The old wolfhound lay on the corner of a rug. Hrusch emerged from his hiding place behind a divan and approached Pitlaugh, whining lightly, nuzzling him. Pitlaugh’s back was twisted sharply, his rear legs sticking off at an odd angle. He opened his eyes as Tamas gazed upon him, looking up pitifully.
“You did well, boy,” Tamas said softly. He stepped toward the door, then stopped when Pitlaugh tried to follow, dragging his legs behind him, whining loudly. Tamas felt his eyes burn.
It took him some time to reach the upper levels of the House of Nobles carrying Pitlaugh. Tamas found Dr. Petrik playing cards with some officers on the second floor. They stared at him as he entered the room, covered in blood, the wolfhound in his arms, Hrusch close on his heels.
Some time later Pitlaugh lay stretched out on a sofa. Petrik examined him while dozens of soldiers crowded the doorway, trying to see inside the room. A few loud curses made them move out of the way, then Olem appeared. He froze when he saw Tamas. Olem’s face was red, his eyes wide.
“Sir,” Olem said. His hands shook as he reached out to touch Tamas, as if making sure he was still alive. He wouldn’t look into Tamas’s eyes. “I’ve failed you,” he said.
“It’s not your fault,” Tamas said. “You couldn’t have known. I slipped off.”
“I should have been there.” Olem’s gaze fell on Pitlaugh. “I’m sorry, sir. By Kresimir, I…”
“You never failed,” Tamas said firmly. “You weren’t even there. Now I need you close by. Get messengers. I want every member of the council here within the hour. I don’t give a damn if they have to sprout wings to do it. Go. I want them to meet me in the room beneath the House of Nobles.”
Dr. Petrik approached. “There’s nothing I can do for him. Not even a skilled veterinarian could help him now.”
“Of course. Thank you, Doctor.”
Tamas took a pistol from Olem and went to the dog’s side. He ran his fingers gently between Pitlaugh’s eyes. “It’s all right, boy. Have peace.”
He felt something jolt inside him when the shot rang through the room. He knelt by Pitlaugh’s side for a few minutes, ignoring the commotion of guards checking on the pistol shot.
Tamas got to his feet and picked out a soldier at random. “Find me a hammer and spikes. Now.”
In the room below the House of Nobles, Tamas waited. He stared at the Warden’s broken body. These things were strong and difficult to kill, but the Kez had to know that Tamas could deal with one. It was only bad luck he’d not had powder on him when he was attacked. What was the purpose? To sow distrust? To bring chaos into Tamas’s inner circle?
If that was their aim, they’d succeeded.
His council came in, one by one, and he directed them to chairs on one side of the room, ignoring protests and questions until every one of them had arrived. He stood before them, hands folded, still in his blood-covered shirt. The Warden hung from the wall behind him by a spike in one wrist, crimson drops falling from his body to splatter on the stones below.
“One of you has betrayed me,” Tamas said. “I will find out who.”
He left them there to contemplate the Warden’s corpse.
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 s
o 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?”
Olem followed him out into the hall. “Do you think that’s wise, sir?”
“Is he dangerous?” Tamas asked.
“Not as far as I can tell. The men love him. They’ve never had someone cook like this for them before. Makes all the other army rations taste like shit.”
“What’s he making? Squash soup?”
Olem laughed. “Remember what you had for lunch yesterday?”
“Of course I do,” Tamas said. “It was a bloody nine-course meal. Candied eel, stuffed dormouse, braised beef, a salad big enough to feed an ox… I’ve eaten that well only once before in my life and it was at one of Manhouch’s parties.”
“That was normal ration, sir.”
Olem bumped into him when Tamas came to a complete stop. “You mean everyone is eating that well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The whole damned brigade?”
Olem nodded.
“He must be blowing through the entire year’s ration budget.” Tamas resumed walking, feeling some urgency in his step. “Ondraus is going to shit a paving stone.”
Olem caught up. “On the contrary, sir. I asked a secretary. It seems he’s not even touched the main fund.”
“Then how is he paying for all that food?”
Olem shrugged.
One kitchen served the entirety of the House of Nobles. It was located just beneath the main floor so that windows high up one of the walls could provide light during the day, and was nearly as long as the House was wide. Along one side of the kitchen ran dozens of ovens with flues that disappeared into the ceiling and enough cooking space to prepare food for the thousands of secretaries and nobles that would normally have filled the building. The middle of the floor contained broad, low tables to prepare recipes and to ready ingredients, and the other side contained hutches and cupboards by the score with measuring instruments, spices, and other ingredients. Sausages, herbs, vegetables, and more hung from the ceiling.
Tamas patted his forehead with a handkerchief the moment he entered the room. The heat nearly sent him retreating out into the hall. He blinked a few times and held his ground, partially urged on by the myriad of smells: scents of cocoa and cinnamon and of breads and meats. His mouth began to water.
“Are you all right, sir?” Olem asked.
Tamas shot him a look.
The room bustled with dozens of assistants. They all wore a variation of the same uniform: a white apron over black pants, and some kind of hat upon their head. Some of them seemed to be able to afford to acquire better quality, while others looked to have scrounged their outfits from the street. Tamas did notice that no matter how frayed, all the clothing was clean. He noticed another thing: Every one of the assistants was a woman. They varied in age and beauty and all worked with utmost concentration. None seemed to notice Tamas’s presence.
The chef himself paced among his assistants. Tamas recognized him immediately as the man who’d appeared at his headquarters the day of the earthquake. As Tamas watched, Mihali stopped to say something to one of his assistants and then immediately moved on to the next, adding a dash of this spice to that dish and gently grabbing the arm of an assistant before too much flour could be added to a dough. He had set the women up in workstations, and he danced between them with the skill of a line commander, issuing orders and making changes to the recipes as he went, always seeming to have an eye on everything at once.
Mihali caught sight of Tamas and smiled. He headed toward the door, only to stop halfway there at a counter of meats and help a hefty-sized woman with her aim at the cleaver. He lopped off a dozen ribs of beef with the precision of a headsman and then nodded to the woman, handing back the cleaver. He whispered something reassuring and made his way over to Tamas.
“Good afternoon, Field Marshal,” Mihali said. “Been a busy couple of weeks since we met.”
Olem gave Tamas a curious look at this.
Mihali went on, “I’ll tell you, I’d work twice as fast if I wasn’t training a whole batch of new assistants.” He removed his hat and dragged a sleeve across his forehead, staining the cloth with sweat, before wiping his hands on his apron. A look of worry crossed his face. “Lunch will be a few minutes late, I’m afraid.”
Tamas glanced across the room. So much was going on that it was impossible to tell what was actually being prepared. He’d been ready to come down here asking questions. He wanted to get to the bottom of this “mad chef” business. Yet his words died on his tongue.
“I doubt anyone will complain,” Tamas managed. His stomach rumbled suddenly. “What’s for lunch?”
“Blackened salamander with curry and a light vegetable pie,” Mihali said. “We’re having wine-glazed beef back for dinner tonight, and I thought I’d serve a spiced wine with it. Main courses only. There will be plenty of other things to choose from.”
“To everyone in the House?”
“Of course.” Mihali’s eyes went wide, as if Tamas had suggested something idiotic. “Do you think a secretary deserves to eat any less well than a field marshal, or a soldier than an accountant?”
“My apologies,” Tamas said. He shared a glance with Olem, trying to remember why he came down.
“Please, Field Marshal, walk with me.” Mihali hurried away without waiting for an answer. When Tamas caught up, Mihali was adjusting the heat beneath a vat of soup by changing the airflow in the stove beneath it. He dipped one finger in the soup and popped it in his mouth, before producing a knife and a clove of garlic from his apron, deftly slicing a measure into the vat.
“I heard about the attempt on your life,” Mihali said.
Tamas stopped. He realized the pain of his wounds, the ache of the stitches on his chest, had faded to nothing when he entered the kitchen. They were a distant throb, as if from outside a powder trance.
Mihali had a note of sadness to his voice. “I do not agree with what the sorcerers do to those Wardens. It’s unnatural. I’m glad you survived.”
“Thank you,” Tamas said slowly. His suspicions that Mihali was a spy were slowly fading. His reputation and skills as a chef couldn’t be faked.
“Mihali,” Tamas said, “I came to ask you about the asylum.”
Mihali froze, a forkful of vegetable pie halfway to his mouth. He finished the bite off quickly. “More pepper,” he told an assistant, “and add a dozen more potatoes to the next batch.” He hurried on to the next station, forcing Tamas to catch up.
“Yes,” he said when Tamas was alongside him again, “I escaped from Hassenbur. It was a vile place.”
“How did you escape?”
They had reached a portion of the kitchens where there weren’t any assistants. In fact, it was as if an invisible curtain had been drawn across it. The heat and steam had lessened, and the noise had become muffled. Tamas glanced over his shoulder to be sure that they were still in the same room. Behind him, the flurry of activity continued.
“They gave me access to the kitchens when I wasn’t being treated.” Mihali shivered at a memory. “And though they said I was cooking for the asylum, I soon found out they were sending my meals to the manor homes of nearby nobles and selling my services for quite a bit of money. I baked myself into a cake and had my assistants send me to the next manor over.”
“You’re joking,” Olem said. He rolled an unlit cigarette around between his lips and eyed a stove.
Mihali shrugged. “It was a very
big cake.”
Tamas waited for him to say something else, perhaps his real method of escape, but Mihali remained quiet. This section of the kitchen, nearly half of the space of the whole, contained just as many cookpots and fired ovens as the other, but as Mihali moved from one dish to the next, it was clear he was the only one attending these. Mihali reached above his head and pulled down an enormous pot from its hook. It looked to weigh as much as Tamas, but Mihali handled it with ease, maneuvering it down onto a stove. He opened the fire chamber beneath the stove, checking the heat, before moving on to an open spit in the corner.
Tamas followed him across the room. He paused beside the pot Mihali had just pulled down—steam rose from it. He stepped forward and blinked. The pot was full to the brim with a thick stew of potatoes, carrots, corn, and beef.
“Wasn’t that empty a moment ago?” Tamas asked Olem quietly.
Olem frowned. “It was.”
They both looked about for the pot Mihali had just pulled down, but all the pots on this side of the kitchen were full and cooking. Tamas felt less hungry somehow, and more uneasy. Mihali was still at the spit. A whole side of beef roasted above the flames. Mihali lifted a small bowl and began pouring some kind of dressing over the meat. Tamas found his stomach growling again, his uneasiness gone with the advent of new smells.
“Mihali, have you told other people that you are the god Adom reincarnated?” Tamas examined Mihali’s face intently, looking for signs of madness. There was no question that Mihali was a maestro of the kitchens. Tamas had heard that every genius was equal parts madness. He tried to remember his childhood theology lessons. Adom was the patron saint of Adro. The church called him Kresimir’s brother, but not a god like Kresimir.
Mihali poked the side of beef with the tip of his knife and watched grease bubble to the surface and run down the meat, sizzling on the coals below. His frown slowly returned. “My relatives had me committed,” he said quietly. “My brothers and cousins. I’m a bastard son—my mother was a Rosvelean beauty whom my father loved more than his wife, and my brothers have therefore hated me since I was a boy. Father protected me and fostered my talents. Against custom, he made me his heir.” He prodded the side of beef once more. “My brothers sent me to the asylum the day he died. I wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral. My claims to be the god Adom were only an excuse.”