The man looked down at his hands, surprised. “No, I think not. These pudgy hands have only one calling: the kitchens.”
“A cook?” He sent Olem away for just a minute and now any kind of riffraff just wandered in to his command center. “If you need help, I’m sure the soldiers outside are setting up a field hospital.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “Cook?” he snapped. “Do I look like a cheap purveyor of watery soup and half-cooked meat? I’m a chef, damn it, and you watch who you call a cook in the future. Feelings are liable to get hurt.”
Tamas lowered his hand from his injured head and stared at the man. Who the pit did he think he was? Amusement turned to annoyance as the man entered the room and set a chair back on its legs near Tamas, taking a seat.
“Do you know who I am?” Tamas demanded.
The man waved a hand, using the other to adjust his big belly comfortably into his lap. “Field Marshal Tamas, unless I’m mistaken.”
The gall. “And you are?”
The man removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. “It’s bloody hot in here. Where are my manners? I’m Mihali, son of Moaka, lord of the Golden Chefs.”
The Golden Chefs sounded familiar, but Tamas couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
“Moaka?” Tamas asked. “The na-baron?”
“My father preferred to think of himself as a culinary expert above all else, Kresimir rest his soul.”
“Yes,” Tamas said. He touched his head gingerly. It seemed to have stopped bleeding, but his headache was getting worse. “I attended one of his galas once. The food was unparalleled. He passed on last year, didn’t he?” Even the son of a na-baron didn’t belong here. Where the blazes was Olem?
“He always cooked it all himself.” Mihali hung his head. “A pity. His heart gave out when he tasted my lamb soufflé. He was so proud of me, finally besting him.” Mihali stared off across the room, exploring memories.
“Pardon me,” Tamas said. The pounding inside his head began to increase. “Why the pit are you here?”
“Oh,” Mihali said. “Many apologies. I’m the god Adom reincarnated.”
Tamas couldn’t help it. He began to chuckle, then to laugh. He slapped his knee. “Saint Adom, eh? That’s a good one. Ow.” He clutched at his head. Laughing had not been a good idea.
“Saint,” Mihali grumbled. “I give order to chaos alongside Kresimir and these people relegate me to sainthood. Oh well, can’t win them all, can you?”
Tamas managed to stifle his chuckles. “By Kresimir, you’re serious?”
“Of course,” Mihali said. He put one hand over his heart. “I swear by my mother’s squash soup.”
Tamas stood up. Was this some kind of joke? Was it Sabon? Maybe Olem. Olem was far cheekier than he should be. “Olem,” he called. There was no answer. Tamas swore under his breath. He’d told Olem to send runners, not inspect the whole city himself. “Olem!” He stuck his head out into the hallway. There was no one around.
He turned about, face-to-face with Mihali. Mihali glanced out the door. “I don’t really want to meet anyone yet, thank you,” he said. “I don’t want to cause a fuss. Meeting a god is an awfully big thing. I think.”
“What are you, an actor?” Tamas said. He poked the man in the belly, checking for a stuffed shirt. It was all fat. “A mighty good show, but I’m not in the mood.”
Mihali pointed at Tamas’s forehead. “You were hit quite hard,” he said. “I know it’s a lot to take in. Maybe you should sit down for a moment. My memories are imperfect in this body, but I will do my best.” He cleared his throat. “Did the dying Privileged warn you as they were supposed to?”
Tamas froze in the act of feeling his head wound. He grabbed Mihali by the lapels of his jacket. “Warn me about what?”
Mihali looked truly puzzled. He gave an apologetic shrug. “As I said, my memories are not what they should be.” He seemed to perk up. “They will improve over time, though. I think.”
“No more jokes now,” he said. “Who the pit are you?”
Tamas flew against the doorjamb, hitting his shoulder hard, then was tossed to the floor. For a moment he thought Mihali had hit him, but then realized it was another earthquake. His heart in his mouth, he gripped the doorframe, watching more plaster fall to the floor and praying the whole building wouldn’t come down this time. It