The bodyguard paused once more. “He’s coming around, sir.”
“I’d rather he not yet.”
There was a sound like a hammer hitting meat. “He won’t.”
Tamas put his head in his hands. “Let it be known that Mihali has been conscripted by the seventh brigade of the Adran army. Send a note to Hassenbur, letting them know they may send a doctor to watch over him. We will cover all expenses, and Claremonte will be spared any embarrassment.”
“And the Church?”
Tamas sighed. “They can send a priest to talk to him, if they like. To convert him or some such nonsense.”
“So Mihali is the legion’s official cook now, eh?”
“Chef.”
“Right, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Tamas waited until the soldier was gone to begin eating his broth. A few moments passed, the only sound that of his satisfied slurping. He looked up. “Inspector?”
“Yes?” Adamat had found his mind wandering again.
“You’re dismissed.”
As Adamat left the room, he heard Tamas say, “Let’s get on with this, Petrik.”
He paused in the hallway. Tamas handled that well enough. The field marshal was not a man to tolerate fools questioning his orders. He was not a good man to cross. Adamat wondered again if he should tell Tamas about Lord Vetas. If Tamas discovered Adamat’s betrayal on his own, Adamat would lose any chance of rescuing his family. But if Adamat attempted a rescue, even with the help of Tamas’s soldiers, his family might die. The risk was just too great.
Chapter 28
Come on, you idiot,” Tamas said. “Prop me up. Put the pillow there.” He paused and gripped the edge of his desk as the room spun around him.
“Sir?” Olem said. He chewed on the end of his cigarette.
“I’m fine. Go on.”
Olem wedged a cushion between Tamas and his chair.
“Down farther,” Tamas said. “Perfect. Turn the chair a little. I want to look casual.”
Tamas gave a few more orders until he was satisfied. He sat behind his desk, pointed toward the office door, his back propped up straight so he looked taller. Olem stepped back.
“Do I look like an invalid?” Tamas asked.
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“A little beat up, sir,” Olem said. “It’ll do.”
“Good.” Tamas didn’t dare lean forward, hardly even to look down, so he felt blindly to a desk drawer and removed a powder cartridge. He broke the end with his thumbnail and poured it out on his tongue. He fought off a bout of dizziness, then darkness as his consciousness tried to retreat before the wave of awareness that flooded his senses. The taste was sulfuric, bitter. To Tamas it tasted of ambrosia.
His exhaustion ebbed. The pain in his leg receded to a steady hum in the back of his mind, a simple reminder that his leg had been cut open, the flesh torn and the bone reset but without the agony that should accompany it.
“Three capsules in an hour, sir?” There was a hint of worry in Olem’s voice.
“Save it for someone else,” Tamas grunted. “I’ve no time to worry about going powder blind.” Truth be told, he admitted to himself, the euphoria of the powder trance clung to him. He needed it, longed for its strongest embrace like a long-absent lover. He would deal with signs of addiction later. For now, there were more important matters. Despite the powder trance, one of the deepest he’d ever been in, he could barely move. His body still felt the pain, still cried out over his lack of rest—his brain simply did not register it.
“Tell me about Brigadier Sabastenien,” Tamas said.
“He was an orphan,” Olem said, “adopted into the Wings of Adom as a bullet-boy. The Wings of Adom are his family—Adro his mother, the army his father.”
“As I’ve heard as well.”
“He helped me track you,” Olem said. “Ryze’s betrayal burned him deep.”
“Does he know Ryze is dead?” Tamas asked.
Olem shook his head.
“And you didn’t say a word of Ryze’s innocence?”
“Not one, sir,” Olem said.
“Good. Send him in.”
Brigadier Sabastenien was one of the youngest commanders of the Wings of Adom, barely twenty-five years old. Tamas knew that brigadiers were not elected at whim. They were quick, they were intelligent, brave, and fanatically loyal to the Winceslav family and to Adro. Or they had been, until Brigadier Barat.
Brigadier Sabastenien was a shorter man, with dark, unruly hair cut just above his eyes. He had grown muttonchops to give him a better appearance of maturity, and wore them better than most men of his age.
“I’m glad to see you back in good health, sir,” Sabastenien said.
“Thank you,” Tamas said. “I understand you helped Olem