Nila leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “My lord took me to bed twice a day since I was eleven,” she said, injecting as much venom as she could into her voice. “I spit on his head when it dropped.”
“I see.” The quartermaster chewed on the end of his pen. “You’ve got fire. Something tells me you can handle yourself. Still, I’ll put you working for the officers. Safer with them. Usually. Can you sew? I think the field marshal needs a seamstress.”
“That would be perfect,” Nila said, smiling the first real smile she’d had in weeks.
Chapter 21
Tamas awoke to the sound of his own labored gasps. He sat up, leaning on his elbows, struggling to breathe. It felt like a millstone sat upon his chest. He kicked away the blankets that were wrapped around his feet and sat up, leaning over the edge of his bed.
He slept in his office on the top floor of the House of Nobles these days, forsaking the thick cushions of the royal sofa for a simple but comfortable soldier’s cot set up in the corner of the room. The cot, heavy-duty canvas, was soaked through with his sweat, as were his bedclothes and hair. He wrapped his arms about himself, suddenly shivering as his sweat began to cool. The clock, visible by bright moonlight, said it was half past three in the morning.
His dreams came back to him, like memories of long years ago, broken and blurry. His hands shook when he thought of them, and it wasn’t from the cold. Men died in his dreams—soldiers he’d known his whole life, friends and acquaintances, even enemies. Everyone he’d ever known. They lined the rim of South Pike Mountain and one by one they leapt into a fiery cauldron. Taniel was there too, though his fate was obscured. He shuddered. Where was Vlora in those dreams? He’d seen Sabon leap into that volcano, but where was Olem?
Tamas took a shaky breath. He made his way to the balcony window and stood for a moment, watching the full moon. The night sky was empty except for a single ribbon of cloud that formed a perfect circle around the moon. God’s eye. Tamas began to shiver again, violently, until the shivers turned to shudders. He gripped the wall with both hands until it passed.
He heard a familiar whine and looked down. “Hrusch,” he said to the hound. “I’m all right. Where’s Pitlau—” He stopped, the name disappearing in an involuntary cough. “Right. Sorry, boy.” He bent, offering the hound his hand. “I’ll take you on a hunt soon. Get your mind off things.”
Tamas found his slippers and ran fingers through his hair. He donned his dressing gown and opened the door to the hallway, blinking against the light. Olem stirred in a chair beside the door. Across from him, Vlora slept in another chair, leaning on her rifle, snoring softly. Farther down the hall a pair of guards waited beneath the lamplight. His commanders had doubled the guard after the Warden’s assassination attempt.
“Sir,” Olem said. He stubbed out a cigarette on the arm of his chair.
“Don’t you ever sleep?”
“No, sir. That’s why you hired me.”
“It was a joke, Olem.”
“I gathered.”
“Things quiet?” Tamas asked.
“Very, sir. Not a peep in the place.” Olem’s voice was quiet, subdued.
Tamas nodded at Vlora. “What’s she doing here?”
“Worried about you, sir.”
Tamas sighed.
“Are you OK, sir?”
Tamas gave a nod. “Bad dreams.”
“My grandmammie used to say bad dreams were bad omens,” Olem said.
Tamas glared at the soldier. “Thanks, that makes me feel much better. I’m going to get something to eat.” He shuffled down the hall.
Olem gave him some space, trailing along at ten paces all the way down the stairs. The trip six floors down to the kitchens seemed much longer in dark corridors, and Tamas had to admit that Olem was some comfort when shadows in doorways played upon his imagination, reaching for him from the darkness. He jumped once, thinking he saw the hunkering figure of a Warden waiting in a corner. Closer inspection revealed a coal-burning stove.
Tamas had hoped to find in the kitchens some scraps from last night’s dinner and be back up in his room in minutes, yet when he approached the kitchen, he saw the low glow of ovens and smelled fresh bread. His mouth began to water—a sure sign he was near Mihali’s cooking. He stepped into the room, pausing at a sight he didn’t expect.
Two women stood at one of the stoves. They worked over an enormous pan, as big as a wagon wheel, cracking eggs and tossing the shells to the side. Mihali stood just behind them—just behind them, his body pressed close to theirs, an arm on either side of the two women, hands moving nimbly above the pan. He added a dash of salt, then one hand dipped down, eliciting a startled giggle from one of the women before appearing again with his knife and a whole green pepper, nimbly slicing it into the pot.
Tamas cleared his throat. The two girls jumped, eyes growing wide at the sight of Tamas. Mihali stepped away from them, moving smoothly despite his girth, and grinned.
“Field Marshal!” he said. He wiped his hands on his apron and patted each girl on the cheek, then headed over to Tamas. “You look like you haven’t had a good night.”
“You look like you have,” Tamas said. “I’ve seen it all now: seduction by way of omelet.”
It was hard to tell in such poor light, but Mihali seemed to turn red in the face. “Simply early-morning lessons, Field Marshal,” he said. “Bellony and Tasha are the most promising of my pupils. They deserve extra attention.”
“Pupils?” Tamas asked. “I thought they were assistants.”
“Every assistant is a pupil. If they don’t learn, what good are they? Every master must be prepared to be bettered, as my father was before me. Someone will create more amazing dishes than I someday. Perhaps it will be one of these two.”
“I have doubts about that,” Tamas said. He glanced toward the two women. One was older, perhaps in her thirties, a handsome-faced woman with a body rounded in all the right places. The other was young and slightly plump with dimples on her cheeks. They watched Mihali more than they watched their pan, with expressions Tamas only saw on two types of people: young lovers and religious sycophants. Tamas wondered which they were.
“You are not sleeping well?” Mihali asked.
Tamas shrugged. “Bad dreams.”
“Bad omens, more like.”
Olem’s soft voice came from the doorway. “I told him.”
Mihali gave Tamas a critical look-over. “Warm milk.”
“That’s never worked for me,” Tamas said. “Do you ever sleep? It’s three in the morning.”
“Three forty-five,” Mihali said, though there were no clocks in the kitchen. “I’ve needed little sleep since I was a boy. Papa told me it was because of the god’s touch in me.”
“Your father believed you?” Tamas asked. “I don’t mean to be rude. You’d said before that he told you to keep quiet about being Adom reborn.”
“No offense taken.” Mihali edged over to an empty table and began to produce a number of small, clay spice bottles from his apron pockets. There were no labels, but he set them down in a very specific order on the table. “He believed me. He just knew of the problems I’d face if it became public knowledge.”
“And now?” Tamas said. “You’ve told me, and I think word is spreading about your claims.” He glanced at the two women. Which was it? Religious adoration, or love? Or both? They still watched Mihali, until one of them noticed that the omelet was smoking and turned around with a cry of dismay.
A smile played upon Mihali’s lips. He produced a mortar and pestle and began to grind herbs together. “My claims?” Mihali said. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“I… don’t know,” Tamas said. “It’s a lot to swallow. I’ve seen what you do with food—how you can make it appear. I’ve never heard of any sorcery like that. And I’ve seen the glow of the Knack around you.”
Mihali seemed startled by this. “You noticed?”
“Yes, well, you did it right in f
ront of Olem and me.”
“Oh. No one is supposed to notice that. I usually pay better attention. Papa told me to hide it when I was a boy. Said the royal cabals or the Church would come for me if they found out.”
Tamas examined Mihali’s face for any sign of a lie. Mihali was concentrating on his work, combining herbs until he was satisfied with the result. He produced a dark powder and added it to the mixture. “Tasha,” he said. “Warm some goat’s milk, please.”
“I thought you were doing it on purpose,” Tamas said slowly. “Perhaps to convince us of your… godhood.”
Mihali gave him a shy smile. “I’ve never been a flashy god,” he said. “I leave that to Kresimir.”
“You’ve also been serving dishes very foreign to Adro,” Tamas said. “We don’t have eels in the Adsea, for instance. You use expensive spices like they were simply flour or water. I served in Gurla for a time. I know what these things can cost, and I know Ondraus doesn’t approve this kind of money for food. Is that your Knack? Producing food from thin air?”
Mihali scratched his thin mustache. “Yes, I’ve been kind of obvious, haven’t I? Should I… hide myself?”
“Maybe,” Tamas said. Mihali had the Knack, no doubt. Tamas might need his powers someday. Did he humor the madman chef? “Remain quiet, I think. As a precaution.”
“May I ask you what your dreams were about?”
“I remembered them when I first awoke,” Tamas said. “But now they’re fleeting. I think everyone I knew—no, not everyone, but most of the people I knew stood on the rim of South Pike and jumped into the mountain. My son was there too, though I don’t know what happened to him and…” He stopped, a memory coming back to him. “Someone stood on the rim with us. Someone I’d never seen before. His eyes were like fire, his hair like gold tinsel. He was urging everyone to jump in, and he held a knife to Taniel’s throat.”
“Can I tell you something?” Mihali said softly.
Tamas took a step closer to hear him better. “Certainly.”
Mihali took a cup from one of the women. “Thank you, Tasha,” he said. “I’ve been listening to the city.” Mihali added his mixture of herbs to the warm milk and stirred it with one thick finger. He handed it to Tamas. Almost absently, Tamas took a sip. His eyes widened. He’d had Fatrastan chocolate once or twice. It was too bitter. This had a similar taste, but sweeter, and with a hot, peppery bite. Spice burned his tongue and herbs soothed it, and it rushed warmly down his throat like the finest of brandy. He tilted the cup back, draining the last drop.
Mihali said, “There is danger and betrayal everywhere. Adopest is a bubbling cauldron, and the temperature must be lowered or it will boil over. Before Kresimir comes. I think… I think I need to prepare a welcome for my brother. Good night, Field Marshal.”
Tamas glanced down as Mihali took the mug from him. He heard Mihali say, as if from a distance, “You’ll need to carry him up to bed. He shouldn’t have any problem sleeping now.”
“Adamat, my old friend!”
Ricard Tumblar stood in the doorway to a small office, arms spread wide. The years had changed Ricard since Adamat had last seen him. His full head of curly brown hair had retreated halfway across his scalp and was touched with wisps of gray. He wore his beard long in the fashion of Fatrastan settlers. His expensive suit of camel hair was rumpled as if it had been slept in, and his cravat was askew. Adamat embraced his old friend.
“It’s good to see you, Ricard,” Adamat said.
Ricard grinned ear to ear. He took Adamat by the shoulders, looking him in the face like a long-lost brother. “How have you been?”
“Well enough,” Adamat said. “Yourself?”
“I certainly can’t complain. Please, sit.” He led Adamat into the office. It was a jumbled mess of books, half-empty bottles of brandy, and dirty plates of food. Ricard swept a pile of newspapers off a chair and went around behind his desk. He slid open a window with a grunt.
“Coel!” he shouted out the window. “Coel, bring us some wine. A bottle of the Pinny! Two glasses—no, better make it two bottles.”
He slid the window shut behind him, but not before the small room filled with the smell of dead fish and the brackish water of the Adsea. Ricard wrinkled his nose and produced a match from his breast pocket, lighting the half-burned butt of incense on a shelf above his desk. “I can’t abide that smell,” he said. “It’s everywhere down here, and we’re a half mile from the docks. But”—he shrugged—“what can I do? I have to be near where the action is.”
“I’ve heard great things about your progress with the union,” Adamat said. Not long after they graduated school, Ricard had started his first trade union. It had failed, as well as half a dozen others, perhaps because of the lack of manpower or because the police had been called in to shut him down. Ricard had been jailed five times. But persistence paid off, and five years ago Manhouch legalized the first trade union in the Nine.
Ricard’s smile grew wider, if possible. “The Noble Warriors of Labor. We’ve opened three chapter houses since the Elections, and we’re in talks with city councils to open six more by the end of the year. We’ve over a hundred thousand members, and my number crunchers tell me that is just the beginning. We could have a million members in another few years, maybe more. We’ve unionized metallurgy, coal coking, mining—all of Adro’s biggest industries.”
“Not all of them,” Adamat said. “I hear Hrusch Avenue is giving you problems.”
Ricard snorted. “Damned gunsmiths don’t want to unionize.”
“Can’t blame them,” Adamat said. “They already produce half the weapons used in all the Nine. They’re not worried about competition.”
“And it’d be the whole world if they unionized! Organization is key. Bah,” Ricard said. “What we’re really excited about is the canal going over the Charwood Pile and through Deliv. When that’s finished, we’ll have a direct route to the ocean from Adro, and there will be no limit on our production capabilities. Adro will finally have a shipping lane to the ocean.” He suddenly made a face. “But dear me, it’s rude to talk about my fortunes like this…” Ricard trailed off awkwardly.
Adamat waved dismissively. “You speak of my failed business? Think nothing of it. It was a gamble to begin with, and I bet the wrong way. I could blame it on the price of paper, or the stalwart competition…”
“Or the exploding printing press.”
“Or that,” Adamat said. “But I’ve still got my family and my friends, so I’m a rich man.”
“How is Faye?” Ricard asked.
“Quite well,” Adamat said. “She’s staying out in the country until things have stabilized a little more here in the capital. I’ve been thinking of having her remain until the war’s over, in fact.”
Ricard nodded. “War is the pit.”
A young man with scrawny arms and old, cast-off clothing entered the room with a bottle of wine and a pair of crystal wineglasses.
“I said two, damn you!” Ricard said.
The young man seemed unperturbed by Ricard’s shouting. “There was only one left.” He let the platter drop on Ricard’s desk with a clang and beat a hasty retreat, dodging a cuff from Ricard’s fist.
“Impossible to find good help,” Ricard said, steadying the wobbling bottle of wine.
“Indeed.”
Ricard poured the wine. The goblets were dirty, but the wine was chilled. They drank two glasses each before exchanging another word.
“You know why I’m here?” Adamat asked.
“Yes,” Ricard said. “Ask your questions; I’m no fop to take offense. You’ve got a job to do.”
This would be a relief, Adamat decided. He leaned forward. “Do you have any reason to see Field Marshal Tamas dead?”
Ricard scratched his beard. “I suppose. He’s been grumbling lately that he wants to see a reduction in the size of the union. Says we’re gaining too much power, too fast.” He spread his hands. “If he decides to put a cap on our manpower
, or to tax our earnings heavily, it could cause a big problem for the Warriors.”
“Big enough to have him killed?”
“Certainly. But one has to weigh the benefits and risks. Tamas is tolerant of the unions—he supports their existence, despite our being outlawed for almost a thousand years now. Manhouch only allowed me to set up the Warriors because of the exorbitant taxes he planned on getting from us. We were able to dodge enough of them to make it cost-effective for us to exist.”
“If you could exist under Manhouch, why did you support the coup?”
“A number of Manhouch’s accountants were taking a closer look at our books. They realized they weren’t getting nearly as much in taxes as they’d planned, and his advisers were encouraging him to have us disbanded entirely. The nobility hated us. They hate having to pay workers more, even if it means higher production. Even if Manhouch hadn’t had us disbanded, the Accords put Adro under Kez colonial law—which would have found me and the rest of the union bosses in prison or worse, and the Warriors disbanded anyways, our property confiscated.”
“You said there would be risks for you, in having Tamas killed?” Adamat said.
“Mostly questions. I don’t have a lot of friends in the council. Lady Winceslav tolerates me. The reeve hates me because my accountants are almost as good as his and the Diocel has excommunicated me twice. Prime Lektor thinks I’m a fool, and the Proprietor—well, the Proprietor enjoys the bribes the union pays him. If Tamas were killed, that would leave me with only two supporters on the council, both of whom could turn on me.”
Adamat took a sip of his wine. It may be that one already has, he thought, remembering what Lady Winceslav had said.
“Word has it you sent a delegation to Ipille.”
Ricard sat back. “Who told you that?”
“You know better than to ask me that.”
“Bah. You and your sources. I forget sometimes that you seem to know everything. Even things done in the deepest of secrecy.”
“So you did?”
Ricard shrugged. “Of course. Not even Tamas knows. Not that I’m hiding anything,” he said quickly, throwing up a hand.