“That would be perfect,” Nila said, smiling the first real smile she’d had in weeks.
Chapter 21
Tamas awoke to the sound of his own labored gasps. He sat up, leaning on his elbows, struggling to breathe. It felt like a millstone sat upon his chest. He kicked away the blankets that were wrapped around his feet and sat up, leaning over the edge of his bed.
He slept in his office on the top floor of the House of Nobles these days, forsaking the thick cushions of the royal sofa for a simple but comfortable soldier’s cot set up in the corner of the room. The cot, heavy-duty canvas, was soaked through with his sweat, as were his bedclothes and hair. He wrapped his arms about himself, suddenly shivering as his sweat began to cool. The clock, visible by bright moonlight, said it was half past three in the morning.
His dreams came back to him, like memories of long years ago, broken and blurry. His hands shook when he thought of them, and it wasn’t from the cold. Men died in his dreams – soldiers he’d known his whole life, friends and acquaintances, even enemies. Everyone he’d ever known. They lined the rim of South Pike Mountain and one by one they leapt into a fiery cauldron. Taniel was there too, though his fate was obscured. He shuddered. Where was Vlora in those dreams? He’d seen Sabon leap into that volcano, but where was Olem?
Tamas took a shaky breath. He made his way to the balcony window and stood for a moment, watching the full moon. The night sky was empty except for a single ribbon of cloud that formed a perfect circle around the moon. God’s eye. Tamas began to shiver again, violently, until the shivers turned to shudders. He gripped the wall with both hands until it passed.
He heard a familiar whine and looked down. “Hrusch,” he said to the hound. “I’m all right. Where’s Pitlau–” He stopped, the name disappearing in an involuntary cough. “Right. Sorry, boy.” He bent, offering the hound his hand. “I’ll take you on a hunt soon. Get your mind off things.”
Tamas found his slippers and ran fingers through his hair. He donned his dressing gown and opened the door to the hallway, blinking against the light. Olem stirred in a chair beside the door. Across from him, Vlora slept in another chair, leaning on her rifle, snoring softly. Farther down the hall a pair of guards waited beneath the lamplight. His commanders had doubled the guard after the Warden’s assassination attempt.
“Sir,” Olem said. He stubbed out a cigarette on the arm of his chair.
“Don’t you ever sleep?”
“No, sir. That’s why you hired me.”
“It was a joke, Olem.”
“I gathered.”
“Things quiet?” Tamas asked.
“Very, sir. Not a peep in the place.” Olem’s voice was quiet, subdued.
Tamas nodded at Vlora. “What’s she doing here?”
“Worried about you, sir.”
Tamas sighed.
“Are you OK, sir?”
Tamas gave a nod. “Bad dreams.”
“My grandmammie used to say bad dreams were bad omens,” Olem said.
Tamas glared at the soldier. “Thanks, that makes me feel much better. I’m going to get something to eat.” He shuffled down the hall.
Olem gave him some space, trailing along at ten paces all the way down the stairs. The trip six floors down to the kitchens seemed much longer in dark corridors, and Tamas had to admit that Olem was some comfort when shadows in doorways played upon his imagination, reaching for him from the darkness. He jumped once, thinking he saw the hunkering figure of a Warden waiting in a corner. Closer inspection revealed a coal-burning stove.
Tamas had hoped to find in the kitchens some scraps from last night’s dinner and be back up in his room in minutes, yet when he approached the kitchen, he saw the low glow of ovens and smelled fresh bread. His mouth began to water – a sure sign he was near Mihali’s cooking. He stepped into the room, pausing at a sight he didn’t expect.
Two women stood at one of the stoves. They worked over an enormous pan, as big as a wagon wheel, cracking eggs and tossing the shells to the side. Mihali stood just behind them – just behind them, his body pressed close to theirs, an arm on either side of the two women, hands moving nimbly above the pan. He added a dash of salt, then one hand dipped down, eliciting a startled giggle from one of the women before appearing again with his knife and a whole green pepper, nimbly slicing it into the pot.
Tamas cleared his throat. The two girls jumped, eyes growing wide at the sight of Tamas. Mihali stepped away from them, moving smoothly despite his girth, and grinned.
“Field Marshal!” he said. He wiped his hands on his apron and patted each girl on the cheek, then headed over to Tamas. “You look like you haven’t had a good night.”
“You look like you have,” Tamas said. “I’ve seen it all now: seduction by way of omelet.”
It was hard to tell in such poor light, but Mihali seemed to turn red in the face. “Simply early-morning lessons, Field Marshal,” he said. “Bellony and Tasha are the most promising of my pupils. They deserve extra attention.”
“Pupils?” Tamas asked. “I thought they were assistants.”
“Every assistant is a pupil. If they don’t learn, what good are they? Every master must be prepared to be bettered, as my father was before me. Someone will create more amazing dishes than I someday. Perhaps it will be one of these two.”
“I have doubts about that,” Tamas said. He glanced toward the two women. One was older, perhaps in her thirties, a handsome-faced woman with a body rounded in all the right places. The other was young and slightly plump with dimples on her cheeks. They watched Mihali more than they watched their pan, with expressions Tamas only saw on two types of people: young lovers and religious sycophants. Tamas wondered which they were.
“You are not sleeping well?” Mihali asked.
Tamas shrugged. “Bad dreams.”
“Bad omens, more like.”
Olem’s soft voice came from the doorway. “I told him.”
Mihali gave Tamas a critical look-over. “Warm milk.”
“That’s never worked for me,” Tamas said. “Do you ever sleep? It’s three in the morning.”
“Three forty-five,” Mihali said, though there were no clocks in the kitchen. “I’ve needed little sleep since I was a boy. Papa told me it was because of the god’s touch in me.”
“Your father believed you?” Tamas asked. “I don’t mean to be rude. You’d said before that he told you to keep quiet about being Adom reborn.”
“No offense taken.” Mihali edged over to an empty table and began to produce a number of small, clay spice bottles from his apron pockets. There were no labels, but he set them down in a very specific order on the table. “He believed me. He just knew of the problems I’d face if it became public knowledge.”
“And now?” Tamas said. “You’ve told me, and I think word is spreading about your claims.” He glanced at the two women. Which was it? Religious adoration, or love? Or both? They still watched Mihali, until one of them noticed that the omelet was smoking and turned around with a cry of dismay.
A smile played upon Mihali’s lips. He produced a mortar and pestle and began to grind herbs together. “My claims?” Mihali said. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“I… don’t know,” Tamas said. “It’s a lot to swallow. I’ve seen what you do with food – how you can make it appear. I’ve never heard of any sorcery like that. And I’ve seen the glow of the Knack around you.”
Mihali seemed startled by this. “You noticed?”
“Yes, well, you did it right in front of Olem and me.”
“Oh. No one is supposed to notice that. I usually pay better attention. Papa told me to hide it when I was a boy. Said the royal cabals or the Church would come for me if they found out.”
Tamas examined Mihali’s face for any sign of a lie. Mihali was concentrating on his work, combining herbs until he was satisfied with the result. He produced a dark powder and added it to the mixture. “Tasha,” he said. “Warm some goat’s milk, please.”