Promise of Blood (9 page)

Tamas glanced at his companions on the balcony and wondered what they’d say if they knew they were bait for a Privileged. He could sense that Olem’s third eye was open and examining the crowd.

“Give the signal,” Tamas said.

Olem lifted a pair of red signal flags. He waved them twice.

The gates to Sabletooth opened with a grinding shriek heard for half a mile around. The crowd turned away from Tamas, bodies twisting in giant waves as their attention was fixed to the opposite side of the King’s Garden. Tamas leaned forward, heart ringing like a hammer in his chest.

Mounted soldiers poured through the gates of Sabletooth. They pushed their way through the crowd. Tamas could make out Sabon’s shiny black pate at the head of the column, shouting directions. The crowd was forced back and a cordon opened. A simple prison wagon followed them out.

The crowd roared as with one voice and surged forward. For a moment Tamas feared that Sabon and his men would be pulled down. Would the king even reach the guillotine?

The soldiers pushed the crowd back. They inched across the square, soldiers fighting the mob the entire time. The king’s cart came to rest before the guillotines, right below Tamas’s balcony. Soldiers stretched out behind the wagon, forcing the cordon to remain open like a giant snake through the multitudes. Tamas swallowed a lump. Between the two rows of soldiers was a string of over a thousand people, legs connected by chains. The string led all the way back to Sabletooth. They were nobles and their oldest sons, plus many of their wives. Their rumpled finery meant nothing in the jaws of the mob as spittle and spoiled food flew past Tamas’s soldiers.

“The headman’s going to retire after this one,” Olem said.

The sight both made Tamas’s heart soar and sickened him, all at once. This was the culmination of decades of planning. He trembled in excitement and shook with self-doubt. If there was one action he’d be remembered for in the histories, this would be it.

There was a commotion down Queen Floun Avenue to Tamas’s right. His heart jumped into this throat. “Rifle,” he ordered.

Olem handed Tamas a rifle.

“Spare charge.”

Tamas took the spare powder charge and broke it between his fingers. He touched the black powder to his tongue and felt an instant sizzle there. He shuddered and clutched at the railing as the world warped in his sight. He squeezed his eyes closed, and when he opened them, everything was in sharp focus. He could pick out individual hairs on the heads six floors below, and he could see half a mile down Queen Floun Avenue as if he was standing there himself.

“Dragoons,” he said. “A whole company.”

The dragoons wore the decorated uniforms of the king’s Hielmen and pushed forward upon mighty warhorses. They shoved through the crowd as if it was an empty street, stampeding over women and children without a glance back. Swords were drawn, pistols out as they thundered forward.

Olem lifted the signal flag in one hand without being prompted. He twirled it over his head, then leveled it horizontally down Queen Floun Avenue. Tamas could see black-coated men, mere dots in the crowds, begin to head in that direction. They were big, surly men from the famed Mountainwatch, brought in just to work the crowds. The riflemen on the buildings above Queen Floun Avenue shifted to look down upon the dragoons. Tamas spared a glance at Olem: Sabon had briefed him well. Professional, unblinking, even when the Hielmen threatened the very heart of their plans.

“Don’t fire until my signal,” Tamas said. Olem’s flag jolted out the order.

The dragoons slowed as they reached the King’s Garden. The crowds were too thick even for their hundred-and-forty-stone animals. More bodies disappeared beneath their horses as there was no place to flee. People turned toward the dragoons.

The Hielmen’s horses came to a complete stop. Where else could they go? Climb upon the very heads of the mob? The Hielmen frantically urged their mounts forward as wails went up behind them, friends and families screaming in anger, trying desperately to help their wounded.

The first Hielman was pulled off his mount and disappeared beneath the surface of the crowd. Hands reached for the others, who began swinging their sabers in panic. A pistol shot went off, and the crowd responded as one: with a roar of fury.

One Hielman lasted for several minutes, forcing his mount in a circle, hooves thrashing, sword swinging to hold off the crowds, before he joined his comrades, pulled down and gone. Tamas heard a gasp of disbelief. Lady Winceslav fainted. A head rose above the crowd. It still wore a Hielman’s tall, plumed hat, but it most definitely lacked a body. It trailed blood and tissue as it was passed from hand to hand. Other heads soon joined it.

Tamas forced himself to watch. This was all his doing. For Adro. For the people.

For Erika.

“A bad way to go, sir,” Olem said. He took a drag of his cigarette, watching the crowd with Tamas when even Charlemund had turned away.

“Aye,” Tamas said.

The king and queen were led onto the guillotine platform. There were six guillotines, lined up and ready, operators waiting at attention. Manhouch and his wife stood before the crowd, pelted by rotten food. Tamas blinked as a chunk of bloody meat slapped the queen in the face, leaving red smeared on her alabaster skin and her cream nightgown. She fainted, falling to the floor of the platform. Manhouch didn’t seem to notice.

Tamas glanced back toward the Hielmen’s heads. They were making their way through the crowd, closer to the guillotine.

The king stared up at Tamas, then fumbled in his pocket, removing a soiled piece of paper. He cleared his throat and started to speak, though Tamas doubted anyone but the headsman could hear his words. The noise grew as Manhouch tried to yell his speech, until he finally fell silent, chin falling as he gave up. The headsman pulled on Manhouch’s chains. Frozen, the king did not move until the headsman cuffed him on the back of the neck and dragged him to the guillotine.

It was a small blessing for them both, Tamas decided, that they were unconscious when the blade fell.

Manhouch’s head dropped into a basket below the machine, and a fountain of blood sprayed the closest onlookers, even though an area of ten paces had been cleared for that purpose. The queen was loaded into the next machine as workers began to reset the first. Her head fell, a tumble of blond curls.

“This will take all day,” Ricard murmured.

“Yes,” Tamas said. “And tomorrow, too. I told you I’ll give the people enough blood for them to choke on.” He looked down on the crimson pool gathering underneath the guillotine, spreading out under the nervous feet of the nearest men and women. “It’ll soak the King’s Garden and stain the stones to rust.”

Tamas scanned the crowd one more time and stepped away from the balcony. The Privileged hadn’t come. It left another enemy out there unaccounted for. No, he corrected himself. Not unaccounted for. Taniel would find her. “The riots will start when people begin to get hungry,” he announced to no one in particular. “We’ll impose curfew tomorrow. Until then, I suggest you all stay off the street.”

Chapter 6

Adamat hired a carriage to take him to Adopest University. It should not have been a long trip, but it seemed that the entire population of Adopest was heading toward the middle of the city, while the university was located on the outskirts. By the time they reached Kirkamshire, the tide of humanity had turned to a trickle. The university town was eerily quiet.

They’d all gone to see the execution. Tamas must have sent his fastest riders to the outskirts of the city to give everyone the chance to come see Manhouch’s death. A risky move. The people would welcome it. Adamat welcomed it. He only hoped that they hadn’t traded an idiot for a tyrant.

A distant buzz caught his ear as he walked the deserted university grounds. Adamat imagined it to be the roar of a million voices as the people watched the king’s death. Looting would start soon, when people trickled away from the execution and realized everyone had left their doors unlocked, their shops untended. The riots would follow as brother turned against brother. Kresimir willing, he’d be back home before then.

He passed between the solarium and the library, his footsteps echoing in the empty courtyard, and up the steps of the main administration building. The mighty oak doors, banded with iron, were unlocked. Inside he passed by many office doors. He paused at a painting of the current vice-chancellor. Prime Lektor had been ugly, even in his youth, with a purple birthmark obstructing a third of his face. It was said he was an unrivaled scholar. Adamat continued on past the vice-chancellor’s office to the next door down.

It was a small door, propped open with a wedge of wood, and it could very well have been a janitor’s closet for all its bareness. From the hall Adamat could hear the scratching of an old-fashioned quill.

Adamat knocked twice on the open door. A young-looking man sat behind a plain desk in the corner of a cramped room. One might expect clutter in the office of the assistant to the vice-chancellor, but every scrap of paper, every book and scroll, was in its place and every surface dusted daily. Adamat smiled. Some things never changed.

“Adamat,” Uskan said. He set his pen in its holder and blew on the ink before setting the paper to one side. “A pleasant surprise.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Uskan,” Adamat said, “and not watching the execution.”

A shadow flickered across Uskan’s face as he rounded his desk and came forward to clasp Adamat’s hand. “One of my understudies has a very creative pen. I told her to write down everything for posterity.” Uskan made a disgusted face. “I have work to do. What need do I have for bloody spectacle?”

Adamat examined Uskan. His friend did indeed look young, far younger than forty-five years. He had the pinched face of a man who squints a lot, reading by too little light. “It’s the spectacle of the century,” Adamat said.

“Of the millennia,” Uskan said. He returned to his desk and offered Adamat the only other chair in the room. “Never in the history of the Nine, since their founding by Kresimir and his brothers, has a king been dethroned. Not once. I don’t even… I don’t even know what to say.” He brushed the worried look from his face like a mote of unwanted dust. “How is Faye?”

“Out of town with the children, thankfully.”

“A stroke of luck.”

“Yes.”

Uskan perked up. “How’s the printing press working? I’ve been knee-deep in work for so long I haven’t even thought to send you a letter. Must be exciting to see it work. The first steam-powered press in all of Adro!”

“You hadn’t heard?” Adamat grimaced.

Uskan shook his head.

“It exploded.”

Uskan’s mouth fell open. “No.”

“Killed an apprentice and destroyed half the building. I’d stepped out for a cup of tea and when I came back…” Adamat mimicked an explosion with his hands. “No more Adamat and Friends Publishing.”

“Surely you were insured.”

“Of course. They refused to pay. I sued for damages. They found it cheaper to bribe the magistrate than to cover all my expenses.”

Uskan’s mouth kept working silently. “I can’t believe it. That had all the makings of fame and fortune. You’d be a wealthy man now if that had succeeded. Why, I’ve just read in the papers that eleven bookstores have opened in Adopest alone in the last six months. Reading is becoming very fashionable. Poetry, novels, history. The industry is booming!”

“Don’t rub it in.”

Uskan cringed. “Adamat. I’m so sorry.”

Adamat waved a hand. “Things happen. It was nearly a year ago. Besides, I’m not here to talk about my troubles. I’m working.”

“An investigation? At least you have that to fall back on.”

“Yes.”

“Anything I can do to help,” Uskan said.

“I hope it won’t be a bother. I need to know about something called ‘Kresimir’s Broken Promise,’ or ‘Kresimir’s Promise.’”

Uskan leaned back and frowned at the ceiling. “It sounds…” he said after a few moments. “Something on the edge of my memory. But I do not recall. Not everyone has your gift.” He stood up. “Let’s go look.”

They left the administration building and crossed to the library. Someone had thought to lock the ancient doors of the big building, but Uskan had his keys.

The vestibule was little more than a place to hang coats and wipe your shoes. Beyond that was one wide, open room with three tiered levels. Staircases and ladders seemed to be everywhere, with tables for research haphazardly placed at the end of bookshelves or beneath windows.

“I hope you have some idea of where to start,” Adamat said. It was easy to forget how big the library really was—Adamat hadn’t been there for decades. “Else this will take all day.”

Uskan headed confidently to their right and up the nearest flight of stairs. “I think I do,” he said. “Though it might take a while. We’ve had some major additions to our collection lately and I’ve not spent as much time in the library as I want. Still, can’t complain about new books. The industry is booming, but books are still expensive.” He glanced at Adamat. “A steam-powered printing press would have begun to change that.”