Promise of Blood

“Spent a lot of time under there, eh?”

“For certain. I was once an adolescent boy, after all.”

They passed through a series of identical arched storage rooms before they found a narrow flight of stairs leading up. The door rattled when Adamat tried it.

“SouSmith,” he said. He stepped back, letting the boxer squeeze past him. SouSmith braced his hands on either wall and kicked the door. The lock snapped and the door crashed inward, then fell off its hinges. They glanced at each other as the sound echoed through the building.

They left their lanterns beside the basement door and carried on cautiously. Adamat had his cane, SouSmith a pair of short-barreled pistols. They came out of a long corridor into the main floor of the Archives.

The building was as large as a parade ground and stacked four stories high. Shelving stretched from one wall to the next. Adamat headed down an aisle. Outside the brick walls, he could hear the sound of rifle and musket shots. The air was dusty, the smell of the books almost overwhelming—the scent of glue, paper, and old vellum, of age and mustiness.

“No one here,” SouSmith said.

Adamat glanced back. SouSmith was inspecting the shelves of books with something akin to suspicion. When a man solved his problems by punching them, books were often a foreign thing. “Not surprised,” Adamat said. “General Westeven has given large grants to at least a dozen libraries throughout the Nine, including this one. He won’t let it be touched.”

They came out of an aisle and found themselves in the middle of the library. A wide space, free of shelves, was filled with tables for the patrons. Light came from a skylight that went up all four stories directly through the center of the Archives. The tables were all clear.

Except for one. Adamat placed a finger to his lips and signaled for SouSmith to follow. A number of books had been laid out on a table in one corner. They were open, as if left there only moments ago. His frown deepened as they approached. The books were obviously missing pages, and whole paragraphs had been blotted from them. He flipped one of the books to the cover. In Service of the King.

Adamat drew his cane sword in one swift motion and spun around. He heard the click of SouSmith’s pistols.

A woman had stepped out between them. She wore a wool riding dress and jacket and had gray in her shoulder-length hair, and wise, dark eyes that reminded Adamat of a raven. She wore Privileged’s gloves and had a hand pointed at both himself and SouSmith. An artillery blast made the building tremble, kicking up dust from the shelves of books.

Adamat licked his lips. SouSmith’s eyes were wide, and his finger brushed at the trigger.

“You’ll get us both killed,” Adamat said to SouSmith.

“Don’t like this,” was the response.

“Neither do I. Who are you?” he asked the Privileged, though he already had some idea.

“My name is Rozalia,” she said.

“You’re the Privileged that Tamas is hunting.”

Her silence was enough of an answer for Adamat. His eyes darted to the books on the table.

“Are you going to kill us?”

“Only if I have to.”

Adamat slowly lowered his cane sword. He gestured to SouSmith to put away his pistols.

“You’re a Knacked,” Rozalia said.

“Yes.”

“Are you looking for me?”

“No.”

The Privileged looked confused. “Then why are you here?”

Adamat jerked his head toward the books. The Privileged still hadn’t lowered her gloved hands. It was making him nervous. He said, “Have you been removing those pages? Blotting those books? And taking the ones at the university?”

Rozalia slowly lowered her hands. “No,” she said.

“You didn’t take the books at the university?”

“I did take those. But I never ripped the pages out. She did.”

“Who?”

The Privileged did not answer.

“What are you doing with the ones you took?”

“The same as you, it seems,” she said. “Looking for answers.”

“Kresimir’s Promise,” Adamat breathed.

Rozalia scoffed. “Simple things,” she said. “There are more questions than you know.”

“All I care about is Kresimir’s Promise,” Adamat said. “What is it?”

She tilted her head to one side and regarded Adamat as a cat would a mouse. The sharp crack of rifles filled the silence, and a canon roared outside.

“I need a message delivered,” she said.

“What?”

“A message. One that needs to be delivered in person.”

“I’ll deliver your damned message. Tell me what the Promise is. Give me evidence.”

“I don’t trust you,” Rozalia said. “If you deliver my message, then I will tell you.” Her eyes darted suddenly as the thump of rifle butts on a door reached them. The Privileged made a hissing sound in the back of her throat. “Field Marshal Tamas is here. I must go. You won’t find the answer in any of these books. Only from me.”

Adamat calculated the chance he’d have of catching her unawares. A signal to SouSmith, a blow to the back of the head. They could hand her over to Tamas and let him get the answer out of her. Adamat saw that path ending with his death by Privileged sorcery.

“Who’s the message for?”