led from that spot off to a side room. Tamas didn’t have enough men to tend to the wounded and organize a search. He closed his eyes and limped off after the blood trail.

Adamat. What would Tamas do with the inspector? He’d confessed to betraying Tamas and Adro to this Lord Vetas and his master, Lord Claremonte. How many powerful enemies could Tamas have? Adamat was ultimately responsible for Sabon’s death. Or was he? According to Adamat, the warning was sent to Charlemund just ahead of Adamat himself. Charlemund had more than just a few moments to marshal his defenses.

The pain in his leg increased as his powder trance began to fade. It would take a while for the trance to fade completely, and he’d be able to stand for a few hours yet, with the help of a cane. When that time was over, the agony would be so great he’d be lucky to even be able to stand.

Dr. Petrik would be furious. Tamas may have damaged his leg irreparably, fighting on it like he did. Foolishness.

The blood trail led through two rooms, two separate worlds of expensive furnishings rarely seen outside of a king’s palace. Ivory-bone chairs from the horns of Fatrastan animals, pelts and taxidermied big cats from the farthest jungles. A squat table chiseled from a single piece of pure obsidian. The skeleton of a long-dead lizard as big as a horse. Artwork from every corner of the world, sculptures from before the Time of Kresimir.

The blood trail led to a servant’s door out onto a small patio. Tamas examined the area cautiously. He didn’t know if they’d accounted for all the Wardens. He glimpsed movement out across a pasture. A stable door opened, and a pair of horses galloped out, swinging out around the barn and away from the villa. In his powder trance Tamas could see the makeshift bandages on Nikslaus’s hands, the writhing muscles of the Warden who led his horse. Nikslaus glanced back toward the villa nervously. Tamas watched until the pair was out of sight.

All of this was for naught if Julene manages to summon Kresimir.

“I can’t find Nikslaus,” Olem said.

Tamas turned. The soldier had not even attended to his own wounds. He stood straight as he could, trying to meet Tamas’s eyes. He did not hide his pain well, which meant there was a lot of it. He fumbled in his shirt jacket for rolling paper and tobacco. They almost slipped out of his blood-slick fingers. Tamas took them from him and rolled Olem a cigarette, then lit it with a match from Olem’s breast pocket. Olem took a puff and smiled gratefully.

“Attend to the wounded,” Tamas said. “Nikslaus is not a threat anymore. Attend to yourself first. You did well, my friend.”

“But Nikslaus…” Olem said.

“My vengeance will be that he continues to live,” Tamas said. He smiled, and he knew it was tinted with cruelty. “That will be enough.”

Chapter 40

Only aftepr climbing stairs for what seemed like hours did Taniel realize the full scope of Kresimir’s palace. It was, as Del said, a husk—the giant shell of what must have once been thousands upon thousands of rooms and halls and galleries. Only the volcanic outer crust remained, along with the enormous staircase that spiraled up along the inner wall. The ash thinned as they ascended. Their footfalls began to echo, and Taniel soon realized that the pinpricks of light above were windows. He forced himself to climb hard, fast, not caring if Del kept up or not.

In the near-utter silence Taniel felt as if time were suspended. He thought he saw pale colors flicker in the shadows, like ghostly auras of long-dead magic. Every now and then, puffs of ash rose like phantoms. As they neared the top, he saw windows, yes, but they were too high above the staircase to shoot from, and there was nothing to climb to reach them. He kept going. The walls closed in around them and the staircase narrowed. They reached a platform, bathed in light, blackened by soot, and as wide as a ballroom. Taniel saw the roof arch above them and the slits of windows high up the walls.

Taniel slumped against the wall and waited for Del to catch up.

“Where?” Taniel asked when the monk arrived, panting. He lurched forward and grabbed Del by the hem of his robes. “Where? You said I could shoot from up here. Point me to some damn windows!” He shook the monk hard.

“There!” Del wailed. He closed his eyes and flung a hand over Taniel’s shoulder.

Taniel let go of Del and turned around. A chill crept over him as he reevaluated the room. A cold hand seemed to touch his heart.

This was Kresimir’s throne room. A dais lay at the end of the hall, thirteen steps up to a place where sat a blackened chair. He saw light behind that chair.

Taniel hurried up the dais steps. He passed the empty throne and found a doorless archway. He gathered his courage and entered.

The room beyond brought him to a sudden stop. He gasped, mind overcome. The room was well lit, fully furnished. Tapestries hung on the walls. There was glass in the windows, and a four-poster bed in the center of the room. Velvet-cushioned chairs and gold-rimmed tables. He’d tracked soot onto a white rug. Taniel might as well have stepped from a cave into Skyline Palace. He stumbled.

“You left Bo behind?” a female voice said.

Taniel felt faint. Julene stepped in from a balcony.

“Yes, ma’am.” Del appeared at Taniel’s shoulder.

“And the girl?” Julene said, a sneer on her lips.

“Guarding Bo.” Del stood straight, his head held high. He no longer shook. He no longer even looked like Del. The youth of his face faded, leaving wrinkles behind, and as Taniel watched, the false monk pulled a pair of Privileged’s gloves from his pocket and tugged them on.

Julene strode to Taniel. She put one finger under his chin and lifted up his head to look into his eyes. He felt ill. Dead inside.

“I had a feeling you might chase me up here,” she said. “Glad I left Jekel behind. What was his plan?” she asked the Privileged.

“Shoot enough of us to keep you from summoning Kresimir,” Jekel said.

“That might have worked,” Julene admitted. “It takes a lot of sorcery to pull Kresimir between the Nether that separates worlds.”

Taniel felt himself sway. He longed to snatch for a pistol. He might be able to at least kill the false monk. His fingers didn’t want to obey. He was defeated. He knew it.

“Why?” Taniel asked. He took a couple of breaths, trying to find the words.