Promise of Blood

“He promised them that their lines would rule the Nine forever—that their seed would never bring forth barren fruit, as it were. Kresimir told his newly appointed Privileged that if anyone were to end one of those lines through violence, he would return personally and destroy the entire nation.” He leaned back when he’d finished speaking, like a schoolboy who had remembered his lesson. “What do you think of that?”

“I’m a man of reason…” Adamat said. Yet he couldn’t help the shiver that went up his spine.

“Of course you are,” Bo said. “Most men these days are. It’s a stupid legend. One of many stories to keep the royal cabals in their place. Kresimir’s reign was almost fourteen hundred years ago—at a guess. It could have been longer. Not even the kings really believe it, and only the very oldest members of the royal cabal do.” Bo reached up and touched something beneath his coat. “No, there are far more effective ways to keep tabs on the royal cabal.”

“What should I tell Tamas?” Adamat asked.

Bo shrugged. “Tell Tamas what you like. Tell Tamas to worry about important things, like feeding the people or”—he pointed out over the bastion wall toward Kez—“them.”

Adamat took a deep breath. He let it come out slowly. “So that’s it, then,” he said.

“That’s it. Though,” Bo added, “I don’t know why you couldn’t find that in the library. There are a dozen books that mention it.”

“Burned,” Adamat said. “Pages missing and passages snubbed out. By a Privileged, in all likelihood.”

Bo scowled. “Privileged should know better. Books are important. They link us to the past, to the future. Every written word gives us another hint about how to control the Else.”

“Bo!” a voice called from the bastion town.

He turned around.

“We’re going to the quarry!”

“Five minutes!” Bo yelled back. He removed his hands from his sleeves and flexed his gloved fingers. “Bastards are getting lazy,” he said. “They think just because they have a Privileged, they can get me to cut stone, fell trees, and clear avalanches. Cleaning up after that quake nearly wrung me out last week. Well, I’m sorry my answer wasn’t very dramatic. If you see Taniel Two-Shot, give him my hello.”

Bo was halfway back to the town when Adamat remembered the message he’d promised to give. He jogged to catch up with the Privileged.

“There was a message,” he said.

“From Taniel?”

“No, from a Privileged named Rozalia.”

Bo shrugged. “Don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Well, she told me to give you a message.”

“And?”

“These were her words: ‘She is going to summon Kresimir.’ I don’t know which ‘she’ the woman was talking about. I don’t think she meant herself. I…”

Bo had frozen in place. All color drained from his face. He stumbled to one side. Adamat caught him. “What does it mean?”

Bo pushed him away. The man’s teeth were chattering. “Pit and damnation. Get away! Go on, get back to Adopest. Tell Tamas to mobilize his army! Tell Taniel to get out of the country. Tell him… Shit!” The last word was a snarl, and Bo went sprinting across the bastion back toward the town.

Adamat stood in place, stunned.

SouSmith walked up beside him, tapping old tobacco out of his pipe. “He’s an odd one,” he mused.

“I don’t like this,” Tamas said.

“I don’t think anyone does, my friend.”

Tamas glanced back at Sabon. The Deliv stood beneath a large parasol, eyes on the distant barricades. Sweat beaded on his clean-shaved head like water on a cold glass. The day was unseasonably hot for this early in the spring. The sun shone overhead, drying up the last of a few weeks’ worth of damp weather.

“Will the men understand?” Tamas said.

“Ours, or the mercenaries?”

“Mercenaries are pragmatic. They’ll be paid either way. My own soldiers—will they lose faith in me after an act like this?”

Olem stood a few feet away. He turned to regard Tamas, though the question had not been directed at him.

“I think not,” Sabon said. “They may not like the feel of it. War is supposed to be a gentleman’s game, after all. They’ll understand, though. They will respect that you won’t throw lives away in a needless battle. They will respect that you don’t want to shell your own city.”

Tamas nodded slowly. “I’ve never resorted to assassination before. Not in twenty-five years of command.”

“I can remember a few times you should have,” Sabon said. “Remember that shah we fought in southeastern Gurla?”

“I try not to.” Tamas leaned over and spit. He lifted his canteen to his lips, still watching the barricades. He could hear musket shots and the occasional report of artillery from about two miles away, where Brigadier Ryze was commanding an assault on the armory. “I’ve met some bad men in my day,” Tamas said, thinking of the shah. “But that man was a monster. He’d have a man’s entire extended family buried alive if he questioned a command.”

“You had him gelded,” Sabon said.

Olem choked. He tossed his cigarette on the ground and began coughing smoke.