Promise of Blood (16 page)

Ka-poel glared.

Taniel looked away from her. Gothen was still across the street, fiddling with his private armory so that he’d be able to sit down comfortably on a stoop.

“I think one of them is reporting to Tamas,” Taniel said to Ka-poel. “Behind my back. Wouldn’t put it past Tamas. He’s never trusted me.” He rubbed his nose. “Thinks I’m still a kid.”

Ka-poel touched a fist to her heart and pointed at him.

“He loves me? Huh. Maybe he does,” Taniel said. “He’s my father, he’s supposed to—and Tamas always does the right thing. It’d just be nice if he
liked
me too.” He jerked his head toward Gothen. “I’ve never much liked mercenaries.” He gave a quick glance around to be sure none of the Wings of Adom were within earshot and continued. “They don’t work half as hard for the money you’re paying them and in the end they’d rather save their own skins than finish a job.”

Ka-poel seemed to think on this for a moment. She understood him well enough—when it was convenient for her—but it took her a few moments to catch up when he spoke too quickly.

She made the shape of a woman with her hands.

“Julene?”

She nodded and bared her teeth.

“I don’t like her either. She could have gotten us all killed against that Privileged. Even a Privileged—especially a Privileged—should know you don’t just walk up to one of them and think you’re going to get the drop. She acts like she knows she’s going to win every fight.”

Ka-poel pointed a finger at him.

Taniel chuckled. “Me? I
do know
I’m going to win every fight.”

He headed across the street and joined Gothen on the stoop.

“Where’s Julene?” he asked.

Gothen shrugged. “She comes and goes. She won’t be gone more than a couple hours, though, with us on a job.”

“Have you worked with her long?”

“Two years.”

“For Tamas?”

“A little over a year.”

“Where were you before that?”

“Kez.”

“Hunting powder mages?”

Gothen shifted uncomfortably. “A Warden that went mad. An ex-cabal Privileged. Mostly that kind of thing.”

“I’d imagine the money is good in Kez.” Taniel decided not to press him on the powder mages.

“Very,” Gothen said. “Things went bad for us working for a duke, though, and we were forced to get out of the country quick.”

Taniel made a mental note that Julene might have a grudge against the Kez. It certainly explained why Tamas liked her. “How does that work out?” he asked. “A magebreaker and a Privileged being partners. She can’t do sorcery anywhere close to you.”

Gothen gave a lopsided smile. “Not as bad as you’d think. I have to touch the Else”—he lifted his hands, though he wasn’t wearing his gloves—“to truly cut off a Privileged’s sorcery. Even then, I have to be within about ten feet of them.”

“Which is quite a task in itself,” Taniel said.

“Yeah.”

Taniel leaned back. “Magebreakers are very rare. I don’t think my father even knows how you work.”

“We
are
quite rare,” Gothen agreed. “I’ve met only one besides myself. Magebreakers aren’t born this way, not like Privileged or powder mages or Knacked.”

“Then how?”

“A conscious decision,” Gothen said. He had a faraway look in his eyes.

“Simple as that?”

“Simple as that. I reached out, I touched the Else, and I willed away all auras.” He pulled his Privileged gloves out of his pockets and showed them to Taniel. They were dark blue with gold runes—not the usual colored runes on white gloves of a Privileged. “My gloves turned this color instantly. A kind of polarizing, as I understand it. Now, when I touch the Else, the area around me becomes devoid of sorcery. Auras can’t be summoned, created, or manipulated. Even when I’m not touching the Else, auras will not come within about six inches of me.”

“Can it be reversed? If you wanted to be a Privileged again?”

“No.” Gothen returned the gloves to his pocket.

Privileged were the most powerful beings on earth. They threw lightning the way a child might a ball. They commanded the sea and the earth. Taniel couldn’t imagine giving up such power.

“Why?” he asked.

Gothen kicked at a paving stone beneath his boot. “I was a very weak Privileged. Barely strong enough to touch the Else, much less command auras. I failed the test to join the royal cabal. I was angry. I thought, if they wouldn’t take me off the street and share with me their wealth and power, then I would become what they feared most: untouchable by their sorcery.”

“I can respect that.”

Gothen returned the grin. “And now I make a lot of money tracking them down and killing them.”

“Have you killed many?”

Gothen held up five fingers.

Probably powder mages too, if he worked for the Kez. Gothen didn’t carry an air rifle, but a pistol would work if the powder mage was caught unawares. Taniel had heard of bounty hunters who used bullets with gold dust melted into them. Gold in a powder mage’s bloodstream prevented a Marked from sparking powder or entering a powder trance. Luckily, that particular technique was both expensive and unreliable.

“How do you feel about the Privileged we’re after?” Taniel asked.

A cloud touched Gothen’s face. “She’s very strong,” he said. “Stronger than any I’ve tracked. Julene says I’m just imagining it.”

“I don’t think so,” Taniel said. “I was there when she wrecked those buildings. Only you standing between us kept me from getting killed. I thank you for that.”

Gothen nodded uncertainly. “I think there’s something you should know.”

“What?”

“When I leapt in front of you, I was touching the Else. I was easily close enough to cut her off. She shouldn’t have been able to reach through. But she did. That’s never happened before.”

Taniel wiped away a bit of sweat beading on his brow. “You’d better warn your partner not to be too confident.”

“As if she’ll listen,” Gothen said. “There’s something almost… personal in this. As if she doesn’t want your help—pit, as if she doesn’t even want my help.”

Taniel snorted. “She’s welcome to go it alone.”

“To go what alone?”

Taniel started. Julene stood over them, a hand on one hip, a frown tugging at the scar on her face. She’d come upon them silently. Only Ka-poel seemed unsurprised by her arrival.

They sat in silence for a moment, Gothen trying to avoid Julene’s glare. He seemed to wither beneath her. Taniel climbed to his feet.

He was thrown down again almost instantly as the ground pitched beneath him.

“Earthquake!” someone shouted.

Tamas was leaning on the edge of his map table when the ground began to buck. He reeled backward, thrown against the wall and then tossed to the floor like he’d been hit by a cavalry charge. Plaster fell from the ceiling, obscuring the room in a haze of dust. Tamas clutched at the floor with both hands, stomach churning as he watched the table thump from side to side until a leg broke. It tumbled askew, jumping like a leaf in the wind. Decorations fell from shelves and furniture upended. Tamas heard panicked shouting out in the streets.

As quickly as it began, the earthquake was over. Tamas climbed to his feet, waving a cloud of plaster dust from his face. The room seemed intact, though most of the furniture was dashed to pieces. He breathed a sigh of relief that the whole house hadn’t caved in on them. Many of the buildings in this part of the city were old and unreliable, and he imagined plenty of people hadn’t been so lucky.

Olem had been thrown to the floor and a bookshelf had crashed down over him. Tamas’s legs wobbled unsteadily as if he’d been at sea for months. He crossed to the bookshelf and lifted it up.

Olem lay on his back, rubbing at his forehead with one hand, using the other to clear away the books that had fallen on him. He took Tamas’s proffered hand.

“You’ve blood on you, sir,” Olem said.

Tamas touched his forehead. His fingers came away crimson. “Don’t even feel it,” he said.

“Must have caught a piece of plaster,” Olem said.

Tamas looked up. There were several good-sized holes in the ceiling, one right above the command table. “Just a bump,” Tamas said. “I’m fine.” He surveyed the room, feeling dizzy. It would take hours to get things returned to order. His maps had been scattered. He swayed.

“You sure you’re all right, sir?” Olem asked. He put out one hand to steady Tamas.

Tamas waved him away. “Fine, fine. Let’s have a look at the damage outside.”

The street was in chaos. People emerged from their houses, yelling for help. Mercenaries tried to right field guns that had been tossed on their sides like they weighed nothing. Cobbles had popped from the street as if the ground had flexed beneath them. Whole rows of tightly packed apartment housing had crumbled, spilling bricks out into the road.

One of the Wings of Adom mercenaries paused before Tamas.

“There’s been an earthquake, sir,” the man said.

“Thank you, soldier. I gathered as much.”

The man rushed off, his eyes looking a little dazed. Tamas exchanged a glance with Olem. “We don’t get a lot of earthquakes here,” Tamas said.

Olem shook his head. “Not in my lifetime.”

Tamas turned around, assessing the damage. There would be parts of the city where things were worse, and parts where they were better. Tamas didn’t even want to think of the chaos this had caused at the docks.

“Does Sablethorn look like it’s leaning, sir?” Olem asked.

Tamas looked. The black spire, rising over the buildings to the west, did indeed look a little off. “At least it didn’t fall outright. Olem.”

“Sir?”

“Find some runners. I want damage assessment from the entire city. I want to know about the barricades. If some holes have opened up, it may be our chance to punch through them.”

“Now?”

“Definitely. General Westeven will take advantage of the chaos to move up his barricades and reinforce them with rubble from the quake. We need to take advantage as well.”

“You sure you’re unhurt, sir?”

“Positive. Go.”

Olem hurried off. Tamas waited until he was out of sight before he sagged against the wall behind him. His head throbbed from where he’d been hit. He could see figures scurrying over the barricade down the street, rushing out beyond them to snatch up bricks and masonry and throwing them back over.

“Ryze!” Tamas said.

The mercenary brigadier picked his way through the rubble to Tamas.

“Any of those guns operational?” Tamas asked.

“Axles are bent, wheels broken. We’ll need to call in some smiths to fix them.”

Tamas indicated the barricades. “Pass word among your boys to move up within firing distance. Don’t let Westeven reinforce his barricades.”

Ryze snapped a salute and spun off, barking orders to his men.

Tamas went back inside. He found a chair and righted it, and then rummaged through the mess until he found a spare coat. He wadded it up and pressed it against his head. He sank into the chair.

“You’ll have a nasty bump on your forehead.”

A man stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, surveying the damage within. He had long black hair, pulled back in a braided ponytail that hung over one shoulder, and a thin mustache. He was a big man, twenty stone or more, and a head and a half taller than Tamas. His skin had a slight yellow tint, hinting at some Rosvelean ancestry, but he spoke with the accent of a native Adran. He wore the brown pants and long, dirty white shirt of a city worker underneath a frayed jacket.

“Yes,” Tamas said, tenderly pressing his fingers to his temple. “I think I will. Are you a surgeon?”

The man looked down at his hands, surprised. “No, I think not. These pudgy hands have only one calling: the kitchens.”

“A cook?” He sent Olem away for just a minute and now any kind of riffraff just wandered in to his command center. “If you need help, I’m sure the soldiers outside are setting up a field hospital.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Cook?” he snapped. “Do I look like a cheap purveyor of watery soup and half-cooked meat? I’m a chef, damn it, and you watch who you call a cook in the future. Feelings are liable to get hurt.”

Tamas lowered his hand from his injured head and stared at the man. Who the pit did he think he was? Amusement turned to annoyance as the man entered the room and set a chair back on its legs near Tamas, taking a seat.

“Do you know who I am?” Tamas demanded.

The man waved a hand, using the other to adjust his big belly comfortably into his lap. “Field Marshal Tamas, unless I’m mistaken.”

The gall.
“And you are?”

The man removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. “It’s bloody hot in here. Where are my manners? I’m Mihali, son of Moaka, lord of the Golden Chefs.”

The Golden Chefs sounded familiar, but Tamas couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“Moaka?” Tamas asked. “The na-baron?”

“My father preferred to think of himself as a culinary expert above all else, Kresimir rest his soul.”

“Yes,” Tamas said. He touched his head gingerly. It seemed to have stopped bleeding, but his headache was getting worse. “I attended one of his galas once. The food was unparalleled. He passed on last year, didn’t he?” Even the son of a na-baron didn’t belong here. Where the blazes was Olem?

“He always cooked it all himself.” Mihali hung his head. “A pity. His heart gave out when he tasted my lamb soufflé. He was so proud of me, finally besting him.” Mihali stared off across the room, exploring memories.

“Pardon me,” Tamas said. The pounding inside his head began to increase. “Why the pit are you here?”

“Oh,” Mihali said. “Many apologies. I’m the god Adom reincarnated.”

Tamas couldn’t help it. He began to chuckle, then to laugh. He slapped his knee. “Saint Adom, eh? That’s a good one. Ow.” He clutched at his head. Laughing had not been a good idea.

“Saint,” Mihali grumbled. “I give order to chaos alongside Kresimir and these people relegate me to sainthood. Oh well, can’t win them all, can you?”

Tamas managed to stifle his chuckles. “By Kresimir, you’re serious?”

“Of course,” Mihali said. He put one hand over his heart. “I swear by my mother’s squash soup.”