Promise of Blood

Chapter 28

“Come on, you idiot,” Tamas said. “Prop me up. Put the pillow there.” He paused and gripped the edge of his desk as the room spun around him.

“Sir?” Olem said. He chewed on the end of his cigarette.

“I’m fine. Go on.”

Olem wedged a cushion between Tamas and his chair.

“Down farther,” Tamas said. “Perfect. Turn the chair a little. I want to look casual.”

Tamas gave a few more orders until he was satisfied. He sat behind his desk, pointed toward the office door, his back propped up straight so he looked taller. Olem stepped back.

“Do I look like an invalid?” Tamas asked.

“No.”

“You hesitated.”

“A little beat up, sir,” Olem said. “It’ll do.”

“Good.” Tamas didn’t dare lean forward, hardly even to look down, so he felt blindly to a desk drawer and removed a powder cartridge. He broke the end with his thumbnail and poured it out on his tongue. He fought off a bout of dizziness, then darkness as his consciousness tried to retreat before the wave of awareness that flooded his senses. The taste was sulfuric, bitter. To Tamas it tasted of ambrosia.

His exhaustion ebbed. The pain in his leg receded to a steady hum in the back of his mind, a simple reminder that his leg had been cut open, the flesh torn and the bone reset but without the agony that should accompany it.

“Three capsules in an hour, sir?” There was a hint of worry in Olem’s voice.

“Save it for someone else,” Tamas grunted. “I’ve no time to worry about going powder blind.” Truth be told, he admitted to himself, the euphoria of the powder trance clung to him. He needed it, longed for its strongest embrace like a long-absent lover. He would deal with signs of addiction later. For now, there were more important matters. Despite the powder trance, one of the deepest he’d ever been in, he could barely move. His body still felt the pain, still cried out over his lack of rest – his brain simply did not register it.

“Tell me about Brigadier Sabastenien,” Tamas said.

“He was an orphan,” Olem said, “adopted into the Wings of Adom as a bullet-boy. The Wings of Adom are his family – Adro his mother, the army his father.”

“As I’ve heard as well.”

“He helped me track you,” Olem said. “Ryze’s betrayal burned him deep.”

“Does he know Ryze is dead?” Tamas asked.

Olem shook his head.

“And you didn’t say a word of Ryze’s innocence?”

“Not one, sir,” Olem said.

“Good. Send him in.”

Brigadier Sabastenien was one of the youngest commanders of the Wings of Adom, barely twenty-five years old. Tamas knew that brigadiers were not elected at whim. They were quick, they were intelligent, brave, and fanatically loyal to the Winceslav family and to Adro. Or they had been, until Brigadier Barat.

Brigadier Sabastenien was a shorter man, with dark, unruly hair cut just above his eyes. He had grown muttonchops to give him a better appearance of maturity, and wore them better than most men of his age.

“I’m glad to see you back in good health, sir,” Sabastenien said.

“Thank you,” Tamas said. “I understand you helped Olem track me.” Tamas nodded to his bodyguard, and then dismissed him with a jerk of his head. Olem slipped out onto the balcony, while Tamas’s head reeled from the sudden movement. Careful, he reminded himself.

“I provided what service I could,” the brigadier said. “Pray tell me if there is more I can do. I’ve already begun gathering men to hunt Brigadier Ryze with Lady Winceslav’s blessing. He’ll not escape.”

“There is one thing you can do,” Tamas said.

“Anything, sir.”

“It’s a small thing. You see that screen there?” Tamas pointed toward the corner of the room, where a divider stood of the type a man or woman might change behind. “I’d like you to stand behind it and listen.”

“Sir?” Sabastenien said.

“You’ll understand soon enough,” Tamas said. “Please. For the whim of a beat-up old man.”

Brigadier Sabastenien gave him a hesitant nod. “Now?”

Tamas glanced at the clock. “Yes, that would be about right.”

Sabastenien positioned himself behind the curtain. A few moments passed, during which Tamas closed his eyes. His mind, though blocked off from the pain and weariness that would have rendered a man unconscious, still spun from the powder trance. Eyes open, he could see Olem out on the balcony, watching the birds fly in the sun over Elections Square. He could see stray fibers on Olem’s jacket, and when he concentrated, he thought he could even hear the beat of Sabastenien’s heart from where he hid behind the curtain. The young brigadier was calm.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” Tamas said. He straightened in his seat. Now was not a time to appear weak.

The door opened and Tamas caught a glimpse of Vlora waiting in the hall, hands resting on the butts of her pistols, as a pair of soldiers brought in Brigadier Barat. In contrast to Sabastenien, Barat was a tall man, taller than most. His features sharp, his brow severe, though with enough softness in the cheeks and eyes as to remain quite handsome. He was clean-shaven, and Tamas had heard soldiers say the man could not grow a beard if he wanted. Barat was twenty-six, and his father had been a wealthy viscount in the north before his death years before.

Tamas did not miss the look of confidence on Barat’s face, nor the sword still buckled to his belt.

“Please, sit,” Tamas said, indicating one of the chairs on the other side of his desk.

“I prefer to stand, thank you,” Brigadier Barat said. “I hope there’s a reason I was escorted here by your soldiers. Perhaps there’s been some misunderstanding.”

“I’m certain that’s the case,” Tamas said. “Give me just some of your time.” He fell quiet, watching Barat, waiting for him to squirm. A minute or two passed.

“This is quite irregular, sir,” Brigadier Barat said.

“Forgive me,” Tamas said. “My adventure over the past few days had quite the effect on me. I’m just thinking…”

“About what, sir?”

“You’ve heard of Ryze’s betrayal?” Tamas said.

Brigadier Barat stiffened. “A disgrace for the Wings of Adom. I’m very relieved you’re all right, sir,” he added, as if an afterthought.

“Thank you.” Tamas smiled shallowly. “Do you know why Ryze betrayed us?”

“He was a broken man, sir,” Barat said. “Old and brittle.”

Tamas feigned surprise. “Really? I can’t say that we were ever really friends, but Ryze was a contemporary of mine. He was a few years ahead at the university, and the academy. He never loved anything the way he’s loved Adro, and he was a fine commander and father. He handled the campaign against the royalists splendidly.”

“That was only my impression of him, sir,” Barat said. “I mean, I’ve only known him for a year or so. I meant no offense.”

“Why was he ‘brittle and broken’?” Tamas asked.

“I don’t know. He…”

“Yes?”

“Well, I don’t want to start rumors, sir, not without all the facts in.”

“It’s a bit late for that,” Tamas said. “Ryze handed me over to a Kez Privileged. He’s a traitor and a villain.”

Barat looked slightly shaken by this. He licked his lips. “Well, I think he didn’t like me. He was jealous of my favor with Lady Winceslav. He didn’t think one so young should have risen the ranks to brigadier so quickly.”

“Really?” Tamas once again acted surprised. “I… well, I can’t imagine. I know Brigadier Sabastenien rose faster than you. And he wasn’t bedding Lady Winceslav.”

“Well, yes but…” Brigadier Barat’s eyes grew large. “Sir! With respect, sir, I’ll have to ask you to take that back.”

“We both know it’s true,” Tamas said. “In fact, it’s common knowledge around both my army and the Wings of Adom.” It wasn’t, but Barat didn’t need to know that. Tamas heard Sabastenien shift behind the curtain. Barat glanced that way for a moment. Tamas called back his attention with a cough.

“I will call you out if I have to, sir,” Barat said. “To protect my honor, and the Lady’s.”

“Call out a powder mage?” Tamas said. “You’d really do that?”

A small smile formed at the corners of Barat’s mouth. “Yes,” he said. “And I’d beg you to choose pistols, even if it meant my death. To prove my honor.”

Barat knew about the star in Tamas’s leg, or he wouldn’t be so cavalier about a duel. He was also grandstanding. He knew he was being watched.

“Where’s Ryze’s son?” Tamas asked.

Brigadier Barat was taken off guard. “What? How should I know?”

“I’m sorry,” Tamas said. “My mind is slipping. I already know. His body was recovered from the canal this afternoon. There were weights on his ankles. He was garroted so cruelly that his head fell off when they brought the body up. Sad, an eighteen-year-old boy with such promise, meeting an end like that. You know, that’s another thing both Ryze and I shared. We both married late in life, and were gifted with just one son before our wives passed.” Tamas thought of Taniel and wondered briefly how the battle was going at South Pike. He wondered what he’d do if someone took his son hostage. He blinked, his vision blurred for a moment, and fought down his rage. This was best done coldly.

“A tragedy,” Brigadier Barat said, his voice on edge.

Tamas said, “A witness at Adopest University saw a man matching your description enter the dormitories late last night. One of his classmates said the boy went with the same man.”

“Impossible,” Brigadier Barat snarled. “No investigation could go on so quickly…” Barat stopped, sensing the trap. “I hope his killer is caught and brought to justice. That still doesn’t excuse what his father did.”

“Piano wire is often used as a garrote,” Tamas said. “Those with little experience tend to cut their own fingers. May I see your hands?”

Barat clasped his hands behind his back and took a step back from Tamas’s desk.

Tamas took a deep breath. Loudly, calmly, he said, “His father warned me of a traitor among the brigadiers. He warned me that his son was a veritable hostage, and begged me to protect him. He didn’t care that his own life was forfeit when the sorcerer caught up to us. Ryze was no traitor, Barat. He was a patriot. A hero. And he warned me about you.”

“What rubbish is this?” Brigadier Barat hissed. “You’ve gone mad.”

“Sometimes I think that would be simpler,” Tamas said. “Who is the traitor in the council? Things will go easier for you if you tell me.”

“Go to the pit,” Barat scoffed. “You have no evidence, old man. I won’t play this game with you.” He spun on his heel, heading for the door. The door rattled, but did not open. “Why is this locked?” Barat glanced nervously toward the balcony. Olem watched the scene through the window, a rifle in his hands.

Barat spun on Tamas. “Who the pit do you think you are? Lady Winceslav will not stand for this! What do you think you’ll do? Bring me to justice? Send me to court? The Lady will protect me. I’ll never see a cell, and you will only disgrace yourself in the process. False accusations from a bitter, broken man,” Barat said. His smile grew. “Just like Ryze! Filled with lies and delusions, a traitor to his own country. You’re not even a powder mage anymore.”

Tamas sniffed. He reached into his breast pocket and removed a bullet. He held it up, rolled it between his fingers. In the other hand he held up a powder cartridge. “Am I not?” He shook his head. “Alas, this is not mine to deal with, no matter how much I’d like to.” He lowered his hands. Loudly, he said, “There’s a pistol underneath the divan cushion. It’s loaded.”

“What?” Barat demanded. He drew his sword and stepped toward Tamas.

Brigadier Sabastenien emerged from behind the curtain. He held the pistol up and pulled back the hammer. His hand was firm.

The shot echoed through the room, sending Tamas’s head spinning. He gripped the desk until the dizziness was gone, then lifted his head to look at the body as Olem stepped into the room.

Brigadier Barat lay on the floor, his blood and brains scattered across the sofa and the curtain. His body twitched once and was still. Brigadier Sabastenien lowered the pistol.

The brigadier’s face was pale. His hands shook a little as he tossed the pistol to the floor, and he stumbled over to the sofa. “I believed Ryze was a traitor,” he said after a moment. His voice was agonized, his face contorted by sorrow.

“He was a good man,” Tamas said.

“His son…”

“Dead,” Tamas said. “Olem, I want Ryze’s remains found. He was hit by sorcery, so there won’t be much left. Scour the King’s Wood if you have to. I want him buried along with his son, next to his wife, with state honors.”

“Of course,” Olem said quietly.

“What do I tell the Lady?” Sabastenien said. He was stricken. Tamas saw him for the youth he was then, and pitied him.

“You shot him in my defense,” Tamas said softly. “I’ll not allow a court-martial.”

“I killed Lady Winceslav’s lover, a fellow brigadier,” Sabastenien said. His voice shook. “I’ll be drummed out of the Wings with dishonor, no matter the reason.” He paused. “May I go?”

“Of course. You’ll always have a place in my army,” he said. When the young brigadier had left, Tamas said to Olem, “Have someone keep an eye on him.”

Olem frowned. “He heard it all. He did the right thing. Why should he care if they kick him out of the Wings? The army is certainly a pay cut, but…”

“The Wings aren’t just mercenaries, Olem,” Tamas said. His weariness was breaking through the powder trance, the pain beginning to bleed into his defenses. “The Wings are a life. A brotherhood. To kill one of their own is the worst of crimes. Even for treason, when they handle it among themselves, the executioner is protected, unknown, so that his brothers will not find out and alienate him. Sabastenien’s career with the Wings is over.”

Olem turned his frown on Tamas. “Then, why…?”

Tamas sighed. He brought out another powder charge, longed to sprinkle the powder on his tongue. He put it back in his shirt pocket. “You’ll think me cruel,” he said. “I need Sabastenien on the lines. If he survives this war, he’ll be a general at thirty.” He ignored Olem’s look of disapproval. “Have someone ready to offer him a job when he’s been drummed out. Full commander.”

Tamas leaned over his chair, head light, and vomited on the floor. He dragged his sleeve across his mouth and looked up at Olem’s worried gaze. “I think I’ll rest for a while now.”

Olem went to fetch a janitor. Tamas leaned back in his chair, tasting bile. He’d taken care of the fox in his henhouse. Now he had to find the lion among his cattle.

Nila couldn’t take her eyes off the blood on the sofa.

She wondered if Field Marshal Tamas had shot the man whose blood spattered the Royal Offices, or if he’d had one of his underlings do it. She knew he could kill casually. She’d seen him gun down Bystre in the streets without a second look.

“Olem, I…” The field marshal leveraged himself around his dressing screen and stopped when he saw Nila. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Didn’t realize they’d sent someone up to clean up the mess already.”

Mess, he called it. As if the bits of brain and skull and all the blood were nothing more than the leftovers from dinner.

“My apologies, sir,” Nila said with a curtsy. “I was just told to come get your uniform.”

“Of course. The laundress. Olem! Help me get this uniform off.”

Olem came through the front door, rolling a cigarette between his fingers. He smiled at Nila before heading behind the dressing screen.

“Damned blood got everywhere,” the field marshal said.

“That’s what happens, sir.”

“Ow. Son of a… be more careful!”

“So sorry, sir.”

“Damn my leg!”

“There’s a lady present, sir.”

The field marshal’s curses lowered to a grumble for a few moments. Olem reappeared a moment later with the field marshal’s uniform tucked under his arm and gave it over to Nila. The bearded sergeant looked different from that night when Adran soldiers had stormed the Eldaminse townhouse. A touch of gray had entered his beard; worry lines at the corner of his eyes were etched a little deeper. Nila had seen him around the House of Nobles, but he’d shown no recognition of her.

“Think you could wash the curtains, too?” Olem asked. “Who knows when they’ll send up someone to get to the upholstery?”

“Of course,” Nila said.

Field Marshal Tamas limped out from behind the dressing screen and over to his desk. He wore a white shirt and blue soldier’s pants. His face was white and bloodless from his ordeals. Nila wondered what that face would look like after she’d strangled him in his sleep.

Olem removed the curtains from the windows and gathered them all up in his arms. “Sir,” he said, “I’ll help her downstairs with these and be right back up.”

“Take your time,” the field marshal said, waving him off. “Charlemund has sent me some idiotic church decree that must be read by supper.”

“I can take them,” Nila said when they reached the hallway.

Olem tucked the curtains under one arm. “I don’t mind. The field marshal demands time alone now and then.”

“Aren’t you his bodyguard?”

“His manservant, more like,” he said without bitterness. “We’ve tripled the guard on the top floor. Anything that can get through the rest of the boys watching his back would have no trouble with me. Cigarette?”

Nila studied Olem out of the corner of her eye as they went down the stairs. “Thank you,” she said, taking the offered cigarette. He began rolling another one immediately.

“You don’t seem the shy type,” Olem said. “But the boys say you don’t talk much.”

Cold fear seized Nila’s belly. Why would Field Marshal Tamas’s bodyguard be asking after her? “I keep to myself, mostly,” she said evenly.

“That’s what I heard.” He let the conversation lapse for a moment, then, “I didn’t think I’d see you again after that night.”

Nila’s heart jumped. He remembered her? She didn’t want to be remembered. She didn’t want to be recognized. If he knew who she was, maybe he had figured out it was her who’d smuggled Jakob out of the townhouse.

“Oh?” she said when she’d found her voice.

“You seem better suited here than scrubbing livery for some lord,” Olem said. “I like your dress. Better than what you were wearing before.”

Nila tried to picture her uniform under Duke Eldaminse. She found she couldn’t even remember what it looked like. She needed to turn the conversation away from herself. She didn’t need him asking questions.

“You were wearing something different, too,” she said.

Olem fingered the captain’s pin at his lapel. “The field marshal said his bodyguard couldn’t be less than a captain.” He shrugged. “I’m not much of an officer. Never liked them much, myself. I’ll take the pay that comes with it, though.”

Olem removed his cigarette, switched it to his other hand, and put it back in his mouth. He stopped suddenly, forcing her to turn around. “Would you like to see a play tonight?” he asked.

Nila blinked. A play? So he wasn’t interested in her in his capacity as Field Marshal Tamas’s bodyguard. She couldn’t help the relieved grin that spread across her face.

Olem seemed to take that as a yes. “The field marshal insisted I take the night off. Not many better ways to spend it than with a beautiful woman.”

“I’d be honored.” She gave him a little curtsy and what she hoped was her best shy smile.

They reached the laundry rooms beneath the House of Nobles and Olem left her. She looked through her supplies to find something that would get the blood out of the curtains and the field marshal’s uniform. As she scrubbed at the stains, she reminded herself that she was here to kill Tamas. She wouldn’t let Olem stop her or distract her. He seemed a good man, but he served an evil master. Tamas had to die before he could get more blood on his uniform. He’d killed men, women. Even innocent children. He had to be stopped.

Olem mentioned he wasn’t the field marshal’s only guard. If she killed Tamas sometime when Olem was off duty, then he wouldn’t be blamed by the failure. Yes, that would be best. She scrubbed harder at the stains.