“Yes, that was him,” Sabon confirmed. “A devil of a cook.”
“Chef,” Tamas said distractedly. “And devil he may be. Find out who he is. Everything about him. He said his father was Moaka, the na-baron of… oh, something or another. Find out.” He would not have strange men infiltrating his headquarters with nothing more than a lamb soufflé.
“I’ll get right on that, sir,” Olem said.
“Now!”
Olem jumped. “Right away, sir.” He flicked his cigarette away and went for the stairs. Tamas watched him go, then turned back to the slowly approaching longboat. He felt Sabon’s eyes on his back.
“What?” he asked, more annoyance in his voice than he’d intended.
“What the pit was that about?” Sabon said. “A lot of fuss for just a damned cook.”
“Chef,” Tamas said.
“You think he’s a spy?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m having Olem find out.”
“What’s the good in having a bodyguard if you send him off when the Kez show up?”
Tamas ignored the question. So Mihali hadn’t been a figment of his imagination. But what about what he had said? He’d warned Tamas to investigate the Privilegeds’ dying admonition—something he should have no knowledge about.
Tamas wasn’t a religious man. If he were to ascribe to any one belief, it would probably be one most popular with upper society and philosophers these days—that Kresimir had been a timepiece god. He’d come and set the Nine in motion and had moved on, never to return.
Yet now the holy mountain itself rumbled in anger. What could this mean?
Superstitions. He couldn’t let them get the best of him. He’d have Mihali arrested this very night, and that would be the end of it.
They watched the approaching longboat for a few minutes before Sabon pointed down to the beach. “The rabble-rousers are here.”
“About damn time.”
They headed down to the docks to join Tamas’s council. With aides, assistants, bodyguards, and footmen, it seemed like all of Adopest had turned out. Tamas missed the days when secrecy demanded that they meet in person: just seven men and a woman plotting to overthrow their king.
The members of his council gathered at the front of the group to meet him on the boardwalk.
“Tamas, my dear,” Lady Winceslav said as he approached. “Be so kind as to ask His Eminence and the other gentleman”—she gestured disdainfully at the arch-diocel and the eunuch—“not to smoke so heavily around a lady.”
“You could ask them yourself,” Tamas said.
“She has,” Ricard said. “Seems His Holiness doesn’t know how to act around the ladies.”
Lady Winceslav harrumphed. “Sir, I don’t think you do either.”
Ricard removed his hat and gave her a bow. “I’m just a poor workin’ man, marm. Excuse me.”
The arch-diocel and the eunuch both seemed to enjoy Lady Winceslav’s discomfort. Charlemund turned to Tamas, blowing smoke rings. “Did you know this fellow had his manhood removed at birth? I didn’t know they still practiced such a thing, not for a thousand years.”
“The Church favored castrati for their choirs up until fifty years ago,” Ondraus said, looking over his book at the arch-diocel. He smirked. “There are still a few famous singers like Kirkham and Noubenhaus who are castrati. They’re popular in cathedrals all about the Nine. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”
The arch-diocel puffed hard on his pipe.
“It’s a common practice,” the eunuch said softly, his high-pitched voice nearly drowned out by the crash of the surf on the beach. “In my native land there’s a whole caste of eunuchs, created at birth, who serve the Gurlan magistrates. They serve in the harems and the magistrates’ courts and see to their every whim.” He eyed Lady Winceslav. “Every whim imaginable.”
“Disgusting,” Lady Winceslav said, turning away.
Tamas watched the whole exchange without a word. Sometimes the council seemed to amount to nothing more than children thrust together at a boarding school that has no thought for class or upbringing. They were a motley assortment. “This is all quite interesting,” he said, “but the ambassador is here. I’ll greet him myself. Alone. No doubt he’ll bring up the Accords before he’s even off the boat. I’m going to tell him to stuff them up his ass.”
“I think he’d respond better to a lady’s charm,” Lady Winceslav said.
“I bet you do,” the arch-diocel grunted. “I have nothing to say here. The Church is neutral on matters of war in the Nine.”
“Your unwavering support brings tears to my eyes,” Tamas said. “The Kez will have demands. I prefer peace, if possible. The only question is how hard we sue for it.