Brian McCLELLAN: Promise of Blood

“A trial?” Manhouch whispered.

“Your trial is now,” Tamas said. “I am your judge and jury. You have been found guilty before the people and before Kresimir.”

“Don’t pretend to speak in God’s name!” the Diocel said. “Manhouch is our king! Sanctioned by Kresimir!”

Tamas laughed mirthlessly. “You’re quick enough to invoke Kresimir when it suits you. Is he on your mind when you’ve got a concubine wrapped in your silk sheets or when you eat a meal of delicacies that would have fed fifty peasants? Your place is not at the right hand of God, Diocel. The Church has sanctioned this coup.”

The Diocel’s eyes grew large. “I would have known.”

“Do the arch-diocels tell you everything? I thought not.”

Manhouch gathered his strength and matched Tamas’s gaze. “You have no evidence! No witnesses! This is not a trial.”

Tamas flung his hand out to the side. “My evidence is out there! The people are unemployed and starving. Your nobles whore and hunt and fill their plates with meat and their glasses with wine while the common man starves in the gutter. Witnesses? You plan on signing the entire country over to the Kez next week with the Accords. You would make us all vassals to a foreign power simply to dissolve your debt.”

“Baseless claims, spoken by a traitor,” Manhouch whispered weakly.

Tamas shook his head. “You will be executed at noon along with your councillors, your queen, and many hundreds of your relatives.”

“My cabal will destroy you!”

“They’ve already been executed.”

The king paled further and began to shake violently, collapsing to the floor. The Diocel slowly made his way forward. Tamas looked down on Manhouch for a moment and pushed aside the unbidden image of a young prince, perhaps six or seven, bouncing on his knee.

The Diocel reached Manhouch’s side and knelt. He looked up at Tamas. “Is this because of your wife?”

Yes. Tamas said aloud, “No. It’s because Manhouch has proved that the lives of an entire nation shouldn’t be subject to the whims of a single inbred fool.”

“You would dethrone a God – sanctioned ruler and become a tyrant, and still claim to love Adro?” the Diocel said.

Tamas glanced at Manhouch. “God no longer sanctions this. If you weren’t so blinded by your gold-lined robes and young concubines, you’d see it is so. Manhouch deserves the pit for his neglect of Adro.”

“You’ll surely see him there,” the Diocel said.

“I don’t doubt it, Diocel. I’m sure the company will be anything but dull.” Tamas dropped the empty pistol at Manhouch’s feet. “You have until noon to make your peace with God.”

Taniel paused on the top step of the House of Nobles. The building was dark and silent as a graveyard this hour of the morning. There were soldiers stationed at intervals on the steps, at the street, and at every door. He recognized Field Marshal Tamas’s men in their dark-blue jackets. Many of them knew him by sight. Those who didn’t saw the silver powder keg pinned to his buckskin jacket. One of them raised a hand in greeting. Taniel returned the gesture and then produced a snuffbox and sprinkled a line of black powder on the back of his hand. He snorted it.

The powder made him feel vibrant, animated. It sharpened his senses and his mind. It made his heart beat faster and soothed frayed nerves. For a Marked, powder was life.

Taniel felt a tap on his shoulder and turned. His companion stood a full head shorter than he, and her body was as slight as a youth’s. She wore a full-length travel duster that filled her out only a little and kept her warm, and a wide-brimmed hat that concealed most of her features. An early spring chill filled the air, and Ka-poel came from a much warmer place than this.

She pointed up at the building above them quizzically, revealing a small, freckled hand. Taniel had to remind himself that she’d never seen a building like the House of Nobles. Six stories high and as wide as a battlefield, the center of the Adran government was big enough to house the offices of every noble and their staff.

“We’re here.” Taniel’s voice seemed unusually stark in the quiet of the early hour. “This is where his soldiers said to go. He doesn’t have an office here. Did it happen tonight? I could have picked a better time…” He trailed off.

He was prattling on to a mute, betraying his nervousness. Tamas would be livid when he heard about Vlora. Of course, it would be Taniel’s fault. Taniel noticed he still held the snuffbox. His hands were trembling. He tapped out another dark line on the back of his thumb. He snorted the powder and tilted his head back as his heart pumped faster. Lines in the darkness grew sharper, sounds louder, and he sighed at the comfort the powder trance gave him. He held up a hand to the light of the streetlamp. It no longer shook.

“Pole,” he said, addressing the girl. “I haven’t seen Tamas in some time. He’s a hard man to all but a close few. Sabon. Lajos. Those are his friends. I am just another soldier.” Green eyes regarded him from beneath the wide-brimmed hat. “Understand?” he said.

Ka-poel nodded briefly.

“Here,” Taniel said. He reached into the front of his jacket and removed his sketchbook. It was a worn book, ragged from use and travels, bound in faded calfskin. He flipped through the pages until he found a likeness of Field Marshal Tamas and handed it to Ka-poel. The sketch was in charcoal and smudged from wear, but the field marshal’s severe face was hard to mistake. Ka-poel studied the drawing for a moment before handing the book back.

Taniel pushed open one of the giant doors and headed into the grand hall. The place was pitch-black but for one pool of light near a staircase to Taniel’s left. A single lantern hung on the wall, and beneath it dozed a weary form in a servant’s chair.

“I see Tamas has moved up in the world.”

Taniel listened to his own voice echo in the grand hall and was satisfied to see Sabon jump from his chair. Lines stood out on Sabon’s dark face, details Taniel could only see because of the powder trance. Sabon looked to have aged ten years in the mere two it had been since they’d last met.

“I don’t like it,” Taniel added, swinging his rifle and knapsack from his shoulder and onto the plush red carpet. He bent to rub feeling into his legs after twenty hours in a coach. “Too cold in the winter, too lonely in the summer. And space like this just invites houseguests.”

Sabon chuckled as he came over. He clasped Taniel’s hand and pulled him into an embrace. “How is Fatrasta?”

“Officially? Still at war with the Kez,” Taniel said. “Unofficially, the Kez have sued for peace and all but a few regiments have returned to the Nine. Fatrasta has won their independence.”

“You kill a Kez Privileged or two for me?” Sabon said.

Taniel lifted his rifle to the light. Sabon ran his finger along the row of notches in the stock and whistled appreciatively. “Even a few Wardens,” Taniel said.

“Those are hard to kill,” Sabon said.

Taniel nodded. “Took more than one bullet for the Wardens.”

“Taniel Two-Shot,” Sabon said. “You’ve been the talk of the Nine for a year. The royal cabal has been scared stiff. Wanted Manhouch to recall you. Marked killing Privileged, even Kez Privileged, is a bad precedent.”

“Too late, I assume?” Taniel said, glancing around the dark grand hall. Else he wouldn’t be here. If all went as planned, Tamas had slaughtered the royal cabal and captured Manhouch.