Promise of Blood

“I have an investigation to carry out,” Adamat said. “I will not be underfoot. The arch-diocel’s family will not be bothered.”

Siemone licked his lips. “It’s not that, sir, I… His Lordship is a very private man. I’m sorry, but you have to go now.”

Further arguing got Adamat no closer to even a tour of the grounds. When it became clear he was expected to leave immediately, Adamat brushed off the offer of a buggy from Siemone and strode briskly back to his carriage. He climbed in, more than ready to be gone from the villa, and shook SouSmith awake.

“How do you feel,” Adamat asked, “about investigating the arch-diocel’s villa grounds under the cover of night?”

SouSmith’s eyes widened. “Quick way into a pine box.”

“Indeed.” Adamat tapped his fingers on the coach window as they pulled away from the villa. “Still… we have work to do.”

Chapter 31

Tamas woke with a start. His clothes were soaked with sweat, his body almost too hot to breathe. He could see the sun through one of the windows; it was past ten in the morning.

“Sir,” Olem greeted him. The bodyguard stood over him. He held a bowl of porridge in one hand, a newspaper in the other. He’d had some rest, apparently, though Tamas didn’t know how if the man never slept. Olem’s eyes looked more lively, and the wrinkles on his face had smoothed out. He set breakfast down and helped Tamas to a sitting position. “Compliments of Mihali,” Olem said, setting the bowl on Tamas’s bedside table.

Tamas shook his head to clear the sleep from his brain. He felt foggy-headed and slow. Five days since his surgery, and Brigadier Barat’s death. Tamas’s damned leg hurt more every hour. It began to throb the moment he moved it.

“Would you like to read on the balcony?” Olem said. “Doctor Petrik said the air would do you good.”

Tamas considered the sunny weather through the window. He looked at his leg. Pain, or being stuck inside all day? “Fine.”

Olem helped him up and handed him his crutch, and they slowly made their way out onto the balcony. Olem headed back in for a chair while Tamas hobbled over to the railing. “Awfully loud today,” he murmured. He glanced over the edge. There were a lot of people in the square. A second look, and he realized the square was close to full. He hadn’t seen a crowd like this since the Elections.

“Olem!” He turned, startled when the bodyguard was right there.

“Sir?” Olem wore a self-satisfied smile, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and a chair in hand. Tamas didn’t like it at all.

“What the pit is this?” Tamas gestured down to the square.

Olem craned his neck. “Oh, yes. Mihali’s work.”

The square below was filled with dozens—no, hundreds—of tables, and chairs around each one. Every table was fully occupied, with countless more people still standing, waiting for their turn at a place to sit. More people stood in line; men, women, children. The line stretched down the Martyrs’ Avenue and around the corner. Tamas leaned out, though it hurt to do so, searching for the head of the line.

It was right below them. Long, rectangular tables—Tamas recognized them from the Hall of Lords—stretched the whole length of the building. The tables were covered in food. Mountains of bread. Vats of soup. Meat roasting on spits. More food than one would find at a king’s feast.

Tamas turned on Olem. “Wipe that smug look off your face and help me down the stairs.”

It took some time, but Tamas was able to hobble down to the front of the House of Nobles with Olem’s help. Tamas paused. The crowd had looked overwhelming from the top of the building. It looked twice the size from here. He paused, astonished, on the front step.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Tamas shuffled out of the way. A squad of soldiers moved past him, carrying a table from the Hall of Lords. They were followed by clerks bringing chairs and then a cook with a bowl of soup almost too big for her to carry. Everywhere he looked, people were either eating, waiting their turn, or helping. Accountants, soldiers, townsfolk, even sailors and dockworkers. It seemed as if everyone had been pressed into service.

“I trust you’re responsible for this?”

Tamas turned to find Ondraus. The reeve was furious. His spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, an old ledger clutched to his chest. His lip was curled up, and sweat poured from his brow. His face was red with shouting. “I can’t get anyone to go back to work! They say that Mihali asked for their help and then they just ignore me!”

Tamas didn’t know what to say. He searched the crowd, looking for the tall, fat figure of the master chef.

“Where is this food coming from?” Ondraus said. “Who is paying for it?” He lifted his ledger and smacked it with one hand. “There are no records! No receipts. Not a krana is out of place, yet this! I can’t understand it. You said he had a Knack for food, but this is ridiculous! Nothing is free, Tamas. There has to be a price!”