A large parasol shaded Tamas from the midmorning sun. He sat on the front step of the House of Nobles, feeling better than he had for months, while he worked his way through a basket of rolls Mihali had left with him an hour ago.
“With your leg, you should be in bed,” Lady Winceslav said. “Are you sure you’re feeling well enough to be out?”
He looked her over once, noting her pallor, and wondered if he should ask the same.
“Of course, Lady. Never better.” Brave words, maybe, but the fact was his leg did feel better. He could almost feel it healing, his strength returning to him. He knew he had work to do, but damn it, none of it seemed to matter. For the first time since his wife’s death, he felt whole again.
Even Lady Winceslav seemed in better spirits. She’d braved the crowds despite her recent scandal with Brigadier Barat. She wasn’t directing the festival – that was all in Mihali’s hands now – but at least she was here.
“Do you think everyone will come?” she asked.
Tamas eyed the crowd. “I think the whole city is here, Lady.”
“I meant of the council.” She gave him a playful cuff on the arm.
“Ricard has been here since half past six,” Tamas said, “rolling out food and wine with the rest of his workers.” And under strict, but discreet, watch, until Adamat returned with evidence for or against his guilt. If the union boss knew anything about the attempt on Adamat’s life, he gave no sign.
“Has he?” She seemed surprised by this. “Incredible.”
“Ondraus is somewhere out there, yelling at his clerks,” Tamas said. “Olem says he saw the eunuch just an hour ago. Of Charlemund I haven’t seen hide or hair. And there” – he pointed – “is the vice-chancellor.”
Tamas watched Prime Lektor pick his way through the crowd. The birthmark spidering across his face looked darker than usual. The vice-chancellor eyed the food as he passed the serving tables, but he seemed to have something more important on his mind. He paused briefly at a stern look from Tamas’s bodyguards and then ducked under the parasol. He tipped his hat to Lady Winceslav.
“Seat?” Tamas asked, gesturing to one of the guards.
“Please,” Prime said. He observed the feast while waiting for a chair, and then took a seat next to Tamas. “You seem to be in unusually good spirits.”
“I do?” Tamas said. “I haven’t said two words.”
Prime cleared his throat. “I can sense it about you. It’s in the air. Like a first-year student who knows he’s going to be every professor’s favorite. It’s annoying.” Prime looked about again. He kept looking toward the serving tables and watching assistants bring out bowls and platters and everything else.
Tamas gave the vice-chancellor a sidelong glance. “Can’t you feel it?” he said. “It’s not just me. It’s the whole city. It’s… this.” He gestured to the feast, the tens of thousands gorging themselves on Mihali’s food without a care in the world. “The wealthy and the poor, the noble and the ignoble rubbing shoulders. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Prime gave the feast a long-suffering once-over. “You don’t believe this rubbish, do you?” he said. “About this chef being a god?” His eyes lingered on a pot of porridge.
Tamas hesitated, trying to read Prime’s tone. There was something off about it. Despite the gruff way he spoke, it almost sounded as if Prime wanted Tamas to say yes.
“Ha. A god? No. A powerful Knacked. A little mad, maybe. But harmless,” Tamas said. “But then again…” He raised a finger alongside his nose in a secretive gesture. “What does a god look like? What does a god do? Who am I to know one when I see him?” He shook his head with a laugh at Prime’s exasperated look. “Mihali is a gifted man. Greatly so. I don’t think a god, though. How about you? You’re probably the most qualified to know. You’ve every history of the Nine at your fingertips. Do any talk of Adom?”
“I realized a long time ago Kresimir would never return.” Prime fell quiet, and Tamas realized he had no idea how old the vice-chancellor was.
“And Adom…” Tamas prompted.
“He loved his food,” Prime admitted. “He’s the patron saint of chefs for a reason. He was a big man, strong, powerful, and” – he tracked one of Mihali’s female assistants with his eyes as she passed by, a platter of stuffed waterfowl balanced on one hand – “he was very popular with the women. He had over four hundred wives, and loved every one of them. Figuratively and literally.”
“Four hundred?” Tamas said. “I could barely handle one.” His throat caught on that, and he had to clear it. “You speak as if you knew him yourself.”
Prime said nothing.
“Sounds like Mihali is a pretty good candidate.”
“There are too many questions,” Prime said. “There hasn’t been a god on this earth for hundreds and hundreds of years. Kresimir left, off to resume his exploration of the cosmos. Novi and Brude went the same way just days after. The rest followed, or disappeared without fanfare. There was a rumor that one or two of them had remained behind…,” he said, trailing off.
Tamas exchanged a curious look with Lady Winceslav.
“Do you feel well?” Tamas asked.
Prime spared him a glance. “Would you believe me,” he said, “if I told you Mihali is a gifted sorcerer?”
“Without a doubt. Not a Privileged, though. A Knacked.”
Prime snorted. “A Knacked, my ass. What if I were to say, ‘the most powerful sorcerer in the world’? Or if I said that that’s all the gods ever were: immensely powerful sorcerers?”
“Hypothetically?” Tamas said, revealing his skepticism.
“The most powerful to ever live?”
“You’re joking.”
“It’s just a question,” Prime snapped.
“So what if he was?”
“The problem with logic,” Prime said, “is that sometimes you are forced to believe your own hypothesis, even if you don’t want to. What do you feel when you sense toward Mihali?”
“A Knacked, as I said. He has the soft glow to him. Less power than a Privileged by far.”
“Can you be sure?”
Tamas sighed. He opened his third eye and looked toward Mihali. There had to be many Knacked in such a large crowd, but Mihali was easy to find. Something about him stood out above the others. Yet his glow was no stronger.
“Yes,” Tamas said. He watched Prime’s face. The old man was frowning toward Mihali. “You don’t think it’s possible, do you? That he’s really a god?”
Prime closed his eyes and was quiet for several minutes. Tamas was beginning to wonder whether the old man had nodded off, when his eyes opened.
“Too many questions,” he said again.
“You said ‘the other gods,’” Tamas said, “I thought Kresimir was the only god.”
Prime shifted in his chair and watched a service-pressed clerk roll out a barrel of ale and gingerly move it down the front steps. “That’s not precisely true,” Prime said.
“It’s dogma,” Tamas said. “Charlemund reminded me so just the other day.”
“Just because something is church dogma does not make it true.”
“Well, certainly,” Tamas said, “any educated man…” He trailed off at Prime’s scowl.
“Educated men,” Prime said. “Bah. There were ten gods. Not one god and nine saints. Kresimir came initially, and then requested the help of his brothers and sisters to organize the Nine.”
“There’s ten gods?” Tamas said. He struggled to remember his history lessons. “I always thought Kez took Kresimir as their patron. Who is the tenth, then?”
Prime shook his head. “That’s the wrong question. You should be asking: if Mihali is a god, why is he here now?”