“I risk angering Claremonte. The asylum’s patron is not a man to be trifled with, not with his position with the Brudania-Gurla Trading Company. I risk our entire supply of saltpeter. At this point in the war, gunpowder is more important than food.”
“And later?” Olem asked.
“Mihali is a madman, Olem. He belongs in an asylum.” He chose his words carefully. “It would be a cruelty to let him live like a normal man.” He knew the words made sense in his head, but when he spoke them out loud, they seemed wrong. He frowned. “They can help him at the asylum.
“Have you checked on those names that Adamat gave us?” Tamas said, unwilling to continue the conversation.
Olem was clearly uncomfortable with the abrupt end to the topic of Mihali’s future. “Yes, sir,” he said stiffly. “Our people are looking into it. Slowly. We don’t have enough men, to be honest, but Adamat’s hunches are proving accurate enough.”
“He said he gathered that list of names and ships in just two days of investigation,” Tamas said. “The entire police force on the docks has only given us half a dozen Kez smugglers since the war started. How can he work so fast?”
Olem shrugged. “He’s got a gift. Also, he doesn’t have the restrictions of the police. He’s not wearing a uniform. He can’t be bribed or intimidated.”
“You think he can find my traitor?” Tamas asked.
“Perhaps.” Olem didn’t look so sure. “I wish you’d put more men on it. You shouldn’t leave the fate of Adro in the hands of one retired investigator.”
Tamas shook his head. “As you said, he can go where the police cannot. I can’t trust it to anyone else. Everyone I truly trust—you, Sabon, the rest of the powder cabal—they’re doing tasks of utmost importance, and none of them has the set of talents and skills that Adamat does. If he can’t track down my traitor, no one else can.”
Olem gave him a dark stare. The corner of his mouth twitched, and Tamas felt a thrill of fear through his chest. “Give me a writ of purpose,” Olem said quietly. “And fifty men. I’ll find out who the traitor is.”
Tamas rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to let you hack apart my council with a meat cleaver and a hot iron. You’ll leave nothing left of them, and I’ll have made enemies of the most powerful people in Adro. I’m sorry, Olem, but I need you watching my back and I need the other five of the council—the ones that aren’t traitors—fully intact.”
Tamas turned as he heard horses galloping up from behind. “Pit, I was hoping for a pleasant day.”
“Ho there, Field Marshal,” Charlemund said. The arch-diocel looked nothing like a man of the Rope. He wore his hunt colors proudly on a hunter easily ten stone bigger than Tamas’s. He was followed by three young women; probably priestesses, though it was impossible to tell with them wearing hunt colors. Just behind the women was Ondraus the Reeve. The old man wore a black hunt coat and pale breeches to indicate that he wasn’t part of the hunt proper, yet he rode his hunter with far more poise and confidence than Tamas would have expected from a glorified accountant.
“How many hounds do you have competing today, Charlemund?” Tamas asked.
The arch-diocel gave him a sour look that always accompanied his response when someone failed to use his title. “Ten,” he said. “Though to be fair, three of them are running for the ladies here.” He gestured to his companions. “Priestesses Kola, Narum, and Ule, this is Field Marshal Tamas.”
Tamas gave the three women a curt nod. Not one of them looked above twenty years old, even though they bore the rank of priestess. They were far too young. And pretty. Women that attractive did not enter into service to the Church.
The reeve rode up next to Tamas.
“Ondraus,” Tamas said. “You’re the last person I’d expect to see at a hunt.”
Ondraus turned in his saddle and pointed behind them. “No, that’s the last person you’d expect to see at a hunt.”
A horse struggled through a patch of briars not far off, urged on with an incessant stream of curses by Ricard Tumblar. The union boss caught his cheek on a thorn and let out a yell, kicking the horse. Hunter and rider surged from the patch, galloping to catch up with the rest. Tamas reached out and grabbed the bridle as the horse came by. He leaned over, placing a hand between its eyes. “Shh. Quiet,” he said, soothing the animal. “Lord above, Ricard, stop urging it on. You’ll get yourself thrown.”
Ricard’s heels had been dug into the creature’s side. He let up immediately and gave a great sigh. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “I was made to ride in a carriage, not on a horse.”
Charlemund grinned at him. “I can see that,” he said. “We all can. I’ve seen children who ride better than you.”
“And I’ve seen pimps with fewer whores,” Ricard snapped.
The three priestesses gasped. The arch-diocel spun his mount to face Ricard, laying a hand on the grip of his sword. “Take it back or I’ll have your hide.”
Ricard drew a pistol from his belt. “I’ll blow your face off if you come a step closer.”
Tamas groaned. He grabbed Ricard’s pistol by the barrel and shoved it away. “Put them away, both of you,” he said. He urged his mount up beside Ricard’s. “Where do you get off threatening an arch-diocel?” he growled. “Are you mad?”
Ricard wiped the blood from his cheek, a scratch from the briars. He looked at his fingers. “Bloody hunt.”
“Why are you here?” Tamas said.
“Lady Winceslav insisted,” Ricard said. “She said I was gentry now, being a member of the council, and that it was expected of me. I’ve had more fun in the bottom of a fishing boat.”
“You’ve never ridden before?” Olem asked.
Ricard returned his pistol to his belt and took the reins in both hands. “Not once. When I was a boy, my father had no money for lessons, and by the time I thought of it, I was rich enough to afford to take a carriage. Now, where the pit is that whipper-in? Lady Winceslav said that fool would stay with me and keep me from making an ass of myself.”
“He was unsuccessful,” Charlemund said.
Ricard glared. Tamas elbowed him hard in the ribs. Ricard turned to the three priestesses. “My apologies, ladies. My comments weren’t directed at you.” One and all, the three turned their noses up at him. Ricard sighed.
“I came here for a pleasant afternoon,” Tamas said, glancing around at the group. “Now, can I have that, or do I need to ride on my own?”
Ricard and Charlemund grumbled to themselves. Tamas resumed riding, leading Ricard’s horse. “Let him do the steering,” he said after a moment, letting go of the bridle. “He knows the trail, he knows the other horses. He’ll follow on his own. He knows you don’t know what you’re doing. You try to take control and he’ll fight you the whole way.”
Ricard gave a silent nod and avoided looking at Charlemund and his priestesses.
They were soon joined by the whipper-in.
Tamas was surprised to find he knew the man. “Gaben!” he called.
“Sir.” Gaben rode up beside him, all smiles. He was a spry young man who looked well at ease on a horse. Whippers-in usually kept the dogs on the trail, but this one was obviously meant to keep the people on the trail.
“Olem, this is Gaben,” Tamas said. “Captain Ajucare’s youngest son.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Olem said. “I’ve known the captain for many years.”
Gaben extended a hand. “You’re the Knacked that doesn’t sleep?”
“Right.”
“It’s a pleasure.”
“So the Lady attached you to Ricard, here, did she?” Tamas said.
Gaben nodded. “Said he might need some help.”
“You lost him for a while, it seems.”
“He went through a bramblebush, sir. I decided to go around.”
“Smart man. I’ve heard from your father you have a singular skill for horses.”
“He overtells it,” Gaben said modestly.
“No, I’m sure he
does not.” Tamas saw him eyeing the young ladies. “Please, don’t let me keep you.”
Gaben rode up beside the priestesses and answered their questions about the hunt. Soon after, Brigadier Sabastenien came up quietly from behind. He joined the whipper-in and the priestesses, listening quietly to their talk.
Tamas leaned over to Olem. “Brigadier Sabastenien impressed me during the racket with the royalists. We’ll keep an eye on him over the years. Mark my words, he’ll be senior brigadier by the time he’s forty.”
Silence fell in the wood, the only sound that of horses and the quiet conversation of the young people a few dozen yards ahead of them. Tamas was just beginning to enjoy the relative quiet when Ondraus spoke up.
“I want to know about this cook,” the reeve said.
Tamas turned in the saddle toward Ondraus. The path here was wide enough for the four of them to ride abreast. Tamas was on one end, with Ricard on his right, lagging slightly behind, and Ondraus between Ricard and Charlemund. Olem stayed just behind them, his eyes on the forest.
“What cook?” Tamas said.
“The one who is providing for all the clerks and workers in the House of Nobles, in addition to your garrison,” Ondraus said. The bent old accountant looked alert in the afternoon sun and rode his horse like a man much younger. His gaze matched Tamas’s.
“The one who creates dishes that have never been seen in Adopest and receives shipments of raw goods that are well out of season in this part of the world, without ever having made an order in the first place. The one feeding five thousand people on a few hundred kranas’ worth of flour and beef a day.” Ondraus gave Tamas a shallow smile. “The one that claims he’s a god. Or had this all gone beneath your notice?”
Tamas slowed his mount slightly and waited for the others to do the same. The priestesses, brigadier, and whipper-in went on ahead, unaware. When they were well out of earshot, Tamas said, “He’s a Knacked. Not a god.”
Charlemund snorted. “I’m certainly glad. It’s blasphemy.”
“So you know of him?” Tamas said, resigned. He’d hoped that Charlemund’s gaze had swept over Mihali without noticing. A vain hope indeed.
“Of course,” Charlemund said. “My colleagues in the Church have been apprised of the situation. I received their communiqués just this morning.”
“And?”
“They wish me to take him into Church custody immediately. Before any more of his lies can be spread.”
“He’s harmless,” Tamas said. “He escaped from Hassenbur Asylum. I’m sending him back any day now.” The Church’s involvement was the last thing he needed.
“Who is he?” Ondraus asked.
“Lord of the Golden Chefs,” Tamas said.
“Don’t mock me,” Ondraus said, taken aback.
“He’s not,” Ricard suddenly said. “Lord of the Golden Chefs is a title among culinary experts. It means he’s the best damned cook in all the Nine. I can’t believe he’s really in the city.”
“You know him?” Tamas asked.
“Know of him, more like,” Ricard said. “I paid a king’s ransom to have him cook for Manhouch five years ago. It was that dinner that convinced the king to let me start a union. I’ve never tasted such food.” He gave a low whistle. “His squash soup is to die for. I’d love to see him.”
Tamas stifled a smile at the very thought of Mihali’s squash soup. His mouth watered a little, and for just a moment he could smell it, as if Mihali was making it in a pot in the middle of the next clearing.
“Well,” Charlemund said, “you won’t meet him. I’m bringing him under Church custody tonight. I only held off giving the order this morning in deference to Tamas.”
“And if I don’t let him go?” Tamas said lightly.
Charlemund gave a laugh, as if Tamas had made some kind of joke. “That isn’t an option. The man is a heathen and a blasphemer. We all know there is only one God, Kresimir.”
“Aren’t Adom, Unice, Rosvel, and the rest all supposed to be Kresimir’s brothers and sisters?” Tamas asked. “I’m not up on my church lore as much as I should be…”
“Doctrine, not lore,” Charlemund said. “Semantics. They helped him create the Nine, yes, that is why they are saints. Kresimir is the only God among them. To claim otherwise goes against Church doctrine. It was decided so at the Council of Kezlea in five-oh-seven.”
Ricard’s eyes grew wide. “You do know something about the Church. Incredible! I thought all you needed to be an arch-diocel was a nice hat and a harem.”
Charlemund ignored Ricard as one might ignore an irritating rug seller in the market. “The Council also established that heretics and blasphemers would fall under the jurisdiction of the Church. Every king of the Nine signed the accord.”
“Interesting,” Tamas said, “that Adro has no king anymore.”
Charlemund looked startled by this. “What…?”
“Has it occurred to any of the arch-diocels,” Tamas said, “that Adro is no longer held by any of the agreements signed by previous kings? Technically, we don’t even have to pay tithe anymore.”
Charlemund sputtered. “I don’t think that’s true. I mean, we had an agreement…”
“With Manhouch,” Ondraus said. The reeve had a nasty smile on his face, and Tamas wondered if he had just given Ondraus an excuse to do something that would completely alienate the Church. Tamas squeezed his eyes shut. O Kresimir above. I shouldn’t have said anything.
“I think I’d like to catch up with the rest of the hunt now,” Tamas said before Charlemund could respond. “I can barely hear the hounds.” He urged his hunter on, reaching the whipper-in in a few moments.
Gaben turned. “Sir,” he said, “We’ve fallen significantly behind the rest of the group.”
“Yes,” Tamas said, “I gathered.”
“If you’d permit, sir,” Gaben said, “I’d like to lead us on a shortcut through the forest. I know where they’re planning on being in, oh”—he glanced up at the sun, which was showing through the trees—“two hours. I think we can catch them there. Otherwise we might not reach them until after the hunt has finished.”
“Sir,” Olem said in a low voice, “it’s dangerous to leave the hunt trail. These forests were the king’s own, bigger than Adopest and all the suburbs. I used to play in them as a boy. We get lost here and we could be gone for days.”
“The going will be slow,” the whipper-in said, “through the brush, but we should have no problem cutting them off. I know these woods well.”
“I don’t like it, sir,” Olem said.
Tamas pushed away his own uneasiness and gave Olem a smile. “Calm yourself. I’ve known Gaben since he was a boy. The worst things in these woods are deer. Lead on.”
They trotted along the deer trail, single file, making their way through the woods. The priestesses bantered loudly behind Tamas. He let his mind wander, considering battle plans and strategies. Battle had yet to be joined at the Gates of Wasal. Only at South Pike had shots been fired, and the unique positioning of the fortress town required very little strategy. They’d been shrugging off Kez advances for a month, with minimal loss and despite powerful sorceries on the Kez side. The very thought of Julene’s betrayal made Tamas’s blood boil.
And Taniel. What could he do? Bo was still alive and the two were working together to push back the Kez. That pleased Tamas. Yet Bo was still under the gaes. Could Tamas trust them? Taniel had disobeyed his orders. There would have to be redress for that, though Taniel claimed he had a good reason to keep Bo alive—they needed the Privileged to help hold Shouldercrown.
Tamas knew the real reason. Taniel hadn’t been able to do it. He’d not been able to kill his best friend, even when it was necessary; even on the order of his superior. Taniel had to know that Tamas would see through the excuses. Tamas pushed the thought aside, unwilling to let it ruin his day.
The terrain slowly changed as they rode. They descended into a valley where moss-covered boulders hemmed
them in and the forest floor was thick with fallen branches and rotted pine needles. The place seemed to deaden all sound. An icy hand climbed Tamas’s spine. The forest felt old and deep, and the clop of their horses’ hooves an intrusion here.
Their deer trail ran out, and they followed a small brook. The boulders grew bigger, the tree canopy overhead thicker. It seemed they had not even reached the bottom of the valley. Tamas had no memory of this place from other hunts.
Tamas found himself staring at the back of Ondraus’s head. Wisps of silver hair clung to his skull, along with a pair of moles as big as a two-krana coin. Was he the traitor? Tamas became acutely aware that he rode with four of his council, any one of whom was just as likely the traitor as any of the others.
Olem suddenly spurred his horse forward. He passed the other riders and reined in before the whipper-in. “Where are we?” he said.
“Almost there,” Gaben said. “Not a mile from rejoining the hunt.”
“Then why can’t we hear hounds?” Olem said.
Tamas rode up to the front of the column, followed closely by Charlemund and Ondraus. Ricard remained at the back of the column, staring up at the boulders around them.
“It’s impossible to hear anything in these rocks,” Gaben said as Tamas reined in beside him.
“We’re not anywhere near the hunt,” Olem said. “This is the Giant’s Billiard Table. I ran here as a boy.”
Tamas scowled at Gaben. “Explain yourself.”
A rock fell from one of the boulders above. Tamas jerked around, eyes searching the forest. “Ricard?” he said. Ricard’s horse was alone at the back of the column, the reins thrown over a broken tree limb. Ricard was missing. Tamas turned back to Gaben. “Explain yourself. Now!”
Tamas heard leaves rustling in the forest around them. He turned again, searching. He saw nothing. Ricard had been carrying a pistol. Tamas reached out with his senses. Ricard was nearby. Tamas could sense the powder. He’d scrambled up onto one of the boulders and lay flat on it, facing the group. Was Ricard the traitor? Was this some kind of trap? Ricard was carrying a pistol. Surely he knew that Tamas could find him just from the gunpowder.