Promise of Blood

“Privileged Borbador,” Rozalia said. “The last remaining member of Manhouch’s royal cabal. He’s at Shouldercrown Fortress. Tell him that she will try to summon Kresimir.”

“That’s it?” Adamat said.

Rozalia gave a curt nod.

“And Kresimir’s Promise?”

She laughed. It was a sharp noise. “Ask Borbador. He’ll know.”

There were boots on the marble in the Archives’ main foyer. Rozalia turned and ran, vaulting a table like a woman half her age. She had just disappeared down a far aisle when soldiers appeared from the shelving aisles on the opposite side. They wore the colors of the Wings mercenaries and they pointed their rifles at Adamat and SouSmith.

Adamat raised his hands and sighed. “Tell Field Marshal Tamas that Inspector Adamat is here to see him.”

The mercenaries glanced at one another.

“Well?” Adamat said. “He’s nearby, isn’t he?”

One of the mercenaries headed back down an aisle. SouSmith glowered at Adamat.

“Not a word,” Adamat whispered. “If I’d known Tamas was going to take the Archives today, we wouldn’t have spent the last two days mucking through storm drains.”

“Bastard,” SouSmith said, glancing down at his sodden shoes.

“Inspector?” Field Marshal Tamas emerged from one of the shelving aisles. He carried a saw-handled dueling pistol, the powder on the barrel suggesting it had been used recently. “What the pit are you doing here?”

“Inspecting, sir,” Adamat said.

“Of course,” Tamas said distractedly, looking Adamat and SouSmith up and down, and sniffed. “Have you been in the sewer?”

“The storm drains.”

“Very resourceful.” Tamas glanced at the mercenaries behind him. “Stand down. Inspector Adamat is under my employ. Check the rest of the library.” The mercenaries headed off, and Tamas turned back to Adamat. “Have you solved my riddle, Inspector?”

“I have a lead, sir. Nothing definite yet. The books I’m looking for have come up defaced or entirely missing.”

“I expect you to do more than spend your days leafing through books.”

“That’s often exactly what investigating entails, sir,” Adamat huffed. “One follows any lead one can.”

“Very well. Carry on. Wait.”

Adamat paused.

“What do you know about the Black Street Barbers?”

Adamat summoned up his knowledge of them, thinking it over for a moment. “Their leader is a man named Teef. Among Adro’s underworld they’re considered the top assassins. They’ll take any job, is the rumor, as long as it pays well. At least a dozen Barbers have tried killing Adran kings over the last few hundred years, when the price has been right. None have succeeded, not with the royal cabal there to protect them. I’ve met Teef. He’s the… least mentally unbalanced of the crew. Frankly, the entire gang belongs in an insane asylum. I hope you’re not thinking of…”

Tamas nodded briskly. “Thank you.” He strode away.

“… employing them,” Adamat finished quietly.

Adamat retrieved his cane from where he’d dropped it when the mercenaries arrived. He glanced the way Rozalia had gone and pondered her cryptic message. “Time to go to Shouldercrown,” he said to SouSmith.

“Jakob!” Nila pushed past a royalist soldier and tripped over brick rubble that had spilled out into the street from the latest artillery blast. She lifted her skirt and was back on her feet, stumbling along as she shouted the boy’s name.

There was blood on her dress. The cannonball had whistled over her shoulder and taken the head off a man named Penn as they’d sat over a meager breakfast. She could still hear the sound in her head like a horrible kettle, instantaneous death passing inches from her ear. The cannonball had knocked a hole in the wall behind Penn, straight through Jakob’s room in one of the more intact buildings behind the barricades. Penn’s body still sat in his chair, shoulders slumped, one hand clutching a spoon. Jakob should have been in bed. He wasn’t.

Nila found one of Jakob’s Hielmen guards picking grit out of his uniform. His name was Bystre, and he was about thirty-five. A steadiness about him reminded her of the bearded sergeant back at Duke Eldaminse’s townhouse.

“Where’s Jakob?” she asked.

“He’s not in bed?” Bystre said.

“No.”

“Pit, he must have wandered again.”

A canister shot exploded overhead, sending everyone diving for cover. Nila found herself on the ground, beneath Bystre.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine. Find Jakob.”

He helped her to her feet and they ran through the street, calling Jakob’s name. Nila heard the crack of muskets and was struck by the choking smell of spent powder. Down the street was one of the barricades. Royalist soldiers and volunteers crouched behind it, shooting at unseen Adran soldiers on the other side.

The parley had been five days ago. Every day since, Field Marshal Tamas’s soldiers had pressed the attack. Cannon and musket fire resounded day and night. The air reeked of sulfurous black powder.

Someone shouted a warning. A moment later, blue uniforms swarmed over the top of the barricade like water bursting through a dam.