Promise of Blood

chapter 16



Sir, we’ve found out who Mihali is.”

Tamas looked up from his desk. For once, things were quiet. Not a Wings brigadier or a councillor or officer or secretary in sight. Olem was the first person Tamas had seen all morning, though he’d been stationed just outside the door.

“Mihali?”

Olem paused to light a cigarette. “The new chef.”

Tamas remembered the bowl of squash soup in the corner of his desk. It was regrettably empty. The stuff was as addictive as black powder. “Yes… Mihali,” Tamas said. “It took you long enough.”

“It’s been a distracting week.”

“That’s fair.”

“Mihali is the na-baron of Moaka,” Olem said. “He’s more commonly known by his professional title: Lord of the Golden Chefs.”

“And what does that mean?”

“The Golden Chefs is a culinary institute. The finest in the Nine. Graduates of their schools are coveted by the wealthiest families on four continents as private chefs. They cook for kings.”

“And their lord?”

“A man considered the greatest among peers each generation.”

“He’s in our kitchens, making lunch for three regiments?”

“Quite right, sir.”

“Why?” Tamas asked.

“It seems he’s hiding.”

Tamas stared at Olem. “Hiding?”

“He’s only recently escaped from Hassenbur Asylum.”

Tamas leaned back in his chair.

“What’s so funny, sir?” Olem asked.

Tamas chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Has he told anyone that he’s the god Adom reincarnated?”

“Yes, sir,” Olem said. “That’s why he was committed.”

“That explains a lot,” Tamas said. He glanced down at his work. There were requests on his desk from the Adopest Kennel Society, writs to be signed for Ricard Tumblar’s union, and a proposed tax on the Kresim Church. He shook his head. Nothing he wanted to deal with now. “Let’s go have a chat with our chef, then, shall we?”

Olem followed him out into the hall. “Do you think that’s wise, sir?”

“Is he dangerous?” Tamas asked.

“Not as far as I can tell. The men love him. They’ve never had someone cook like this for them before. Makes all the other army rations taste like shit.”

“What’s he making? Squash soup?”

Olem laughed. “Remember what you had for lunch yesterday?”

“Of course I do,” Tamas said. “It was a bloody nine-course meal. Candied eel, stuffed dormouse, braised beef, a salad big enough to feed an ox… I’ve eaten that well only once before in my life and it was at one of Manhouch’s parties.”

“That was normal ration, sir.”

Olem bumped into him when Tamas came to a complete stop. “You mean everyone is eating that well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The whole damned brigade?”

Olem nodded.

“He must be blowing through the entire year’s ration budget.” Tamas resumed walking, feeling some urgency in his step. “Ondraus is going to shit a paving stone.”

Olem caught up. “On the contrary, sir. I asked a secretary. It seems he’s not even touched the main fund.”

“Then how is he paying for all that food?”

Olem shrugged.

One kitchen served the entirety of the House of Nobles. It was located just beneath the main floor so that windows high up one of the walls could provide light during the day, and was nearly as long as the House was wide. Along one side of the kitchen ran dozens of ovens with flues that disappeared into the ceiling and enough cooking space to prepare food for the thousands of secretaries and nobles that would normally have filled the building. The middle of the floor contained broad, low tables to prepare recipes and to ready ingredients, and the other side contained hutches and cupboards by the score with measuring instruments, spices, and other ingredients. Sausages, herbs, vegetables, and more hung from the ceiling.

Tamas patted his forehead with a handkerchief the moment he entered the room. The heat nearly sent him retreating out into the hall. He blinked a few times and held his ground, partially urged on by the myriad of smells: scents of cocoa and cinnamon and of breads and meats. His mouth began to water.

“Are you all right, sir?” Olem asked.

Tamas shot him a look.

The room bustled with dozens of assistants. They all wore a variation of the same uniform: a white apron over black pants, and some kind of hat upon their head. Some of them seemed to be able to afford to acquire better quality, while others looked to have scrounged their outfits from the street. Tamas did notice that no matter how frayed, all the clothing was clean. He noticed another thing: Every one of the assistants was a woman. They varied in age and beauty and all worked with utmost concentration. None seemed to notice Tamas’s presence.

The chef himself paced among his assistants. Tamas recognized him immediately as the man who’d appeared at his headquarters the day of the earthquake. As Tamas watched, Mihali stopped to say something to one of his assistants and then immediately moved on to the next, adding a dash of this spice to that dish and gently grabbing the arm of an assistant before too much flour could be added to a dough. He had set the women up in workstations, and he danced between them with the skill of a line commander, issuing orders and making changes to the recipes as he went, always seeming to have an eye on everything at once.

Mihali caught sight of Tamas and smiled. He headed toward the door, only to stop halfway there at a counter of meats and help a hefty-sized woman with her aim at the cleaver. He lopped off a dozen ribs of beef with the precision of a headsman and then nodded to the woman, handing back the cleaver. He whispered something reassuring and made his way over to Tamas.

“Good afternoon, Field Marshal,” Mihali said. “Been a busy couple of weeks since we met.”

Olem gave Tamas a curious look at this.

Mihali went on, “I’ll tell you, I’d work twice as fast if I wasn’t training a whole batch of new assistants.” He removed his hat and dragged a sleeve across his forehead, staining the cloth with sweat, before wiping his hands on his apron. A look of worry crossed his face. “Lunch will be a few minutes late, I’m afraid.”

Tamas glanced across the room. So much was going on that it was impossible to tell what was actually being prepared. He’d been ready to come down here asking questions. He wanted to get to the bottom of this “mad chef” business. Yet his words died on his tongue.

“I doubt anyone will complain,” Tamas managed. His stomach rumbled suddenly. “What’s for lunch?”

“Blackened salamander with curry and a light vegetable pie,” Mihali said. “We’re having wine-glazed beef back for dinner tonight, and I thought I’d serve a spiced wine with it. Main courses only. There will be plenty of other things to choose from.”

“To everyone in the House?”

“Of course.” Mihali’s eyes went wide, as if Tamas had suggested something idiotic. “Do you think a secretary deserves to eat any less well than a field marshal, or a soldier than an accountant?”

“My apologies,” Tamas said. He shared a glance with Olem, trying to remember why he came down.

“Please, Field Marshal, walk with me.” Mihali hurried away without waiting for an answer. When Tamas caught up, Mihali was adjusting the heat beneath a vat of soup by changing the airflow in the stove beneath it. He dipped one finger in the soup and popped it in his mouth, before producing a knife and a clove of garlic from his apron, deftly slicing a measure into the vat.

“I heard about the attempt on your life,” Mihali said.

Tamas stopped. He realized the pain of his wounds, the ache of the stitches on his chest, had faded to nothing when he entered the kitchen. They were a distant throb, as if from outside a powder trance.

Mihali had a note of sadness to his voice. “I do not agree with what the sorcerers do to those Wardens. It’s unnatural. I’m glad you survived.”

“Thank you,” Tamas said slowly. His suspicions that Mihali was a spy were slowly fading. His reputation and skills as a chef couldn’t be faked.

“Mihali,” Tamas said, “I came to ask you about the asylum.”

Mihali froze, a forkful of vegetable pie halfway to his mouth. He finished the bite off quickly. “More pepper,” he told an assistant, “and add a dozen more potatoes to the next batch.” He hurried on to the next station, forcing Tamas to catch up.

“Yes,” he said when Tamas was alongside him again, “I escaped from Hassenbur. It was a vile place.”

“How did you escape?”

They had reached a portion of the kitchens where there weren’t any assistants. In fact, it was as if an invisible curtain had been drawn across it. The heat and steam had lessened, and the noise had become muffled. Tamas glanced over his shoulder to be sure that they were still in the same room. Behind him, the flurry of activity continued.

“They gave me access to the kitchens when I wasn’t being treated.” Mihali shivered at a memory. “And though they said I was cooking for the asylum, I soon found out they were sending my meals to the manor homes of nearby nobles and selling my services for quite a bit of money. I baked myself into a cake and had my assistants send me to the next manor over.”

“You’re joking,” Olem said. He rolled an unlit cigarette around between his lips and eyed a stove.

Mihali shrugged. “It was a very big cake.”

Tamas waited for him to say something else, perhaps his real method of escape, but Mihali remained quiet. This section of the kitchen, nearly half of the space of the whole, contained just as many cookpots and fired ovens as the other, but as Mihali moved from one dish to the next, it was clear he was the only one attending these. Mihali reached above his head and pulled down an enormous pot from its hook. It looked to weigh as much as Tamas, but Mihali handled it with ease, maneuvering it down onto a stove. He opened the fire chamber beneath the stove, checking the heat, before moving on to an open spit in the corner.

Tamas followed him across the room. He paused beside the pot Mihali had just pulled down—steam rose from it. He stepped forward and blinked. The pot was full to the brim with a thick stew of potatoes, carrots, corn, and beef.

“Wasn’t that empty a moment ago?” Tamas asked Olem quietly.

Olem frowned. “It was.”

They both looked about for the pot Mihali had just pulled down, but all the pots on this side of the kitchen were full and cooking. Tamas felt less hungry somehow, and more uneasy. Mihali was still at the spit. A whole side of beef roasted above the flames. Mihali lifted a small bowl and began pouring some kind of dressing over the meat. Tamas found his stomach growling again, his uneasiness gone with the advent of new smells.

“Mihali, have you told other people that you are the god Adom reincarnated?” Tamas examined Mihali’s face intently, looking for signs of madness. There was no question that Mihali was a maestro of the kitchens. Tamas had heard that every genius was equal parts madness. He tried to remember his childhood theology lessons. Adom was the patron saint of Adro. The church called him Kresimir’s brother, but not a god like Kresimir.

Mihali poked the side of beef with the tip of his knife and watched grease bubble to the surface and run down the meat, sizzling on the coals below. His frown slowly returned. “My relatives had me committed,” he said quietly. “My brothers and cousins. I’m a bastard son—my mother was a Rosvelean beauty whom my father loved more than his wife, and my brothers have therefore hated me since I was a boy. Father protected me and fostered my talents. Against custom, he made me his heir.” He prodded the side of beef once more. “My brothers sent me to the asylum the day he died. I wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral. My claims to be the god Adom were only an excuse.”

Mihali stood up straight suddenly, as if stirred from slumber. “Bread, bread,” he muttered. “Another fifty loaves at least. These girls don’t work fast enough.”

He moved to the counters in the middle of the room. There were lumps of dough beneath damp towels. He whisked away the towels with one hand and plunged the other hand into the great mounds of dough. “Risen perfectly,” he said to himself, a distracted smile on his face. He divided the dough into perfect portions, his hands working so quickly Tamas could barely follow. Two loaves at a time were loaded onto the bread paddle and scooped into a waiting oven, until all the dough was gone.

When the last loaf was loaded in the oven, he immediately removed the first. It was golden brown, the crust crisp and flaky, though it had only been a minute or two since it went in. Tamas narrowed his eyes and began to count.

“That’s not my imagination,” Tamas said, leaning toward Olem.

“No,” Olem confirmed. “He put a quarter that many loaves into the oven.” Olem made the sign of the Rope, touching two fingers together and then to his forehead and his chest. “Kresimir above. Have you ever heard of sorcery that can create something out of nothing?”

“Never. But I’m seeing a lot of new things these days.”

Mihali finished removing the last of the loaves from the oven. He turned to Tamas and Olem. “Hassenbur has sent men for me,” Mihali said. “I would sooner flee to the far side of Fatrasta and cook for the savages than return to Hassenbur Asylum.”

Tamas pulled his eyes off the loaves. He looked at the cooked side of beef and the pot of stew that had been empty not ten minutes before. He nodded at Mihali’s words and moved away slowly, Olem at his side.

“A Knack,” Olem said. “That’s the only explanation. I’ve heard of Knacks stronger than any Privileged sorcery. His must have to do with food.”

“Third eye?” Tamas asked.

Olem nodded. “Just did. He has the glow of a Knacked.”

“Well, he’s no god,” Tamas said. “But he thinks he is. And that’s a powerful Knack. His food alone is responsible for half the army’s morale. Now what do I do with him?”