Promise of Blood

Vetas left at a brisk pace. Nila couldn’t help but watch him go. Her heart hammered in her chest, her legs sagging beneath her. She’d never felt fear like this. Not before Olem had saved her from rape, not when she’d almost drowned as a child in the Adsea. That man was pure malice.

The dockworker shrugged and took Nila by one arm. He led her down the hallway and out a side door, toward a carriage waiting in the street. Even on the back side of the House of Nobles there was a crowd. Nila looked up at the dockworker. His grip was not painfully tight. She could kick him and get away, disappearing into the throng.

They drew closer to the carriage. Some dread in the pit of her stomach told her that if she set foot in that carriage, she would never escape Lord Vetas. She watched for an opportunity, her body tensed, her skirt gathered in one hand so that she could run.

“Miss Nila?” Jakob appeared in the door of the carriage. His hair was mussed, his jacket askew, but he seemed unhurt. “Miss Nila! I didn’t know you were here!”

Nila let her skirt fall from her hand. She took Jakob’s hand and stepped into the carriage. “Don’t worry,” Nila said. “I’ve come to take care of you.”

Chapter 36

Tamas leaned back in his chair, one leg up on a hassock, and watched Mihali’s feast draw what seemed like half the city for a late breakfast. The entire square was full, and the streets beyond overflowing with lines waiting their turn. Some of them watched jugglers while they waited, and thousands crowded around a raised platform near the middle of the square, eating porridge on their feet as a troupe of mummers performed a lewd comedy. This was the last day of the festival, and no expense had been spared for the entertainment of the masses.

A large parasol shaded Tamas from the midmorning sun. He sat on the front step of the House of Nobles, feeling better than he had for months, while he worked his way through a basket of rolls Mihali had left with him an hour ago.

“With your leg, you should be in bed,” Lady Winceslav said. “Are you sure you’re feeling well enough to be out?”

He looked her over once, noting her pallor, and wondered if he should ask the same.

“Of course, Lady. Never better.” Brave words, maybe, but the fact was his leg did feel better. He could almost feel it healing, his strength returning to him. He knew he had work to do, but damn it, none of it seemed to matter. For the first time since his wife’s death, he felt whole again.

Even Lady Winceslav seemed in better spirits. She’d braved the crowds despite her recent scandal with Brigadier Barat. She wasn’t directing the festival—that was all in Mihali’s hands now—but at least she was here.

“Do you think everyone will come?” she asked.

Tamas eyed the crowd. “I think the whole city is here, Lady.”

“I meant of the council.” She gave him a playful cuff on the arm.

“Ricard has been here since half past six,” Tamas said, “rolling out food and wine with the rest of his workers.” And under strict, but discreet, watch, until Adamat returned with evidence for or against his guilt. If the union boss knew anything about the attempt on Adamat’s life, he gave no sign.

“Has he?” She seemed surprised by this. “Incredible.”

“Ondraus is somewhere out there, yelling at his clerks,” Tamas said. “Olem says he saw the eunuch just an hour ago. Of Charlemund I haven’t seen hide or hair. And there”—he pointed—“is the vice-chancellor.”

Tamas watched Prime Lektor pick his way through the crowd. The birthmark spidering across his face looked darker than usual. The vice-chancellor eyed the food as he passed the serving tables, but he seemed to have something more important on his mind. He paused briefly at a stern look from Tamas’s bodyguards and then ducked under the parasol. He tipped his hat to Lady Winceslav.

“Seat?” Tamas asked, gesturing to one of the guards.

“Please,” Prime said. He observed the feast while waiting for a chair, and then took a seat next to Tamas. “You seem to be in unusually good spirits.”

“I do?” Tamas said. “I haven’t said two words.”

Prime cleared his throat. “I can sense it about you. It’s in the air. Like a first-year student who knows he’s going to be every professor’s favorite. It’s annoying.” Prime looked about again. He kept looking toward the serving tables and watching assistants bring out bowls and platters and everything else.

Tamas gave the vice-chancellor a sidelong glance. “Can’t you feel it?” he said. “It’s not just me. It’s the whole city. It’s… this.” He gestured to the feast, the tens of thousands gorging themselves on Mihali’s food without a care in the world. “The wealthy and the poor, the noble and the ignoble rubbing shoulders. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Prime gave the feast a long-suffering once-over. “You don’t believe this rubbish, do you?” he said. “About this chef being a god?” His eyes lingered on a pot of porridge.