Promise of Blood

chapter 27



The office on the top floor of the House of Nobles seemed old and familiar to Tamas, though he’d occupied it for only a couple of months. It seemed like home, and he ran his fingers over the braided tassels at the edge of the sofa. His hands shook and he leaned heavily on a crutch. The room smelled of lemons. He wondered if it always had.

Olem watched him from the doorway. Knacked or not, it turned out Olem did need rest. His eyes fluttered like one who longs for sleep, and purple bruises had formed under them. His normally neatly trimmed beard was unruly, his hair a mess. On a regular day, Tamas might have chided him for lax regulation.

This was not a regular day.

I should tell him to get some rest. What was it Father used to tell me? “Rest is for the dead.”

“Yes, sir,” Olem said.

Tamas glanced at him. “Hmm?”

“You said, ‘Rest is for the dead,’” Olem said.

“You look like the dead.”

“Don’t look so good yourself, sir.” Olem struggled to put a smile on his face. Tamas could see worry in his eyes. “You should rest, sir,” Olem said. “It almost killed you getting up all those stairs.”

Olem had insisted on helping Tamas up every step, half carrying him at times.

“I don’t need a nurse,” Tamas said. “There’s work to be done.” He hobbled toward his desk, but halfway there he nearly fell.

Olem was at his side in a moment, a hand under his elbow. “Sit down, sir,” he said. “Doctor Petrik will be here any minute.” Olem helped Tamas onto the sofa.

“Bah,” Tamas said. He motioned to a chair. “Have a seat.”

“I think I’ll stand, sir.”

“Suit yourself.” Tamas couldn’t let Olem rest yet. He couldn’t let himself rest yet. “I need to know how things went in my absence. How many people know of my capture?”

“Word spread quickly,” Olem said. “I’m afraid I had other things on my mind. I sent for Sabon as soon as I got back to the hunt, and grabbed Hrusch.” He nodded to the hound, fast asleep in the corner. “Charlemund did his best to keep things quiet. I wouldn’t be surprised if his priestesses talked. I know Brigadier Sabastenien didn’t.”

“So everyone made it away from Nikslaus safely?”

Olem nodded. “I almost turned back when I heard the sorcery, sir,” he said. He refused to look Tamas in the eye. “If you need my stripes…”

“Shut up,” Tamas said. “I won’t take your stripes.”

“You gave me an order to see the others back to the hunt.”

“I thought you had.”

“Not quite, sir. I went on ahead, left the others to find their way back. I wouldn’t wait.”

“Had I been in your position, I wouldn’t have followed that order. I can’t fault a man for his instincts. Besides, you did your job. You did not turn back. Go on.” Tamas swallowed. He wanted nothing more than to lay his head back and fall asleep, but things needed to be done first. He fought back exhaustion, pain, and nausea.

“Word has spread of Ryze’s betrayal,” Olem said. “Lady Winceslav wants answers. Rumors are flying.”

“Put a stop to them,” he said.

“What?” Olem looked startled.

“It’s not true.” Tamas struggled to get to his feet. Ryze was a good man. Tamas wouldn’t let him take the blame for this. Olem put a hand on Tamas’s shoulder, gently restraining him.

Olem said, “I watched him take you off.”

“You found the bodies, didn’t you?” Tamas asked.

Olem slowly shook his head. “Blood, yes, but no bodies.”

“That sorcery you heard as you left—that wasn’t me fighting back. That was Ryze’s men holding off Duke Nikslaus so Ryze could warn me. Ryze was cooked alive.”

“Are you sure…?”

“Go to the pit,” Tamas growled. “Don’t patronize me. I haven’t gone mad in an afternoon.”

“If Ryze wanted to warn you, why did he go to all the trouble?” Olem said. “He could have just sent you a note or come to see you in person.”

Tamas rubbed his temples. “I don’t remember. I remember he was scared. Angry. Barat had something on him to keep him silent.”

“Brigadier Barat? You hit your head pretty hard, from the look of that bump.” Olem gave him a weak smile.

“Don’t be a fool.” Tamas struggled to get up again. His leg burned and he broke into a hot sweat. He gave up. “Send a missive to Lady Winceslav. Tell her Ryze is innocent of all accusations.” He paused. “Bring me Brigadiers Barat and Sabastenien.”

“I’ll send a man,” Olem said, heading for the door.

“No,” Tamas grunted. “Get them yourself. I don’t want either of them slipping away. Take a squad with you. And on second thought, don’t tell anyone about Ryze.”

“But if he’s innocent…”

Tamas closed his eyes. He’d need strength for what lay ahead. “I’ll deal with that later. Dismissed.”

“Right away, sir.”

As soon as Olem was out the door, Tamas let out a gasp of pain. His leg had stiffened up in just a few minutes. It throbbed when it didn’t hurt, and when the lances of pain worked their way up his leg each time he moved it, he wished he’d let it throb. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair.

Tamas forced himself to think. Why had Ryze faked his kidnapping just to tell him about Barat? Tamas wished he had Adamat’s gift.

His son!

“Olem!” he yelled. He waited a few moments. Olem didn’t return. He yelled again. A guard poked his head through the door. “What is it, sir?”

“Kema, is Olem gone?”

The soldier nodded. “Took off just a minute ago. Looked like he was going to give someone the pit of a time.”

“Hand me a pen and paper.”

Kema fetched a fountain pen and some stationery from Tamas’s desk and brought it over. Tamas sketched out a quick note. “Catch up with Olem. Have him do this before the other task.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kema was gone again in a moment, leaving Tamas alone, when his leg began to throb again. A finger of black powder and he’d feel no pain… if he could use it. He couldn’t even enter a powder trance with the gold star in his leg.

“Where’s Petrik, damn him?”

“Right here.” The doctor closed the door quietly behind him. He carried his medical bag in one hand, his coat over the other. He examined Tamas through a pair of spectacles.

“Pulled me away from a rather good game of bridge,” he said. He looked peeved, but he usually did. The man had been drummed out of most of his postings as a public and private doctor because he completely lacked a bedside manner. What he lacked, however, he made up for in brevity and skill.

“My apologies,” Tamas said. “I’ll just suffer more, if you’d like to return to it.”

Dr. Petrik paused. He shrugged, and turned back to the door.

“Have you no concept of sarcasm, you ancient bastard?”

Petrik gave Tamas a long, annoyed look and came to his side. He waddled like a man of twenty-five stone, though he was as thin as a rail. He sat down next to Tamas and removed his glasses. He examined Tamas’s face and head through a monocle.

“Some light scratches,” he said after a moment. “Nothing to be concerned about. Looks like you had a concussion.” He snapped his fingers in front of Tamas’s face, looked into each of his eyes. “You’re fine.” He took Tamas’s leg—none too gently—and lifted it into his lap. He removed the linen wrappings and gave it a clinical look.

“You’ve seen a doctor already,” he said. There was an edge to his voice.

“Yes,” Tamas said. “It was the physician with my captors. He’s the one who put the leg back together.”

“What did it look like before?”

“I don’t know. I was out for the whole thing.”

“Lucky. Looks like you shattered the whole leg. He did a good job, whoever he was,” he said grudgingly.

“I want you to take it apart.”

Petrik blinked up at him. “Say that again?”

“My leg. You need to take it apart.”

Petrik set the leg down gently. “You hit your head harder than I thought.”

Was that a hint of concern in Petrik’s voice? No, Tamas must have imagined it. “The surgeon inserted a gold sliver before he closed the wound.” Tamas paused, swallowed. Even saying it made him nauseous. “I can’t use my magery.”

Dr. Petrik returned his spectacles to his face. He took them off, then put them on again. He tucked one fist up under his chin, glaring at the leg. “You’re mad,” he said. “I won’t do it. If you leave it, a cyst will form. That should close the gold away from your bloodstream and let you use your powers again.”

“Do it,” Tamas said. “That’s an order.”

“You think that’ll help? If the shock doesn’t kill you, you’ll lose your leg. Which might kill you anyway. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“Nikslaus said the sliver was in the form of a star. Any time I move, it will tear the tissue, letting the gold touch my blood again. I can feel it in there, working its way around.”

Petrik hesitated.

“I appreciate your concern,” Tamas said.

“Concern?” Petrik said. “Yes, for myself. You know what your lackeys will do to me if you die during the procedure? I saw Olem on his way out of here. I’m not an idiot. You sent him away so he couldn’t protest, and Sabon isn’t back yet. They’d tear me apart.”

“Who’d tear you apart?”

Sabon stood in the doorway, paused in the midst of unbuttoning his jacket. The jacket was covered in powder stains, dirt, and burns. It looked like he’d been in a coal mine. He hung it on a peg in the corner. A single cut ran the length of his cheek, the blood already dry, and his hands were dirty and smudged.

“Did you catch him?” Tamas said.

Sabon shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

Tamas bit back a rebuke. Shit. “How’d he get away?”

“A well-rehearsed route,” Sabon said. “Into a warehouse with a false floor, and down into the sewers. Our men are scouring sewer exits, but I’ll be surprised if they find him. Vlora is still tracking him, but he could come out anywhere in Adopest. It’s as if he expected us to catch up with them.” Sabon made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. He stepped over and gave Tamas’s leg a look-over. “You’ve had better days,” he said.

“Right. I have.”

“Will he lose the leg?” Sabon asked Dr. Petrik.

The doctor ignored Tamas’s look of warning. “He might,” he said, “if he has me open it up, like he wants.”

“Why?” Sabon looked to Tamas for an explanation.

Tamas took a deep breath. “Nikslaus’s physician fixed the leg. Before he did, he inserted a golden sliver right up against the bone. It’s star-shaped, to prevent a cyst from forming.”

Sabon’s eyes widened. “The beast,” he snarled. “I’ll take off his hands when I catch him.”

Tamas couldn’t disagree with the sentiment. “If we ever catch him,” he said. “Petrik, I want the surgery.”

The doctor gave Sabon a long look.

“No,” Sabon said. “If you die, the whole campaign will be at risk.”

The campaign, Sabon had said. Tamas almost smiled. Sabon would never admit to being concerned.

“We just got you back,” Sabon said.

“I won’t go on without my magery,” Tamas said. “Petrik, what are the risks if I don’t have you take it out?”

The old doctor frowned. “If what you say is true, you’ll be in constant pain. You won’t sleep, and the exhaustion will keep your body from healing naturally.” He didn’t look happy. “We should take it out.”

Sabon looked from Tamas to the doctor, then sniffed. “Good luck,” he said, leaving the room.

“You wanted to see me?” Adamat shifted from one foot to the other and examined the row of surgical equipment laid out beside Tamas. Surgery had always made him nervous. Too many things could go wrong and it seemed like every year doctors were coming up with a new and painful way to kill you under the guise of medicine. It was an irrational thought and he knew it. The statistics supported the opposite. The ancient practice of bloodletting was becoming more unpopular, while recent ideas about sterilization had begun to spread in the medical field. Survival rates were higher than they’d been since the Time of Kresimir.

The field marshal sat on the edge of an operating table, an impromptu surgery set up in a side room in the House of Nobles. He wore nothing but a towel around his waist and Adamat was amazed at the number of old scars crisscrossing Tamas’s chest. Some were from swords, one that looked like a knife wound, and three pink, faded welts from bullet wounds. He had a bump on his head visible even under his graying hair, and his right leg was red and swollen. To one side, a doctor in a white coat examined his instruments with care.

So Tamas was alive, though the worse for wear. The gossip columns would kill to find out what happened over on Palo Street yesterday and where Tamas had been the two days prior. Adamat decided not to ask.

Tamas nodded. “Have you found my traitor?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Not to offer excuses, but I’m doing the work of twenty men.”

“We’re paying you well, are we not?”

“Not exactly, and pay doesn’t make the work go any faster. I have interviews and research to conduct and a great deal of traveling.”

“ ‘Not exactly’?”

“I’m investigating the reeve, sir. I’m not going to interrogate him and then ask for a check.”

Tamas snorted. “Olem, see that the good investigator gets paid.”

The bodyguard in the corner paused his pacing long enough to give a brisk nod.

“Surely you have suspicions?”

“Always,” Adamat said. “But no hard proof.”

“I have here a letter,” Tamas said, gesturing to his desk, “from my son Taniel. He is at Shouldercrown with the Mountainwatch, helping fend off the Kez attack. It seems he and Privileged Borbador are in agreement that a powerful sorceress has joined the Kez side and seeks to lead the Kez Cabal through the fortress and up to Kresim Kurga, where they will attempt to summon Kresimir.”

Adamat felt his mouth hanging open. “That’s absurd.”

“Quite,” Tamas said. “Men under siege can often lose perspective. What’s more, my son is not well.” Tamas did not elaborate on this. “Yet I am forced to make contingencies. The Kez may have developed a new weapon or…” He glanced out the window and grimaced. “This business about Kresimir’s Promise… did you find out anything else about it in your research? Anything to indicate that Kresimir needed to be summoned, or in what manner he would try to seek revenge for his dead king?”

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.