Promise of Blood

Adamat felt a shadow fall across his shoulders and sensed a man standing over him. He touched the cane leaning against his knee and set his tea on the iron café table. He watched the shadow for a moment, remembered the sound the fall of approaching boots had made on the cobbles, and moved his hand away from the cane.

“Field Marshal,” Adamat said without looking up.

Tamas tossed a newspaper down next to Adamat’s tea and took the seat opposite. He held up his hand for a waiter.

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Military boots, military step,” Adamat said, taking a sip of his tea. “I’ve not done work for anyone else in the military in ten years.”

“It could have been an aide, sent to find you.”

Adamat shrugged. “Each person has a particular cadence to their step. Yours is well defined.”

“Fascinating. I trust Ondraus gave you enough money to help with your debts?”

Adamat wasn’t surprised that Tamas knew he had debt problems. Adamat made a quick study of the field marshal; there were bruises on his face, a few cuts. It looked like he’d been in a fistfight. He looked tired, spent.

“Certainly,” Adamat said. Though not enough, he thought. If he received a dozen good jobs by the end of the month, he might be able to pay Lord Vetas. “I appreciate your generosity.”

“Well worth it.” Tamas spoke quietly, his neck craned to watch people passing in the street. He turned away from the street after a few moments of silence and drew an envelope from his jacket. He set it on the table, on top of the newspaper.

“I have another job for you,” he said.

Adamat did his best to conceal his eagerness. “Not the dying words of a sorcerer again, I hope?”

“Not yet.” Tamas thanked the waiter who brought him his tea. He drank it in one long sip, not seeming to notice the heat of it. When he finished, he removed a handful of coins from his pocket. He grunted in disgust at what he saw, then tossed a coin on the table.

“Find out who’s trying to kill me.”

He stood and left. Adamat looked down at the coin. It had a likeness of Tamas’s silhouette on the front.

Adamat took the envelope, tapping it against the tabletop. He flipped over the newspaper. The Adopest Daily. “the attempt on the life of field marshal tamas.”

He gazed at the envelope. He needed the work. Yet this was dangerous. It gave Lord Vetas every reason to come back, looking to blackmail Adamat into telling him about Tamas’s inner circle. It also put Adamat—and his family—in danger from the traitor. He’d planned on summoning Faye back to Adopest. That wouldn’t do now… not yet.

He opened the envelope. Within was a check for ten thousand krana. A small, folded bit of paper fell on the tabletop. He snatched it up before a breeze could blow it away.

“ ‘Six people other than me knew the location of the room in which the attempt was made on my life.’” A list of names followed, the names of Tamas’s council. Adamat wiped sweat from his brow as he read over the names a second time and wondered if ten thousand krana was enough. At the end of the note, there were simply two words: “Acquire protection.”

Adamat pushed the check and the note into his pocket and decided he’d released SouSmith from his employ a little too early.

Chapter 16

Sir, we’ve found out who Mihali is.”

Tamas looked up from his desk. For once, things were quiet. Not a Wings brigadier or a councillor or officer or secretary in sight. Olem was the first person Tamas had seen all morning, though he’d been stationed just outside the door.

“Mihali?”

Olem paused to light a cigarette. “The new chef.”

Tamas remembered the bowl of squash soup in the corner of his desk. It was regrettably empty. The stuff was as addictive as black powder. “Yes… Mihali,” Tamas said. “It took you long enough.”

“It’s been a distracting week.”

“That’s fair.”

“Mihali is the na-baron of Moaka,” Olem said. “He’s more commonly known by his professional title: Lord of the Golden Chefs.”

“And what does that mean?”

“The Golden Chefs is a culinary institute. The finest in the Nine. Graduates of their schools are coveted by the wealthiest families on four continents as private chefs. They cook for kings.”

“And their lord?”

“A man considered the greatest among peers each generation.”

“He’s in our kitchens, making lunch for three regiments?”

“Quite right, sir.”

“Why?” Tamas asked.

“It seems he’s hiding.”

Tamas stared at Olem. “Hiding?”

“He’s only recently escaped from Hassenbur Asylum.”

Tamas leaned back in his chair.

“What’s so funny, sir?” Olem asked.

Tamas chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Has he told anyone that he’s the god Adom reincarnated?”

“Yes, sir,” Olem said. “That’s why he was committed.”

“That explains a lot,” Tamas said. He glanced down at his work. There were requests on his desk from the Adopest Kennel Society, writs to be signed for Ricard Tumblar’s union, and a proposed tax on the Kresim Church. He shook his head. Nothing he wanted to deal with now. “Let’s go have a chat with our chef, then, shall we?”