Promise of Blood

The Privileged stepped up onto the dock and straightened his jacket. He laughed at something one of his delegation said and headed toward Tamas, alone.

Tamas gripped his hands behind his back to keep them from shaking. He felt his heart thunder in his ears, his vision grow red in the corner of his eyes. He shrugged Sabon’s hand from his shoulder.

Nikslaus.

Duke Nikslaus was a small man, with the delicate hands of a Privileged and an overly large head that looked to wobble on his small frame. He wore a short, furred cap and a black, buttonless coat. His stopped a foot from Tamas and extended one hand, a smirk at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s been so long, Tamas,” he said.

Tamas’s fingers tightened around the duke’s throat before he could even think. Nikslaus’s eyes bulged, his mouth opening silently. Tamas lifted him, one-handed, from the dock planks. Nikslaus raised his hands, plucking at the air. Tamas slapped them away before sorcery could be unleashed. He was vaguely aware of Wardens running toward him, of his own bodyguard approaching hastily from behind, and of the cocking sound of Sabon’s pistol. He shook Nikslaus hard.

“Is this what Ipille sends to negotiate?” Tamas demanded. “Is this their white flag? I told you if you ever stepped foot in my country again, I would nail you to the spire of Sabletooth by your hands.”

“War,” Nikslaus wheezed.

Tamas lightened his grip.

Nikslaus gasped. “You risk war!”

“You dare come here?” Tamas said. “Ipille has declared war. He sent his snake.” He threw Nikslaus to the dock. The duke squirmed along the planks, crawling backward, his hands working silently. Tamas pointed at him. “You try one thing and my Marked will gun you down.”

“How dare you?” Nikslaus said. “This was in good faith!”

“Eat your good faith, worm! Get out of my country. Tell Ipille to wipe his ass with the Accords.”

“This is war!” Nikslaus shrieked.

“War!” Tamas pulled a handful of powder charges from his pocket, crushing them in his hand. He ignited the powder as it fell, directed the energy. The dock boards beneath Nikslaus exploded upward, throwing the duke into the air and head over heels into the water. The Wardens leapt in after him, and Tamas spun around, ignoring Nikslaus’s sputtering cries for help.

“What the pit was that?” the arch-diocel demanded.

Tamas stiff-armed him, throwing him to the ground. The rest of the council stood aghast. He felt their stares on his back as he made his way up the beach to the lighthouse. His ears, tuned from the powder trance, picked up Sabon’s voice.

“Go easy on him,” Sabon told the council. “That was the man who beheaded his wife.”

Adamat pounded on the front doors of the Public Archives for twenty minutes until he heard the sound of bolts being drawn back. One of the big doors opened and the lantern-lit face of a young woman stared back at him.

“Library’s closed.” The door began to shut.

Adamat put his foot in the door.

“It’s three o’clock in the morning,” the woman said.

“I need access to the Archives.”

“Too bad. We’re closed.” She pushed the door open a little farther and then jerked back until it crunched on Adamat’s foot.

“Ow. SouSmith, if you please.”

SouSmith leaned against the door. The woman stumbled backward, lantern swinging.

“I’ll call the guards!” she said as Adamat stepped inside. He motioned SouSmith in and closed the door.

“Don’t bother,” Adamat said. “I’ve got a writ from Field Marshal Tamas.” He didn’t, but she didn’t know that. “I only need to do some research and I’ll be gone before you open in the morning.”

“A writ? Let me see it.”

Not for the first time in his investigation, Adamat felt a keen sense of loss that he’d had to send Faye away. She had many friends and would have gotten him into the Archives no matter the hour. Instead he was reduced to bullying his way in.

Adamat peered at the woman. She was not what most people expected in a librarian. Her hair was down, curly and gold, and she was very young. Almost too young. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen. “Who are you?” he asked.

She drew herself up like one who was used to having to justify her authority. “The night librarian! I tend the shelves and carry out research.”

“Yes, well, miss, do you understand where the funding comes from for the Public Archives?”

“The king… oh. Grants from the nobili—oh.”

“And do you think Field Marshal Tamas will be pleased about one of his agents being turned away from research on which may rest the safety of the state? Do you think he’ll stand up for funding for the Public Archives when his agent was so poorly treated? Funding that may end up going to another library, say, to the Adopest University Library, which I know for a fact I’d have access to right now except that it’s very far out of my way.”

Employees given the night shift were often easily talked around. They tended not to be too bright. This one followed Adamat’s every word. He could tell by her eyes. He was just lucky the argument made some sense.

“All right,” she said. “But only for a few minutes.”