Powder Mage Trilogy 01 - Promise of Blood

by Brian McClellan

  He removed his hat to scratch his head, and spoke to Siemone in a flat tone. “So, you essentially work at the biggest brothel in all of Adro… by the pit, all the Nine… so that one day you can marry your beloved and remain a man of the Rope?”

  Siemone giggled nervously. “Kresimir works in mysterious ways, sir.”

  Adamat felt a little ill then. “I think that has more to do with the arch-diocel’s sense of humor than with God,” he murmured.

  The buggy came out of the vineyards and crossed a small field to a chapel. The chapel itself was simple enough, built of small limestone blocks and no bigger than a medium-sized house. It was about two stories tall, with a steep roof and a balcony just above the main door. A gold-braided rope hung from the balcony. Adamat was relieved to see that the area was free of the arch-diocel’s servants.

  Adamat disembarked the buggy and watched it roll around the corner of the chapel before he approached the door. He reached out just as Siemone touched his shoulder.

  “Please, sir, they will be finished with prayer in a moment,” Siemone said.

  Adamat sighed. “Was I just about to walk in on an orgy?”

  For a moment it looked like Siemone would laugh, but he just shook his head. “No, it is the afternoon prayer service. Just wait a moment.”

  Despite the priest’s objections, Adamat pushed the door open just a crack. The inside of the chapel contained several rows of velvet-cushioned benches. The walls were plaster, but half-covered in rich tapestries of gold and red depicting smoking mountains and Kresimir descending from his Rope to the top of South Pike Mountain. There were only a small handful of people attending the sermon, though the chapel could seat at least thirty.

  The arch-diocel stood at the front of the chapel, arms raised above him, face tilted toward the sky. His voice drifted through the chapel.

  “And mighty Lord Kresimir, protect us from the unjust and the wicked, and deliver us from evil, that we might be taken into your fold…”

  Adamat let the door close quietly. He retreated to the old stone wall of the chapel with Siemone and leaned against the cool brick.

  “The place seems rather… deserted,” Adamat said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The arch-diocel is an important man. I expected to see more visitors. Messengers, clerks, all the like.”

  “Oh,” Siemone said, “very few visitors are allowed on the grounds proper. His Eminence sees everyone at the villa itself. It’s a very busy house, to be sure.”

  “And why am I so special?”

  “Well, you have the field marshal’s writ!”

  At least that was something.

  “How long have you been here?” Adamat asked.

  “Two years, seven days.” Siemone still refused to look directly at him, but Adamat thought he understood this now. Siemone was trying to keep himself as pure as possible for his potential marriage—a respectable thing, even if that meant that he rarely made eye contact with anyone. To avoid the lust around him, he had to stare at his own feet.

  “You don’t get out much, do you?”

  “I go into Adopest occasionally. On His Lordship’s errands.”

  My word. “Why don’t you leave?” Adamat asked. “You don’t need to serve penance to get a normal marriage license.”

  “I’m a man of the Rope, sir. If I leave now, I’ll forfeit my rope.” His hand brushed a small rope stitched to his robe above his left breast. “And I’ll forfeit my chances to wed.”

  “She wants to marry a priest, eh?”

  “Many priests marry.”

  “I’ve never heard of a penance like this. Aren’t they usually, what, six months?”

  Siemone looked somewhat miserable. “It’s the arch-diocel’s niece, sir.”

  Adamat gave Siemone as sympathetic a look as he could muster. “You poor, poor bastard.”

  “The service is finished, sir.”

  The front door of the chapel opened even as Siemone spoke. A number of buggies began to roll around from the opposite side of the chapel and waited for their fare. Seven men and women came out and loaded into the buggies. They were dressed in rich silks and leathers and the finest muslin. Adamat recognized a few of them as wealthy merchants. To his surprise, he noted Madame Lourent, a recent client of his. She was from an affluent family, and he was frankly shocked she’d survived Tamas’s purge of the nobility. She passed him without acknowledgment.

  Adamat imagined Ricard in one of those buggies. He’d fit in perfectly in a place like this, though he wouldn’t do much praying. The buggies trotted away, across the field but not toward the front drive. They were heading for the back of the house for whatever tawdry amusements Charlemund had planned next. Adamat shook his head in wonderment.

  The arch-diocel came out after everyone else had left and walked slowly toward Adamat.

  “Good afternoon,” Adamat said.

  Charlemund ignored Adamat’s greeting. Siemone hurried past the arch-diocel to lock the chapel doors behind him, then quickly turned to take the arch-diocel’s robes of office.

  “Siemone,” the arch-diocel said, “Lady Jarvor fell asleep during the prayer session. This is the third time. Have her barred from the villa grounds.”

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  “And who is this?”

  “Inspector Adamat, Your Eminence.”

  The arch-diocel squared his shoulders and looked down his nose at Adamat. “Tamas’s hound. Right. Why are you here?”

  Adamat looked the arch-diocel up and down. Charlemund was an imposing man, standing a full head taller than Adamat, and before he’d become a man of the Rope, he had been the fencing champion of all of Adro. He still moved gracefully enough, his steps long and purposeful, his arms giving him a significant advantage of reach over other men. Adamat still remembered when Charlemund had become a priest, then been appointed arch-diocel of Adro the next day. It had been a scandal, and was talked about for years, though his appointment was never rescinded. Charlemund had powerful friends.

  The arch-diocel also had two large bruises on his face, covered up as well as possible with a dusting of white powder.

  “Your Eminence,” Adamat said, bowing his head. “I hope you are feeling well after your fall last week. I saw it happen. Dreadful accident.”

  Charlemund snorted. “Get on with it. Why are you here?”

  He annoyed easily, Adamat noted. He felt another pang of pity for Siemone. “I’m here to ask you about the assassination attempt on Field Marshal Tamas last month.”

  “That? Hasn’t it been cleared up yet? Bah. The races start soon, so be quick with your questions.”

  Adamat bit his tongue. Arch-diocel or not, there was common decency to be observed. In a gentle tone, he said, “Your Worship, I’m conducting an investigation into treason, not an inquiry into your favorite strumpet. Now, please, I have a few questions to ask you.”

  Siemone stood behind the arch-diocel, holding his robes, and the poor priest’s eyes looked about to pop from their sockets. He stared fixedly at some point off in the distance and shook his head violently.

  The arch-diocel gave Adamat a second look.

  “You’re perhaps the most powerful man on Tamas’s council,” Adamat said, “maybe even including the field marshal himself. You have the backing of the entire Kresim Church, an institution that dwarfs Lady Winceslav’s mercenaries, Ricard Tumblar’s union, and the Proprietor’s criminal affairs in size, wealth, and strength. It gives me reason to believe that if you wanted Tamas dead, he would indeed be dead.”

  Adamat went on, “The only thing that gives me hesitation in removing your name from my list is that I can’t for the life of me discover why you supported the coup in the first place. You have motive for neither supporting Tamas nor wanting him dead… that I can discover.”

  “What gives you authority to question me?” the arch-diocel asked coldly.

  Adamat produced Tamas’s note from his breast pocket and held it out to the arch-di
ocel. Siemone stepped forward and took it with an apologetic mumble. He cleared his throat and read it out loud.

  The arch-diocel threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Cooperate with you? Answer your questions? What care I if Tamas suspects me? What can he do? He needs me in this war. He needs me to keep the Church out of things.”

  Adamat took the note back from Siemone and folded it into his pocket.

  “I could spit on Tamas,” the arch-diocel went on, “and still have him beg for my support. You think I care about this investigation?” He shook his head. “No, not one wit. You are right about one thing, though; if I wanted Tamas dead, he’d be in a pauper’s grave right now. Tamas will deal with a higher power one day soon for the things he’s done. I have no need to get involved.”

  A higher power? Adamat wanted to scoff. Charlemund wasn’t exactly the model priest. Adamat took a deep breath and leaned forward on his cane, looking the arch-diocel straight in the eye. He knew he was going to pay for this persistence.

  “What,” Adamat asked, “is your interest in supporting Tamas?”

  The arch-diocel met his gaze. He seemed to consider Adamat as one considers a mouse that will not get out of the pantry but is too pathetic to squash underfoot. “The Church deemed it necessary that Manhouch be removed from his position. The monarchy of Adro had pulled too far away from the people.”

  Adamat bit back a comment about a holy man running a bawdy house out of his villa. “Does the Church still support Tamas?”

  “That is a question Tamas may ask me,” the arch-diocel said. “Not his dog. Now, if you really want to get somewhere with your investigation you should question Ricard Tumblar, or perhaps Ondraus the Reeve. They are both untrustworthy men—men that should not be on Tamas’s council.”

  “Why is that?” Adamat asked quietly.

  “Neither man works for the good of Adro. Ricard is a blasphemer, hidden from justice behind his godless unions. He accepts bribes from any quarter—”

  “Excuse me, how do you know that?”

  Charlemund stumbled on this. His lip curled in a sneer. “Do not interrupt me.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “He has accepted bribes from the Kez, from criminals and gangs. He is a corrupt man, evil and beyond Kresimir’s love.”

  “How do you know that he has accepted bribes from the Kez?”

  “The Church has its sources. Do not question me.”

  “And Ondraus?”

  “The man tries to levy taxes against the Church,” Charlemund said. “His soul is in great peril. He fights me—a man of Kresimir!—on every topic. He does not pay his tithe, and hides his books from Church accountants. Not even the king hid his books from our censure! Look through his books and I guarantee you will find evidence of treachery.” The arch-diocel checked his pocket watch. “I will be late for the races. You may leave now, before I lose my patience.” Charlemund was off, bellowing for a carriage, before Adamat could get in another word.

  Adamat watched him go. Charlemund’s opinions on Ondraus seemed to hold little weight. Simply dislike, nothing more. Yet it was the third time Adamat had heard tell that Ricard was receiving large sums of money. It did not bode well.

  “I’ll have a look around the grounds now,” Adamat said to Siemone.

  The priest gave a quick shake of his head. “I’m sorry, that’s not possible.” He wrung his hands.

  “I have an investigation to carry out,” Adamat said. “I will not be underfoot. The arch-diocel’s family will not be bothered.”

  Siemone licked his lips. “It’s not that, sir, I… His Lordship is a very private man. I’m sorry, but you have to go now.”

  Further arguing got Adamat no closer to even a tour of the grounds. When it became clear he was expected to leave immediately, Adamat brushed off the offer of a buggy from Siemone and strode briskly back to his carriage. He climbed in, more than ready to be gone from the villa, and shook SouSmith awake.

  “How do you feel,” Adamat asked, “about investigating the arch-diocel’s villa grounds under the cover of night?”

  SouSmith’s eyes widened. “Quick way into a pine box.”

  “Indeed.” Adamat tapped his fingers on the coach window as they pulled away from the villa. “Still… we have work to do.”

  Chapter 31

  Tamas woke with a start. His clothes were soaked with sweat, his body almost too hot to breathe. He could see the sun through one of the windows; it was past ten in the morning.

  “Sir,” Olem greeted him. The bodyguard stood over him. He held a bowl of porridge in one hand, a newspaper in the other. He’d had some rest, apparently, though Tamas didn’t know how if the man never slept. Olem’s eyes looked more lively, and the wrinkles on his face had smoothed out. He set breakfast down and helped Tamas to a sitting position. “Compliments of Mihali,” Olem said, setting the bowl on Tamas’s bedside table.

  Tamas shook his head to clear the sleep from his brain. He felt foggy-headed and slow. Five days since his surgery, and Brigadier Barat’s death. Tamas’s damned leg hurt more every hour. It began to throb the moment he moved it.

  “Would you like to read on the balcony?” Olem said. “Doctor Petrik said the air would do you good.”

  Tamas considered the sunny weather through the window. He looked at his leg. Pain, or being stuck inside all day? “Fine.”

  Olem helped him up and handed him his crutch, and they slowly made their way out onto the balcony. Olem headed back in for a chair while Tamas hobbled over to the railing. “Awfully loud today,” he murmured. He glanced over the edge. There were a lot of people in the square. A second look, and he realized the square was close to full. He hadn’t seen a crowd like this since the Elections.

  “Olem!” He turned, startled when the bodyguard was right there.

  “Sir?” Olem wore a self-satisfied smile, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and a chair in hand. Tamas didn’t like it at all.

  “What the pit is this?” Tamas gestured down to the square.

  Olem craned his neck. “Oh, yes. Mihali’s work.”

  The square below was filled with dozens—no, hundreds—of tables, and chairs around each one. Every table was fully occupied, with countless more people still standing, waiting for their turn at a place to sit. More people stood in line; men, women, children. The line stretched down the Martyrs’ Avenue and around the corner. Tamas leaned out, though it hurt to do so, searching for the head of the line.

  It was right below them. Long, rectangular tables—Tamas recognized them from the Hall of Lords—stretched the whole length of the building. The tables were covered in food. Mountains of bread. Vats of soup. Meat roasting on spits. More food than one would find at a king’s feast.

  Tamas turned on Olem. “Wipe that smug look off your face and help me down the stairs.”

  It took some time, but Tamas was able to hobble down to the front of the House of Nobles with Olem’s help. Tamas paused. The crowd had looked overwhelming from the top of the building. It looked twice the size from here. He paused, astonished, on the front step.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Tamas shuffled out of the way. A squad of soldiers moved past him, carrying a table from the Hall of Lords. They were followed by clerks bringing chairs and then a cook with a bowl of soup almost too big for her to carry. Everywhere he looked, people were either eating, waiting their turn, or helping. Accountants, soldiers, townsfolk, even sailors and dockworkers. It seemed as if everyone had been pressed into service.

  “I trust you’re responsible for this?”

  Tamas turned to find Ondraus. The reeve was furious. His spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, an old ledger clutched to his chest. His lip was curled up, and sweat poured from his brow. His face was red with shouting. “I can’t get anyone to go back to work! They say that Mihali asked for their help and then they just ignore me!”

  Tamas didn’t know what to say. He searched the crowd, looking for the tall, fat figure
of the master chef.

  “Where is this food coming from?” Ondraus said. “Who is paying for it?” He lifted his ledger and smacked it with one hand. “There are no records! No receipts. Not a krana is out of place, yet this! I can’t understand it. You said he had a Knack for food, but this is ridiculous! Nothing is free, Tamas. There has to be a price!”

  Tamas found himself drifting away from Ondraus, hobbling slowly, and soon the reeve’s voice was drowned out by the sound of conversation. He passed his gaze across the people. Merchants sat next to scullery maids, minor nobles shared their plates with sailors and street urchins. Tamas stumbled. A strong hand caught him, helped him right himself. Tamas turned to Olem. “I… I don’t understand.”

  Olem said nothing.

  Across the square, the gates of Sabletooth were open, and prison wagons rolled out and joined a long line of breadwagons waiting to be loaded down and sent to the far corners of the city. Tamas caught sight of blue uniforms—soldiers directing the wagons. “Who gave them permission?” Tamas asked, pointing to Sabletooth.

  “I’m sorry,” a great, booming voice said, “but you did.” As if from nowhere, Mihali appeared next to Tamas, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his apron. He wore a grin from ear to ear.

  “I did?” Tamas asked.

  “Aye,” Mihali said. Sheepishly, he added, “At least, that’s what I told them. But worry you not, they’ll be back when needed. I put one of your powder mages in command of the breadwagons. Vlora, I think her name was.”

  Tamas said, “Where’s Lady Winceslav? She was supposed to be in charge of the festival.”

  “Sir,” Olem said, “the Lady has gone into seclusion. Mihali has taken charge.”

  Tamas had no reply. He looked around and said to Mihali, “What have you done?”

  Mihali’s grin stretched even bigger, and Tamas thought he saw tears glisten in the corner of the big chef’s eyes. “I am… grateful,” he said. “I am grateful that you patched things up with the arch-diocel. I am grateful that you have finally welcomed me as one of your own. So in gratitude I have listened to the heart of the city. I’ve found what Adro needs, Field Marshal.”