Promise of Blood

“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.”

Sabastenien positioned himself behind the curtain. A few moments passed, during which Tamas closed his eyes. His mind, though blocked off from the pain and weariness that would have rendered a man unconscious, still spun from the powder trance. Eyes open, he could see Olem out on the balcony, watching the birds fly in the sun over Elections Square. He could see stray fibers on Olem’s jacket, and when he concentrated, he thought he could even hear the beat of Sabastenien’s heart from where he hid behind the curtain. The young brigadier was calm.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” Tamas said. He straightened in his seat. Now was not a time to appear weak.

The door opened and Tamas caught a glimpse of Vlora waiting in the hall, hands resting on the butts of her pistols, as a pair of soldiers brought in Brigadier Barat. In contrast to Sabastenien, Barat was a tall man, taller than most. His features sharp, his brow severe, though with enough softness in the cheeks and eyes as to remain quite handsome. He was clean-shaven, and Tamas had heard soldiers say the man could not grow a beard if he wanted. Barat was twenty-six, and his father had been a wealthy viscount in the north before his death years before.

Tamas did not miss the look of confidence on Barat’s face, nor the sword still buckled to his belt.

“Please, sit,” Tamas said, indicating one of the chairs on the other side of his desk.

“I prefer to stand, thank you,” Brigadier Barat said. “I hope there’s a reason I was escorted here by your soldiers. Perhaps there’s been some misunderstanding.”