Promise of Blood

SouSmith paused, a bucket lifted over his head, and gave Adamat a single glance. He tipped the bucket, letting the water wash away a layer of sweat and blood, then scrubbed his body with a soiled towel. He tilted his head at Adamat, the skin around his eyes puffy and bruised, his lips and brows split. “Aye. Make the right bet?”

“Of course.”

“Bastard’s trying to kill me.”

“Who?”

“Proprietor.”

Adamat chuckled, then realized SouSmith wasn’t joking. “Why do you say that?”

SouSmith shook his head, twisted the red-brown water out of his towel, and dunked it in a clean bucket. “Wants me to sink.” SouSmith was far from stupid, but he’d always spoken in short sentences. A man had trouble collecting his thoughts after years of being punched in the head.

“Why? You’re a good fighter. People come to see you.”

“People come to see young whips.” SouSmith spat into one of the buckets. “I’m old.”

“Formichael will think twice next time he’s told to fight you.” Adamat remembered the still body on the Arena floor. They’d had to carry him out. “If he’s still alive.”

“He’ll live.” SouSmith tapped the side of his head. “He’ll be afraid.”

“Or maybe he’ll just be sure to finish it quick,” Adamat said.

SouSmith took a deep breath, then let out a chuckle that turned into a grunting cough. “Not bad either way.”

Adamat watched his old friend for a moment. SouSmith was a different man than his appearance suggested. He was no average thug, not like the other boxers. Behind his beady eyes was a sharp intelligence; behind his gnarled fists the soft hands of brother and uncle. Many read him wrong, one of the reasons for his winning record. One thing no one read wrong, though: Behind it all, even deeper than his loyalty to his family or his cleverness, he was a killer.

“I have a question for you,” Adamat said.

“Thought you missed me.”

“You once told me you were part of the street gang Kresimir’s Broken.”

SouSmith froze with the corner of the towel still in one ear. He lowered it slowly. “I did?”

“You were very drunk.”

SouSmith’s movements were suddenly cautious. He glanced toward the stall’s single desk, to a drawer where he no doubt had hidden a pistol. Yet a man his size didn’t need a pistol.

Adamat made a reassuring gesture. “You were very drunk,” Adamat said again. “I didn’t believe you at the time. I was there when they pulled those boys out of the gutter. I didn’t think anyone had escaped what went after them.”

SouSmith examined him for a few moments. “Maybe one didn’t,” he said. “Maybe one did.”

“How?”

SouSmith countered with his own question. “Why?”

“I’m doing an investigation.” Adamat had already decided to tell SouSmith the whole story. “For Field Marshal Tamas. He wants to know what Kresimir’s Promise is.”

SouSmith looked impressed. “One man I’d not cross,” he said.

“Agreed. You have any idea what it means?”

SouSmith returned to cleaning himself up. “Our leader was a royal cabal washout.” SouSmith opened the desk drawer. He removed a grimy old pipe and a tobacco pouch. SouSmith lit up his pipe before he went on. “A loudmouth. A jackass. Wanted attention. Said our name was supposed to remind the royal cabal of their mortality.”

It was the longest sentence Adamat had heard SouSmith utter in years. “Did he tell you what it meant?”

“Break Kresimir’s Promise,” SouSmith said, puffing on his pipe. The smell of pistachio-flavored tobacco filled the tiny room. “And end the world.”

“What’s the promise?” Adamat asked.

SouSmith shrugged.

Adamat tapped the side of his jaw with one finger as SouSmith leaned back. He wasn’t going to say any more. Not about this. Adamat let his thoughts slip toward Palagyi. The twerp of a banker still had men lurking about. He was unpredictable. A man with SouSmith’s size and reputation could keep the idiot in line. At least until Adamat’s loan was due and Palagyi had the law on his side. Besides, SouSmith could be very useful in tight places—such as the Public Archives, behind the royalist barricades.

“Any chance you’re in need of a job?” Adamat asked.

SouSmith examined him through those small eyes. “What kind of a job?”

Chapter 9

Taniel found his father’s command post just out of range of the royalist barricades. The empty streets were full of rubbish, the paving stones damp from a brief rain the night before. The city smells threatened to overcome his senses, enhanced from the near-constant powder trance he’d been in for two weeks. The world smelled of shit and fear, of empty piss pots and distrust.

Ka-poel was at his side. Even after all this, she was still mystified by the sight of the city—so many buildings, each one so tall on every side. She didn’t like it. Too many people, she had indicated with a series of gestures. Too many buildings. Taniel sympathized. His real talent as a powder mage was being able to float a bullet for miles—to make long shots across the widest battlefield. What good was that when his view was obstructed on all sides?