Promise of Blood (40 page)

“Everyone?” Tamas asked. “If that was the case, there’d be more people here, if only for the free food.”

Lady Winceslav sniffed. “You know what I mean. There are even some amateur kennelmasters here from North Johal. Freed peasants. They’re rough men, but they seem to know their hounds.” She poked Tamas in the chest with one slender, slightly wrinkled finger. “Saint Adom’s Festival cannot begin without the Orchard Valley Hunt. I simply won’t let it happen. Now, the draggers have already begun laying the scent. The hunt will begin in twenty minutes. Get Hrusch to the starting line. The stable master will have a hunter ready for you to ride.”

Tamas and Olem found their mounts and headed out to the kennels, where the official hunt would begin. A chalk line had been dusted on the trimmed grass spanning an entire field. Hundreds of men and women sat atop their hunters. Some held their hounds on leashes, others by command alone, while a number of the wealthier participants had kennelmasters on foot beside them.

Tamas took a place at one end of the line. There were more people out here than he expected, and a far greater number of hounds. “She really meant it when she said she had invited everyone. Half these people aren’t even wearing hunt colors.” He bit back a comment. It was a damned time to complain. It would still be fine colors and nobility if it weren’t for him.

“Aye,” Olem said. “I’m glad there’s anyone here at all. Would be a sad start to the festival without a hunt.”

“Did Lady Winceslav pay you to say that?” Tamas said. Olem was a soldier, risen from the peasantry to his current position. He had no attachment to the hunt.

Olem looked surprised. “No, sir.” He flicked the end of his cigarette into the grass and immediately began rolling another.

“I’m joking, Olem.” Tamas glanced about, grimacing at the sight of a peasant on a mangy-looking mare with two hounds and an off-red coat that didn’t come close to hunt colors.

In a few minutes’ time the horn was blown and the hounds were off. Tamas began at a slow canter, watching Hrusch fly off ahead of the rest of the animals in the direction of the scent. It wasn’t long before the dogs disappeared into the woods. Tamas urged himself ahead of the rest of the riders until he reached the woods, then slacked off and let himself be passed. He closed his eyes, listening to the softening bays of the hounds, the sound soothing to his ears.

He opened his eyes after some time to find himself alone with Olem. The bodyguard’s hunter trotted along beside Tamas’s. Olem’s eyes scanned the surrounding brush with the vigil of a hawk.

“Do you ever relax?” Tamas asked.

“Not since the Warden, sir.”

Tamas could see horses up ahead, and hear others behind them. The huntsmen had begun to spread out in order to enjoy themselves while the hounds ran themselves to exhaustion. The sport would last all day, either until one of the hounds caught up with the volunteer dragging the scent or until they reached the end point of the race. Last year, Pitlaugh had found the volunteer halfway through the day, earning the ire of Adro’s nobility for cutting short their hunt, and earning himself a flank of steer from Tamas.

Tamas brushed off memories of past hunts and turned to Olem. “It wasn’t your fault. They’ll send more Wardens at me. You’ll do little against one of them.”

Olem rested one hand lightly on his pistol. “Don’t write me off so quickly, sir. I can cause more damage than you’d guess.”

“Of course,” Tamas said gently. He felt more relaxed than he had in, well, it seemed like years. He let his mind wander, enjoying the cool breeze through the trees and the periodic splash of warm sun on his face. It was a perfect, blue-sky day for the Orchard Valley Hunt.

“A question, sir.” Olem’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“If it has to do with the Kez, I don’t want to hear it.”

“I was wondering what you’ll do with Mihali, sir?”

Tamas stirred himself out of his reverie and gave Olem’s back an annoyed glance as the soldier searched the woods with his eyes. “I think I’m sending him back to Hassenbur,” Tamas said.

Olem gave Tamas a sharp look.

Tamas said, “Not you, too? I’d expect the common soldiers to grow attached, but not you.”

“I
am
a common soldier, sir. But you stated his worth yourself,” Olem said. “Creating food from thin air.”

“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.