Brian McCLELLAN - Promise of Blood

“I agree,” Ondraus said.

The reeve entered the room at a slow walk, cane in one hand, a thick ledger under the other arm. He crossed the room and tossed the ledger down on the king’s desk, then dropped down in the chair behind it. Tamas stifled a protest.

Ondraus opened the book. Tamas would have sworn dust rose from the thing. He stepped closer. It was an ancient tome, with gold-thread lettering stitched onto the front – a word in Old Deliv. Something about money, Tamas guessed. The pages themselves seemed almost black. Closer inspection revealed tiny writing – letters and numbers boxed off, written so densely as to require a looking glass to see the actual figures.

“The king’s treasury is empty,” Ondraus announced. He produced a looking glass from his pocket and set it on the page, peering through it as he perused a few numbers at random.

Ricard inhaled sharply, choking on a sugar cake.

Tamas stared at the reeve. “How?”

“I haven’t seen this thing since the Iron King died,” Ondraus said, gesturing at the tome. “It records every transaction made in the name of the crown for the last hundred years, to the krana. It’s been in the hands of Manhouch’s personal accountants since he took the throne. They kept solid records; that’s the best I can say for them. According to this, there’s not a krana in the king’s treasury.”

Tamas made a fist to stop his hands from shaking. How would he pay his soldiers? How would he feed the poor and bankroll the police forces? Tamas needed hundreds of millions – he’d hoped for at least tens.

“Taxes,” Ondraus said, closing the ledger with a thump. “We’ll have to raise taxes first thing.”

“No,” Tamas said. “You know that’s not an option. If we replace Manhouch with even higher taxes, stricter control, then it’ll be our heads in a basket within a year.”

“Why should we raise the taxes?” Arch-Diocel Charlemund swept into the room, long, purple robes of office trailing behind him. He was a tall man, strong and athletic, who’d not lost the power of his youth in middle age like most men. He had a square face and evenly set brown eyes, his cheeks clean-shaven. He was swathed in fine furs and silk, with a round, gilded hat upon his head. There were rings on his fingers with enough gold and precious stones to buy a dozen mansions. But that wasn’t uncommon for an arch-diocel of the Kresim Church.

“I see you brought the whole wardrobe,” Ricard said.

Tamas inclined his head. “Charlemund,” he said.

The arch-diocel sniffed. “I’m a man of the Rope,” he said. “I have a title you may use, though it weighs upon me to inflict it.”

“Your Eminence!” Ricard mimed removing a hat from his head and bowed low to the ground.

“I wouldn’t expect a man like you to understand,” the arch-diocel said to Ricard. “I’d call you out, but you’re too much of a coward to duel.”

“I have men to do that for me,” Ricard said. There was the slightest fear in his eye. The arch-diocel had been the finest swordsman in all the Nine before his appointment to the Rope and he was still known to call men out on occasion and – priest or not – gut them mercilessly.

“Property,” Tamas said to the reeve. “We own half of Adro now, what with every nobleman and his heir about to find himself tasting the guillotine’s edge. Ondraus, I expect you’ll take great delight in this: dissolve the property. Slowly, but fast enough to fund all the projects we’ve discussed. Sell it outside the country if need be, but get us some damned money.”

“There were plans for that property,” the arch-diocel said.

“Yes, and–”

“What is being done with the property?”

Tamas sighed. Lady Winceslav entered the room in a gown that could easily compete with the arch-diocel’s robes for whose used the greater amount of cloth and jewels in the tailoring. She was a woman of about fifty years with high cheekbones and a slim waist, diamonds in her earrings. She owned the Wings of Adom, the most prestigious mercenary force in the world, and was a native Adran. Her forces had been quietly pulled out of foreign postings and recalled to Adro over the last few months in preparation for the coup, and Tamas knew he’d need them desperately in the time to come.

Close behind her followed a big, bald man in a one-piece robe: the Proprietor’s eunuch. Finally, Prime Lektor – Vice-Chancellor of Adopest University – came in behind them. He was easily as old as the reeve and weighed ten stone more. He staggered over to a chair.

All six of Tamas’s coconspirators had arrived: five men and a woman who had helped him plan Manhouch’s downfall and who would now determine the future of Adro.

“By the pit, Tamas,” the vice-chancellor said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. A purple birthmark spidered across the lower left side of his face, touching his lips and one eye. He wore a beard, but no hair would grow on the birthmark, giving the old scholar a particularly barbaric appearance. “You had to choose the top floor? You’re going to regret it in a few years when your bones start to weary.”

“Lady,” Tamas said, nodding to Lady Winceslav, then to the vice-chancellor and to the eunuch. “Prime. Eunuch. Thank you for coming.”

The eunuch slid over to the corner and glanced out a window. He moved like an eel and smelled like southern spices, but the Proprietor, the strongest figure in Adopest’s criminal element, never attended these meetings personally – he sent his nameless lieutenant instead. “We had little choice,” the eunuch said. His voice was soft, like a child speaking in church. “You moved up the timeline.”

“There’s more,” Charlemund said. His voice thundered unnecessarily. “He’s trying to claim the property we’ve confiscated from the nobility.”

Tamas held his hands up to calm a sudden clamor of voices. He glared at the arch-diocel. “We’re not here to carve up Adro,” he snapped. “We’re here to give it back to the people. The king’s treasury is empty. If we’re to keep any semblance of control over the nation in the next few years, we desperately need the money. Your mercenaries will have land, Lady, and Ricard your union will have its grants. Everyone will get a cut.”

“Fifteen percent for the Church,” the arch-diocel demanded quietly, studying his nails.

“Go to the pit,” Ricard snapped.

“I’ll send you there,” the arch-diocel said, stepping toward Ricard. A hand went into his robes. Ricard scrambled backward.

“Charlemund!” Tamas said.

The arch-diocel stopped, turned to Tamas. “The Church will collect its normal fifteen-percent tithe. This was the price of our support.”

“The price?” Tamas said. “I thought this coup was sanctioned by the Church because Manhouch was letting his people starve. Or was it because Manhouch was taxing the Church in order to pay for his palace of concubines? I don’t remember which. The Church will get five percent and be happy with it.”

The arch-diocel took a step toward Tamas. “How dare you.”

Tamas matched the step. His hand twitched toward the small sword at his hip. “Call me out,” Tamas said. “I’ll make it interesting and not choose pistols.”

The arch-diocel hesitated. A smirk stirred at the corner of his lips. “If I were to remove you, this nation would collapse into chaos and anarchy,” he said. “My first charge is toward my God. My second charge is to my country. I will speak to my fellow arch-diocels and see what I can do.” He removed his hands from the robe, spreading them in a gesture of peace.

Tamas gave Charlemund an insincere smile. “Thank you.” He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The eunuch spoke up. “If there isn’t any money in the king’s treasury, what has Manhouch been spending?”