sofa and the curtain. His body twitched once and was still. Brigadier Sabastenien lowered the pistol.
The brigadier’s face was pale. His hands shook a little as he tossed the pistol to the floor, and he stumbled over to the sofa. “I believed Ryze was a traitor,” he said after a moment. His voice was agonized, his face contorted by sorrow.
“He was a good man,” Tamas said.
“His son…”
“Dead,” Tamas said. “Olem, I want Ryze’s remains found. He was hit by sorcery, so there won’t be much left. Scour the King’s Wood if you have to. I want him buried along with his son, next to his wife, with state honors.”
“Of course,” Olem said quietly.
“What do I tell the Lady?” Sabastenien said. He was stricken. Tamas saw him for the youth he was then, and pitied him.
“You shot him in my defense,” Tamas said softly. “I’ll not allow a court-martial.”
“I killed Lady Winceslav’s lover, a fellow brigadier,” Sabastenien said. His voice shook. “I’ll be drummed out of the Wings with dishonor, no matter the reason.” He paused. “May I go?”
“Of course. You’ll always have a place in my army,” he said. When the young brigadier had left, Tamas said to Olem, “Have someone keep an eye on him.”
Olem frowned. “He heard it all. He did the right thing. Why should he care if they kick him out of the Wings? The army is certainly a pay cut, but…”
“The Wings aren’t just mercenaries, Olem,” Tamas said. His weariness was breaking through the powder trance, the pain beginning to bleed into his defenses. “The Wings are a life. A brotherhood. To kill one of their own is the worst of crimes. Even for treason, when they handle it among themselves, the executioner is protected, unknown, so that his brothers will not find out and alienate him. Sabastenien’s career with the Wings is over.”
Olem turned his frown on Tamas. “Then, why…?”
Tamas sighed. He brought out another powder charge, longed to sprinkle the powder on his tongue. He put it back in his shirt pocket. “You’ll think me cruel,” he said. “I need Sabastenien on the lines. If he survives this war, he’ll be a general at thirty.” He ignored Olem’s look of disapproval. “Have someone ready to offer him a job when he’s been drummed out. Full commander.”
Tamas leaned over his chair, head light, and vomited on the floor. He dragged his sleeve across his mouth and looked up at Olem’s worried gaze. “I think I’ll rest for a while now.”
Olem went to fetch a janitor. Tamas leaned back in his chair, tasting bile. He’d taken care of the fox in his henhouse. Now he had to find the lion among his cattle.
Nila couldn’t take her eyes off the blood on the sofa.
She wondered if Field Marshal Tamas had shot the man whose blood spattered the Royal Offices, or if he’d had one of his underlings do it. She knew he could kill casually. She’d seen him gun down Bystre in the streets without a second look.
“Olem, I…” The field marshal leveraged himself around his dressing screen and stopped when he saw Nila. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Didn’t realize they’d sent someone up to clean up the mess already.”
Mess, he called it. As if the bits of brain and skull and all the blood were nothing more than the leftovers from dinner.
“My apologies, sir,” Nila said with a curtsy. “I was just told to come get your uniform.”
“Of course. The laundress. Olem! Help me get this uniform off.”
Olem came through the front door, rolling a cigarette between his fingers. He smiled at Nila before heading behind the dressing screen.
“Damned blood got everywhere,” the field marshal said.
“That’s what happens, sir.”
“Ow. Son of a… be more careful!”
“So sorry, sir.”
“Damn my leg!”
“There’s a lady present, sir.”
The field marshal’s curses lowered to a grumble for a few moments. Olem reappeared a moment later with the field marshal’s uniform tucked under his arm and gave it over to Nila. The bearded sergeant looked different from that night when Adran soldiers had stormed the Eldaminse townhouse. A touch of gray had entered his beard; worry lines at the corner of his eyes were etched a little deeper. Nila had seen him around the House of Nobles, but he’d shown no recognition of her.
“Think you could wash the curtains, too?” Olem asked. “Who knows when they’ll send up someone to get to the upholstery?”
“Of course,” Nila said.
Field Marshal Tamas limped out from behind the dressing screen and over to his desk. He