slowly returned. “My relatives had me committed,” he said quietly. “My brothers and cousins. I’m a bastard son—my mother was a Rosvelean beauty whom my father loved more than his wife, and my brothers have therefore hated me since I was a boy. Father protected me and fostered my talents. Against custom, he made me his heir.” He prodded the side of beef once more. “My brothers sent me to the asylum the day he died. I wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral. My claims to be the god Adom were only an excuse.”
Mihali stood up straight suddenly, as if stirred from slumber. “Bread, bread,” he muttered. “Another fifty loaves at least. These girls don’t work fast enough.”
He moved to the counters in the middle of the room. There were lumps of dough beneath damp towels. He whisked away the towels with one hand and plunged the other hand into the great mounds of dough. “Risen perfectly,” he said to himself, a distracted smile on his face. He divided the dough into perfect portions, his hands working so quickly Tamas could barely follow. Two loaves at a time were loaded onto the bread paddle and scooped into a waiting oven, until all the dough was gone.
When the last loaf was loaded in the oven, he immediately removed the first. It was golden brown, the crust crisp and flaky, though it had only been a minute or two since it went in. Tamas narrowed his eyes and began to count.
“That’s not my imagination,” Tamas said, leaning toward Olem.
“No,” Olem confirmed. “He put a quarter that many loaves into the oven.” Olem made the sign of the Rope, touching two fingers together and then to his forehead and his chest. “Kresimir above. Have you ever heard of sorcery that can create something out of nothing?”
“Never. But I’m seeing a lot of new things these days.”
Mihali finished removing the last of the loaves from the oven. He turned to Tamas and Olem. “Hassenbur has sent men for me,” Mihali said. “I would sooner flee to the far side of Fatrasta and cook for the savages than return to Hassenbur Asylum.”
Tamas pulled his eyes off the loaves. He looked at the cooked side of beef and the pot of stew that had been empty not ten minutes before. He nodded at Mihali’s words and moved away slowly, Olem at his side.
“A Knack,” Olem said. “That’s the only explanation. I’ve heard of Knacks stronger than any Privileged sorcery. His must have to do with food.”
“Third eye?” Tamas asked.
Olem nodded. “Just did. He has the glow of a Knacked.”
“Well, he’s no god,” Tamas said. “But he thinks he is. And that’s a powerful Knack. His food alone is responsible for half the army’s morale. Now what do I do with him?”
Chapter 17
I’m looking for Privileged Borbador.”
Taniel stood in the entrance to a tavern. It was a big place, though very old. Half the roof had caved in and long since been badly repaired. It was called the Howling Wendigo. Its name came from the low whine of wind in the eaves, which now drowned out everything else, as conversation in the place had stopped.
Fifty or more sets of eyes stared at him. He was alone; he’d left Julene and Ka-poel outside to wait. He wore his buckskins and his cap and he was glad of it. Spring or not down in the valley, Shouldercrown Fortress was still locked in winter.
“What business does a powder mage have with our Privileged?”
Our Privileged. Taniel didn’t like the sound of that. Bo had made friends with these thugs. Convicts and malcontents, the poor and the wretched—these were the members of the Mountainwatch. They didn’t trust easily, and they welcomed strangers like a crowded city welcomes a plague. They were easily the toughest of the Nine.
Taniel took a deep breath. He wasn’t in the mood for this. I’m here to kill him, he wanted to say. Get in my way and I’ll put a bullet in your head. Instead he said, “That business is mine.”
A man stood up. He was younger than Taniel by a year or two at most. Scrawny, bearded, he wore a sleeveless shirt despite the cold, his arms corded with the muscles of a man who hauled timber and worked the mines. He scowled at Taniel.
“That business is ours,” the man said.
“Fesnik, don’t mess with a powder mage,” someone else said. “You want Tamas breathing down our necks?”
“Shut up,” Fesnik called over his shoulder. “What if we