The field marshal sat on the edge of an operating table, an impromptu surgery set up in a side room in the House of Nobles. He wore nothing but a towel around his waist and Adamat was amazed at the number of old scars crisscrossing Tamas’s chest. Some were from swords, one that looked like a knife wound, and three pink, faded welts from bullet wounds. He had a bump on his head visible even under his graying hair, and his right leg was red and swollen. To one side, a doctor in a white coat examined his instruments with care.
So Tamas was alive, though the worse for wear. The gossip columns would kill to find out what happened over on Palo Street yesterday and where Tamas had been the two days prior. Adamat decided not to ask.
Tamas nodded. “Have you found my traitor?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Not to offer excuses, but I’m doing the work of twenty men.”
“We’re paying you well, are we not?”
“Not exactly, and pay doesn’t make the work go any faster. I have interviews and research to conduct and a great deal of traveling.”
“ ‘Not exactly’?”
“I’m investigating the reeve, sir. I’m not going to interrogate him and then ask for a check.”
Tamas snorted. “Olem, see that the good investigator gets paid.”
The bodyguard in the corner paused his pacing long enough to give a brisk nod.
“Surely you have suspicions?”
“Always,” Adamat said. “But no hard proof.”
“I have here a letter,” Tamas said, gesturing to his desk, “from my son Taniel. He is at Shouldercrown with the Mountainwatch, helping fend off the Kez attack. It seems he and Privileged Borbador are in agreement that a powerful sorceress has joined the Kez side and seeks to lead the Kez Cabal through the fortress and up to Kresim Kurga, where they will attempt to summon Kresimir.”
Adamat felt his mouth hanging open. “That’s absurd.”
“Quite,” Tamas said. “Men under siege can often lose perspective. What’s more, my son is not well.” Tamas did not elaborate on this. “Yet I am forced to make contingencies. The Kez may have developed a new weapon or…” He glanced out the window and grimaced. “This business about Kresimir’s Promise… did you find out anything else about it in your research? Anything to indicate that Kresimir needed to be summoned, or in what manner he would try to seek revenge for his dead king?”
Adamat said, “No. As I told you, my research came up with nothing. Passages were ripped completely from the books, expunged by someone who didn’t want this information known.” This alone had troubled Adamat from the beginning. But he was not one to speculate. “My knowledge of Kresimir’s Promise comes from Privileged Borbador alone.”
“That is unfortunate.” Tamas touched a hand to his forehead and swayed slightly. He was not well. “I hesitate to give in to hysteria, but I must guard against the possibility that there is some truth to it. Bah! Summoning gods. Who thinks of such things? I have sent the fourth brigade to Shouldercrown. That should be more than enough to hold the pass against the Kez.” He made a dismissive gesture. “I am sorry I interrupted your investigation, Inspector. I did want to tell you one thing before you go.”
“Sir?”
“If I do not survive this surgery, or my recovery goes badly, I want you to continue your investigation.”
Adamat felt a thrill of fear. “With all due respect, sir, I’d be dead in a ditch within hours. I suspect only fear of suspicion keeps me from falling prey to assassins. Fear of you, to be precise.”
“You will have a guard,” Tamas said. “If I am dead, justice will be served not from a trial but from cold steel. The seventh brigade will assist you with some glee, I suspect.”
Tamas really thought he might die. Adamat’s fear deepened. If Tamas died, everything would fall apart. Especially with such contingency. The army would go after the rest of the councillors; every man would be for himself. Chaos would descend upon the country. There would be no winners. And if he lived, Adamat would be forced to continue to betray him, telling all to Lord Vetas. Where had his integrity gone? For the hundredth time, Adamat weighed the risks of telling Tamas all and asking for his help. No, he decided again. His family’s safety was more important than integrity or honor.
Adamat’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a tall, fat man with long black hair tucked back in a ponytail behind him. He carried himself like a king, though he wore the apron and tall hat of a chef. He held a silver tray above his head and a ladle big enough to brain in a man’s head hung from his apron.
Tamas regarded him with some wariness. “Mihali?”
“Field Marshal,” Mihali said. “I’ve brought you a broth to drink before your surgery. It will aid in your recovery, I think.”
The doctor scowled at Mihali. “No food or drink,” he said.
“I insist!” Mihali held the tray out for Tamas.
“Absolutely not. Food or drink can cause complications during the surgery, I…”
Tamas waved the doctor off. “I think I will manage,” Tamas said. “You aren’t even giving me ether.”
Adamat was about to slip off, leaving Tamas to his broth and surgery, when the door burst open. Adamat recognized the arch-diocel by the robes he wore, if not by his face. Charlemund was a man with a fearsome reputation, and he did not give many public sermons. He was not well liked among the lower classes, as arch-diocels went.
“Tamas,” Charlemund said. “I am glad to see you alive and safe, but I’ve come on business. My men say your soldiers will not give up this blasphemous cook of yours. There was some kind of scuffle yesterday when my guard tried to come for him…”
He paused, a frown crossing his face when he saw Mihali, Adamat, and the rest.
“Surely Mihali is of little import,” Tamas said.
“If it were my choice, I would leave him in your hands. What is a mad cook to me? Yet arch-diocels more zealous in the faith than I are demanding his arrest. They are putting pressure on me, Tamas. They are threatening the Church’s neutrality.”
“You’ll have my decision later,” Tamas said.
“I must insist that it be now.” Charlemund squared his shoulders. His gaze fell on Mihali. “You are he, are you not? The blasphemous cook?”
Mihali set the platter down gently beside Tamas and turned to Charlemund. He took a deep breath, sucking in his enormous gut. “I am a chef, sir, and you will speak to me as such.”
“A chef! Ha!” Charlemund threw his head back and laughed. His hand went to the hilt of his smallsword. “Tamas, I arrest this man in the name of the Church.”
“Get out.”
The words were quiet, yet Adamat felt as if all warmth had been sucked from the room. He turned to Tamas, but it wasn’t Tamas who had spoken. It had been the chef.
“How dare you.” Charlemund drew a handspan of steel.
“Get out!” Mihali bellowed. His ladle appeared in his hand, for all the world like he was holding a sword. The large end pointed steadily at Charlemund’s nose. “I will not have you here. You false priest, you abhorrent fool! Give me a reason and I will strike you down!”
Charlemund’s face contorted with rage. “What kind of madness is this? I arrest you in the name of the Church! I don’t fear your ladle, you ungodly glutton!”
Mihali advanced suddenly upon Charlemund. The arch-diocel backpedaled a few steps, drew his sword, and lunged. Mihali caught the blade with his ladle, swung it expertly to one side, and backhanded Charlemund hard enough to throw him over the sofa.
The room was silent. Olem rushed to Charlemund’s side.
“Did you just kill the arch-diocel?” Adamat asked.
Mihali sniffed. “I should have,” he said. “Drink your broth, Field Marshal.” He left the room without another word.
“He’s alive, sir,” Olem said. “Unconscious.”
Adamat exchanged a glance with Tamas. He could see his own disbelief reflected in Tamas’s eyes. The field marshal held his leg in pain. “Olem, see that the arch-diocel is put in a room downstairs. Let it be known he had a bad fall down the stairs. Find witnesses. Inspector, I’m sure you saw it.”