Promise of Blood (53 page)

“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.”

“What does it need?” Tamas whispered.

“The people are hungry,” Mihali said. He lifted his hands, spreading them to encompass the city. “The people need to be fed. They need bread and wine and soup and meat. But not just that. They need friendship.” He pointed to a minor noble, some viscount decked out in his finest foppish frills, who poured a bottle of St. Adom’s Festival wine into the cups of a half-dozen street urchins.

“They need companionship,” Mihali said. “They need love and brotherhood.” He turned to Tamas. He reached out with one hand, putting a palm to Tamas’s cheek. Instinct told Tamas to step back. He found that he couldn’t.

“You gorged them on the blood of the nobility,” Mihali said gently. “They drank, but were not filled. They ate of hatred and grew hungrier.” He took a deep breath. “Your intentions were… well, not pure, but just. Justice is never enough.” He let go of Tamas and turned to the square. “I will put things right,” he said. He puffed out his chest and spread his arms. “I will feed all of Adro. It is what they need.”

Mihali stopped one of his female assistants as she passed with a basket of bread for the wagons. “Bread is not enough,” he said. “Take meat and soup and cakes. Serve the poor on silver. Let the merchants sup from wooden bowls. Take food to every part of the city. The wagons will be protected.”

“How?” Tamas managed.

“I am Adom reborn,” Mihali said. “Adro must be united. My people will go to battle nourished.”

“Adom,” Tamas scoffed. He found he could put no strength behind it.

A man in a worker’s apron approached Mihali. “Sir,” he said slowly. Mihali turned. “Ricard Tumblar sent us over. He told us to help with whatever you need.”

“ ‘Us’?” Mihali asked.

The worker gestured. Behind him, other workers stretched out across the square, intermingled with the tables and the line, their aprons dirty with soot and burns and flour and blood. It looked as if the workers from every dock-front factory and riverside mill were there. The worker smiled. “He shut down the factories, sir. But we’ll still get paid as long as we come help.”

“The Noble Warriors of Labor, eh?” Mihali asked.

The man nodded. “All of us, sir.”

Mihali’s eyes grew wide. “Excellent! Come, I’ll show you where to help.”

Mihali wandered off, giving orders here, offering advice there. Tamas watched him go. “A remarkable man,” he said. “Mad or not.”

Nila didn’t like Mihali’s cooking.

It was beginning to destroy her resolve. Every day she could feel her hatred slipping. Every day she paid just a little less attention to Field Marshal Tamas’s habits, watched just a little less carefully for her chance to end his bloody campaign. She didn’t know how she knew, but it was the food that was doing it.

She tried getting her bread from Bakerstown. It just didn’t taste the same, and Mihali was giving away food for free in Elections Square.

Nila couldn’t wait any longer. It had to be done tonight. Olem was on duty, but that couldn’t be helped. She liked him, she really did. He’d been kinder to her the last few days than any man she’d met in her time under Duke Eldaminse. But Tamas had to be stopped.

She did the lower officers’ laundry first, after everyone had gone to bed. She went about her routine as usual, scrubbing and boiling and ironing, and then returning uniforms to their owners’ rooms. She waited to fetch the field marshal’s clothes till last. She always did. They were given special attention.

The hallway to the field marshal’s office had four guards. They recognized her now. Nila even knew a few by name. Since Olem had begun courting her, no one’s eyes lingered nor did anyone say anything untoward. They let her pass without comment, but it worried her that Olem wasn’t there. What if he was inside?

The field marshal’s rooms were dark. She made her way by feel and memory, and by a sliver of moonlight coming in through the balcony windows. She satisfied herself that Olem was not anywhere in the darkness, and came up beside the field marshal. He snored softly, sleeping on his back on his cot. Nila drew a hidden dagger from her sleeve and paused.

Field Marshal Tamas’s brow and cheeks were covered in sweat. He muttered something and shifted.

She lifted her knife.

“Erika!” Tamas started in his sleep.

Nila froze. He settled back down to his cot, still deep in sleep. She took several breaths to steady her hand.

“Nila,” someone whispered.

Nila closed her eyes. The door to the office opened a crack. “Nila,” the voice whispered again. It was Olem.

She returned the knife to her sleeve and took the field marshal’s uniform from where it hung over a chair. She slipped out the door. She would find out what Olem wanted and be rid of him. She still had to wash and return the clothing. There’d be another opportunity then.

Olem waited for her in the hallway. The other guards pretended not to notice as he took her hand and gave her a kiss on the cheek. His lips were warm.

“Thought I’d missed you,” he said, walking with her down the hall.

“No.” She forced a welcoming smile on her face.

He linked arms with her. “I’m glad,” he said. “I don’t get much time off. With my Knack and all, the field marshal likes me to put in extra hours.”

“Of course.” She paused. “You should take more time for yourself.”

“I would like to. But only to be with you.”

That wouldn’t do at all.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure about what?”

“That you want to be with me?” She stopped and slipped her arm out of his. “Why do you come to
me
, Olem? I’m not a good prospect. I’ve no family or connections, and you’ve not tried to force yourself on me. I don’t understand you.”

The corner of Olem’s mouth lifted. “When the time’s right, I won’t have to force you.”

She smacked his shoulder, her cheeks flushing despite herself.

He laughed. “Come here,” he said. “I want to show you something.” He took her arm again and led her down a side hallway. “You know,” he said, “I wondered about you after you disappeared from the Eldaminse townhouse.”

“You did?”

“I wondered especially when we couldn’t find the Eldaminse boy.”

Nila tripped, and would have fallen if Olem didn’t have her arm. Her heart began to hammer in her chest.

Olem continued, “Then I saw you at the barricades. I couldn’t get to you. I couldn’t leave the field marshal in the chaos of things, but I asked the men not to hurt you when they fetched the boy.”

Nila felt her whole body shaking. Olem knew. He’d known all along that she was a royalist. Why had it taken him so long to call her out? Why wasn’t she leaning over a headsman’s block instead of strolling down the hall with him?

Olem stopped beside a soldier at a door at the end of one hall. The soldier saluted him, and he acknowledged by touching a finger to his forehead. The soldier opened the door for them.

Here it was, Nila thought. She was about to be put under guard. Hidden away until the next round of beheadings. Would they send her straight to Sabletooth? She still had her knife. She could attack Olem… but he’d expect that. She’d wait until he was gone and another guard had taken his place.

The room was dark except for a single lantern on a table by a window. It didn’t look like a prison cell. There was a bed, a writing desk, and a divan. An old woman dressed in servant’s clothes snoozed in a chair next to the bed.

“Go on,” Olem said quietly.

She entered the room. Olem crossed over to the lantern and picked it up. There was something on the table next to the lantern. A toy horse made of wood. Nila found herself kneeling by the bedside. There was a form there, sleeping soundly, bundled up to the chin beneath blankets.

Jakob looked healthier. His hair had been cut and dyed, his cheeks fuller, and there were now smile lines at the corners of his mouth.

“Tamas is not the heartless man most people think he is,” Olem said. “He won’t kill an innocent child. He sent no one to the guillotine under the age of seventeen on the day of the Elections. He had a rumor started that all the children of the nobility were strangled quietly in order to explain away their disappearance.”

Nila brushed her fingers across Jakob’s forehead. “What happened to them? What will happen to him?”

“Sent away,” Olem said. “Some to Novi or Rosvel. Some to the countryside.”

“Can I see him when he’s awake?”

“No. He mustn’t know anyone from his former life. He mustn’t grow up thinking he’s something special. He’ll be sent to live on a farm, where his life will be hard but not dangerous or complex. He might marry a laundress someday. But he’ll never be king.”

Nila knelt beside Jakob’s bedside for several minutes before Olem drew her away. The lamp was returned, and the guard locked the door to the nursery behind them. Around the corner, Nila clutched the field marshal’s uniform to her chest.

Olem stood, hands clasped behind his back, face serious. “You must hate us,” he said. “For destroying your world. I’m sorry for that. But Tamas… all of us… we did it so that the commoners can know a good life someday. So that we are no longer slaves.”

“I was happy, I think,” Nila said.

“The best kind of slavery,” Olem said. “But still slavery.” He fell silent for a couple of moments. “I’ll understand if you want a transfer away from the field marshal. It must be hard for you, knowing what he did to people you once served. He’ll be furious. He says you’re the first laundress to starch his collars right since he was in Gurla.”

“And you?” Nila said.

Olem struck a match and lit a cigarette, letting out a long sigh. “You can’t like someone knowing your secret. The field marshal pardoned the royalists, but there’s still no trust of them in the army. I won’t tell anyone. And I’ll leave you alone.”