“I thought you were doing it on purpose,” Tamas said slowly. “Perhaps to convince us of your… godhood.”
Mihali gave him a shy smile. “I’ve never been a flashy god,” he said. “I leave that to Kresimir.”
“You’ve also been serving dishes very foreign to Adro,” Tamas said. “We don’t have eels in the Adsea, for instance. You use expensive spices like they were simply flour or water. I served in Gurla for a time. I know what these things can cost, and I know Ondraus doesn’t approve this kind of money for food. Is that your Knack? Producing food from thin air?”
Mihali scratched his thin mustache. “Yes, I’ve been kind of obvious, haven’t I? Should I… hide myself?”
“Maybe,” Tamas said. Mihali had the Knack, no doubt. Tamas might need his powers someday. Did he humor the madman chef? “Remain quiet, I think. As a precaution.”
“May I ask you what your dreams were about?”
“I remembered them when I first awoke,” Tamas said. “But now they’re fleeting. I think everyone I knew – no, not everyone, but most of the people I knew stood on the rim of South Pike and jumped into the mountain. My son was there too, though I don’t know what happened to him and…” He stopped, a memory coming back to him. “Someone stood on the rim with us. Someone I’d never seen before. His eyes were like fire, his hair like gold tinsel. He was urging everyone to jump in, and he held a knife to Taniel’s throat.”
“Can I tell you something?” Mihali said softly.
Tamas took a step closer to hear him better. “Certainly.”
Mihali took a cup from one of the women. “Thank you, Tasha,” he said. “I’ve been listening to the city.” Mihali added his mixture of herbs to the warm milk and stirred it with one thick finger. He handed it to Tamas. Almost absently, Tamas took a sip. His eyes widened. He’d had Fatrastan chocolate once or twice. It was too bitter. This had a similar taste, but sweeter, and with a hot, peppery bite. Spice burned his tongue and herbs soothed it, and it rushed warmly down his throat like the finest of brandy. He tilted the cup back, draining the last drop.
Mihali said, “There is danger and betrayal everywhere. Adopest is a bubbling cauldron, and the temperature must be lowered or it will boil over. Before Kresimir comes. I think… I think I need to prepare a welcome for my brother. Good night, Field Marshal.”
Tamas glanced down as Mihali took the mug from him. He heard Mihali say, as if from a distance, “You’ll need to carry him up to bed. He shouldn’t have any problem sleeping now.”
“Adamat, my old friend!”
Ricard Tumblar stood in the doorway to a small office, arms spread wide. The years had changed Ricard since Adamat had last seen him. His full head of curly brown hair had retreated halfway across his scalp and was touched with wisps of gray. He wore his beard long in the fashion of Fatrastan settlers. His expensive suit of camel hair was rumpled as if it had been slept in, and his cravat was askew. Adamat embraced his old friend.
“It’s good to see you, Ricard,” Adamat said.
Ricard grinned ear to ear. He took Adamat by the shoulders, looking him in the face like a long-lost brother. “How have you been?”
“Well enough,” Adamat said. “Yourself?”
“I certainly can’t complain. Please, sit.” He led Adamat into the office. It was a jumbled mess of books, half-empty bottles of brandy, and dirty plates of food. Ricard swept a pile of newspapers off a chair and went around behind his desk. He slid open a window with a grunt.
“Coel!” he shouted out the window. “Coel, bring us some wine. A bottle of the Pinny! Two glasses – no, better make it two bottles.”
He slid the window shut behind him, but not before the small room filled with the smell of dead fish and the brackish water of the Adsea. Ricard wrinkled his nose and produced a match from his breast pocket, lighting the half-burned butt of incense on a shelf above his desk. “I can’t abide that smell,” he said. “It’s everywhere down here, and we’re a half mile from the docks. But” – he shrugged – “what can I do? I have to be near where the action is.”
“I’ve heard great things about your progress with the union,” Adamat said. Not long after they graduated school, Ricard had started his first trade union. It had failed, as well as half a dozen others, perhaps because of the lack of manpower or because the police had been called in to shut him down. Ricard had been jailed five times. But persistence paid off, and five years ago Manhouch legalized the first trade union in the Nine.
Ricard’s smile grew wider, if possible. “The Noble Warriors of Labor. We’ve opened three chapter houses since the Elections, and we’re in talks with city councils to open six more by the end of the year. We’ve over a hundred thousand members, and my number crunchers tell me that is just the beginning. We could have a million members in another few years, maybe more. We’ve unionized metallurgy, coal coking, mining – all of Adro’s biggest industries.”
“Not all of them,” Adamat said. “I hear Hrusch Avenue is giving you problems.”
Ricard snorted. “Damned gunsmiths don’t want to unionize.”
“Can’t blame them,” Adamat said. “They already produce half the weapons used in all the Nine. They’re not worried about competition.”
“And it’d be the whole world if they unionized! Organization is key. Bah,” Ricard said. “What we’re really excited about is the canal going over the Charwood Pile and through Deliv. When that’s finished, we’ll have a direct route to the ocean from Adro, and there will be no limit on our production capabilities. Adro will finally have a shipping lane to the ocean.” He suddenly made a face. “But dear me, it’s rude to talk about my fortunes like this…” Ricard trailed off awkwardly.
Adamat waved dismissively. “You speak of my failed business? Think nothing of it. It was a gamble to begin with, and I bet the wrong way. I could blame it on the price of paper, or the stalwart competition…”
“Or the exploding printing press.”
“Or that,” Adamat said. “But I’ve still got my family and my friends, so I’m a rich man.”
“How is Faye?” Ricard asked.
“Quite well,” Adamat said. “She’s staying out in the country until things have stabilized a little more here in the capital. I’ve been thinking of having her remain until the war’s over, in fact.”
Ricard nodded. “War is the pit.”
A young man with scrawny arms and old, cast-off clothing entered the room with a bottle of wine and a pair of crystal wineglasses.
“I said two, damn you!” Ricard said.
The young man seemed unperturbed by Ricard’s shouting. “There was only one left.” He let the platter drop on Ricard’s desk with a clang and beat a hasty retreat, dodging a cuff from Ricard’s fist.
“Impossible to find good help,” Ricard said, steadying the wobbling bottle of wine.
“Indeed.”
Ricard poured the wine. The goblets were dirty, but the wine was chilled. They drank two glasses each before exchanging another word.
“You know why I’m here?” Adamat asked.
“Yes,” Ricard said. “Ask your questions; I’m no fop to take offense. You’ve got a job to do.”
This would be a relief, Adamat decided. He leaned forward. “Do you have any reason to see Field Marshal Tamas dead?”
Ricard scratched his beard. “I suppose. He’s been grumbling lately that he wants to see a reduction in the size of the union. Says we’re gaining too much power, too fast.” He spread his hands. “If he decides to put a cap on our manpower, or to tax our earnings heavily, it could cause a big problem for the Warriors.”
“Big enough to have him killed?”
“Certainly. But one has to weigh the benefits and risks. Tamas is tolerant of the unions – he supports their existence, despite our being outlawed for almost a thousand years now. Manhouch only allowed me to set up the Warriors because of the exorbitant taxes he planned on getting from us. We were able to dodge enough of them to make it cost-effective for us to exist.”