But when he had a bit of powder, he was as alive and awake as always.
Taniel took a pinch of the powder and raised it to his nose. He stopped. Lowered it and rewrapped the powder charge. He found a match and struck it, touching it to the lamp beside the bed. The shed was suddenly thrown into the light.
He got his rifle out from beneath the bed and began to clean it. The process calmed him, let him think. He pulled his mind away from Ka-poel, lying there in his bed, and away from the provosts and General Ket, and away from his father’s death and the Kez army’s inexorable push into Adro.
Taniel finished with the rifle and cleaned his pistols, then wrapped a few dozen powder charges. He looked at that powder. He needed it. Wanted it.
He didn’t let himself take any.
His bayonet was last. He took it out of its leather wrappings and examined it in the light of the lamp. There was a bit of dried blood in one of the grooves. He picked it off, then polished the metal. He felt the bed move a little and looked up.
Ka-poel lay on her side, one hand resting on her hip, the other propped beneath her head. She watched him with those green eyes. Her shirt had ridden up a bit and he could see the ashen freckles at her waist and the sharp curve of her hips. He felt his heart beat faster.
“I have to kill Kresimir,” Taniel said. “For good this time. But I don’t know how to do it.”
Ka-poel moved to the edge of the bed. She leaned over, reaching beneath the bed, and opened her satchel. She fished around a little bit before coming back up with a doll.
Taniel swallowed hard. The doll had been shaped from wax into the perfect resemblance of a person. Gold hair, a handsome face, stout shoulders, and almost feminine lips. Taniel knew that face. He’d seen it on the man who’d stepped out of a cloud after descending from the heavens.
Kresimir.
She’d never seen Kresimir. At least, so he thought. How could she know what he looks like?
“I don’t think even your magic is strong enough to kill a god,” Taniel said. “I shot him with two redstripes.”
Ka-poel touched a finger to her chin thoughtfully. She slowly drew the finger down her throat and then over her shirt, between her breasts. It stopped, then back to her throat. She made a cutting motion, then spread her hand.
“Blood?” Taniel asked, his throat dry.
She nodded.
“Kresimir’s blood?”
Another nod.
“I’ll never get close enough.”
She mouthed a word. Try.
“You want me to throw myself at a god, hoping I can draw his blood?”
Ka-poel swung her legs around to the edge of the bed. She took the bayonet out of his hands and set it on the bedside table. She lowered herself into his lap, legs straddling his own.
“Pole, I don’t…”
She put a finger to his lips. He remembered the mala den back in Adopest. With her pressed firmly against him in the hammock, her face so close. He shuddered.
Ka-poel put two fingers to her lips, then pushed them against his forehead. She mouthed a word.
It wasn’t spoken, but still seemed to echo in his mind.
Sleep.
Sleep.
He felt his back hit the bed and his eyelids shut, suddenly weighty as millstones.
Sleep.
“Why are you courting Lady Winceslav?” Nila asked.
The centerpiece of the dining room of Lord Vetas’s city manor was a long ironwood table that could seat sixteen. Vetas sat at the head of the table, his plate empty, a glass of red wine in his right hand, his left lying flat on the table with fingers spread. Nila sat on his right. Jakob sat on his left, and Faye sat beside Nila.
When Nila was a girl, she used to dream of attending fine dinner parties, admiring her reflection in the polished silverware and drinking from a wineglass rimmed with gold. She never imagined that dream would turn into a nightmare.
For ten days now they’d been eating with Vetas every evening. Despite the normal bustle and the number of men around the house – upward of sixty some days – dinnertime was always quiet. He used the time to instruct Nila in proper dining etiquette, and to shower Jakob with compliments, praise, and gifts. Nila hated every minute of it. Vetas filled every moment with mundane chatter, going on with some instruction or asking them all questions about themselves.
Nila knew better than to take this as some kind of friendliness. Vetas was prying. Finding out new things about them and filing them away in that insidious mind of his.
He never let anything slip about himself, of course. He was a master at deflecting questions. Which was why Nila was surprised when he answered hers.
“Lady Winceslav,” he said, “owns the Wings of Adom mercenary company. You’ve heard of them, I trust?”
“Everyone has,” Nila said. She glanced at Faye. The housewife sat stiff in her chair, staring at the empty place setting beside Jakob. Each of the last ten nights, that place had been occupied by her son, Josep, a boy of fifteen or sixteen, who was missing the ring finger of his right hand. Tonight that chair was empty.
“Most everyone, yes,” Vetas said. “Right now they are employed against the Kez army. I’d like to employ them elsewhere.”
Nila moved the food around on her porcelain plate. She didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to look at Vetas’s soulless face anymore. “And that’s it? They’re mercenaries. Can’t you just… hire them?”
“That’s it,” Vetas said. He gave her a tight smile.
That wasn’t it, of course. There was some other reason why he was courting the Lady. Perhaps he wanted to hire the mercenaries as well, but his plans couldn’t be that simple. Nila didn’t care. She just wanted dinner to be over. It wouldn’t be, though. Not until Vetas said it was.
“You want to use her,” Nila said.
“Hmm?” Vetas lifted his wineglass to his lips.
“For whatever all this is about.” Nila gestured down the table. Aside from the place settings here at one end, the table was covered with papers – correspondence, receipts, lists; everything involved with Lord Vetas’s affairs. She’d read a few, when she’d gotten the chance. None of them seemed to mean anything.
Vetas smiled at Jakob. “The Lady Winceslav is an eligible widow and a very intelligent woman. She’d make a wonderful wife.”
“A wife?” The word came out in a burst of laughter. Nila covered her mouth, petrified at the outburst.
“Yes,” Vetas said, as if he’d not heard the disbelief in her voice. “A wife.” He leaned toward Jakob. “You understand that every lord needs a good wife, and it’s important to marry someone with connections.”
“Yes, Uncle Vetas.”
“Good child.”
“Uncle Vetas, I thought that the nobility of Adro no longer existed.”
Vetas gave the boy a nod. “The nobility of Adro is in hiding, my boy. Remember, you’re heir to the crown. Someday the nobility will return, and when it does, you will be at their head.”
Nila ceased moving the fork around her plate. This was the first she’d heard Vetas say anything about the nobility. She’d always assumed that Jakob, in his capacity as next in line for the crown, fit into Vetas’s plans somehow, but he’d never spoken of it.
She waited for Vetas to go on. Instead, Vetas took a sip of his wine.
Faye was still staring at the empty place setting across from her. She’d begun to rock back and forth slightly, her mouth hanging open, her forehead wrinkled.
“You’re just using everyone,” Nila said. “Me. Jakob. Lady Winceslav.” What is your plan? Nila wanted to shout. Why are you in Adopest?
Vetas looked slightly surprised. “Of course I am. That’s what nobles do. But,” he said, reaching over and patting Jakob affectionately on one hand, “it’s all for your protection. The duty of the nobility is to protect the people, no matter what kind of distasteful things they have to do.”