Promise of Blood tpm-1

by Brian McClellan

  “It’s bad?” SouSmith let his head rest against the wall. Sweat beaded across his brow and cheeks. He’d tried to wipe it away at some point, leaving a smear of blood across his face.

  “You were hit in the stomach. No way to tell whether the ball hit any organs. We need a surgeon. Keep your hand here, try to staunch the blood. I’ll try to find help.”

  He didn’t have far to go. A number of his neighbors had heard the shots and stood in the street holding lanterns and pistols. They gaped at Adamat and tried to peer past him into his house.

  “Someone get a surgeon,” he said weakly. “And send a boy to the House of Nobles. A message for Field Marshal Tamas. Make sure he gets it. Tell him… tell him Adamat has been attacked by the Black Street Barbers.” No one ran down the street, or went to fetch a coach. Some of them moved back nervously, frightened by the mere mention of a street gang. “Please,” Adamat said. He heard the desperation in his voice.

  One of his neighbors stepped forward. He was an older gentleman, a veteran of the Gurlish wars, with long gray muttonchops and a black coat pulled on over his nightclothes. He clutched an old blunderbuss in his hands. Adamat recalled his name was Tulward.

  “I’ve some surgery experience. From the field,” Tulward said. He turned around, shouted toward his house, “Millie! Send the boy out here. Now!” He turned to the group of onlookers. “Get back to your homes, folks. Go!”

  Adamat nodded his thanks as Tulward stepped into his house.

  “Are you hurt?” Tulward asked. Adamat pointed to SouSmith. “He’s worse. Took a bullet to the stomach.”

  Tulward grimaced and ran an experienced eye over the bodies. He stepped across them, making his way toward SouSmith.

  Adamat sighed, slumping against the wall. He took a moment to look long at the carnage. One of the men was still hanging on to life, lying in the entrance to the study. Adamat ignored the pleading look in his eyes. The second body was at the top of the stairs. He lay on his side, shot by his own comrade in an attempt to get Adamat. The bullet had entered his cheek and killed him instantly, and a pool of blood trickled down the stairs.

  The last body still stood upright, his head lodged in the wall. Adamat stumbled over to examine him closer. It was the one who’d been holding the lantern. SouSmith had grabbed him by the face, shoving his entire head through plaster and brick.

  Tulward crouched over SouSmith, talking to him quietly, fingers feeling along his belly. Adamat moved over to the surviving assassin. He removed the man’s coat, trying not to cause untoward pain. The man moaned.

  “I’m trying to help…” Adamat froze. He looked at the man’s face again-really looked, for the first time. “Coel,” he said. Ricard’s scrawny assistant from the docks. Adamat took a shaky breath.

  He finished removing Coel’s coat. In his panic, he’d stabbed Coel at least ten times in the chest with the penknife. The wounds were not deep, but he would bleed out quickly. He rolled up Coel’s shirtsleeve, just to be sure. There it was, as he’d expected: a black tattoo of a barber’s razor on his forearm.

  Coel was long dead by the time Tamas’s soldiers arrived. The house swarmed with men, setting to rest Adamat’s fear that more of the Barbers would come to finish the job. A team of surgeons carried SouSmith into the sitting room, and SouSmith’s swearing and yelling bore testament to them trying to remove the bullet. Adamat sat on his stairs, watching the front door blankly as people moved in and out.

  “You might need stitches for that.”

  Adamat looked up. Tamas stood at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the railing, leaning heavily on a crutch. He reeked of gunpowder. He nodded at Adamat’s chest.

  Adamat looked down. The wound was superficial, but it stung like someone had squeezed a lemon into it, and it still bled.

  “When they’re done with SouSmith, I’ll take my turn.” Adamat paused. “You didn’t have to come yourself.”

  Tamas watched him for a few moments. “The Black Street Barbers were not supposed to take other jobs. Things will be very unpleasant for them in the morning. You’re a very lucky man. I’ve seen the Barbers operate.” Tamas looked away from Adamat and at the bloodstains on the floor. “It’s a pity none of them lived.”

  “Yes,” Adamat said, “I just wasn’t thinking right, assailed in the dark by men with razors.” He grunted. “I won’t be able to shave for months.” He ran his hand over his throat, where the skin had barely been broken. There was a line of dried blood there. His hand trembled. A sudden impulse seized him to tell Tamas all: about Lord Vetas, about his family. Maybe Tamas already knew. He was not a man to be duped. Yet Tamas would not allow Adamat to continue his investigation if he thought Adamat’s integrity had been compromised. Adamat felt his face turn red.

  Tamas didn’t seem to notice. “Who do you think ordered your death?” Tamas said.

  It was obvious, wasn’t it? “The Black Street Barbers are loyal to Ricard Tumblar.” He jerked his head at Coel’s body, pushed to one side of the hallway. “And he was bringing Ricard wine when I met with him a month ago.”

  “Fairly damning evidence,” Tamas said. “Any other reasons why Ricard would want you dead?”

  “No,” Adamat said miserably. He remembered a time when Ricard had been imprisoned for his latest attempt at unionization some fifteen years prior. Adamat, already with a reputation for honesty, had given testimony on behalf of Ricard’s character that saw him released the next day.

  Two years after that, when Adamat was too poor to buy his children presents for St. Adom’s Day, Ricard had shown up at his door with gifts worth half a year of Adamat’s salary. They’d leaned on each other a lot over the years. Adamat found it hard to believe such a friendship would end like this.

  “I’ll send a squad to bring him in right now,” Tamas said. He turned to one of his soldiers.

  “Wait,” Adamat said.

  Tamas paused, turned back with a wince.

  Adamat closed his eyes. “Give me a little more time. We can’t be sure it’s Ricard.”

  Tamas’s eyebrows rose. “The Black Street Barbers finish a job, Inspector. This was no feint. They report to Ricard. When I’m finished with them, the Barbers will not exist.”

  “They do jobs for hire,” Adamat said. It was a weak argument, even to him. “I gave Ricard a chance to kill me just last week. He didn’t take it.”

  Tamas gave Adamat a level stare. “If we wait even a few more hours, word will get to him that the assassins failed and he’ll be on a boat to Kez before sunup.”

  “Give me until noon,” Adamat said.

  “I can’t afford that.” A hint of anger entered Tamas’s voice. “If the traitor gets away from me, I’ll lose my grip on the council, and they will turn on me.”

  “Send a squad,” Adamat said. “Have them watch Ricard-by all means, arrest him if he tries to flee. It will be a sure sign of guilt. But if you make a mistake now, you’ll still have a traitor in your midst, and the Noble Warriors of Labor will turn against you.”

  Tamas seemed to hesitate.

  Adamat said, “Give me until noon. I think I can get to the bottom of this.”

  “How?”

  Adamat swallowed hard. “I’ll need to borrow one of your powder mages. I’m going to see the Black Street Barbers.”

  Chapter 34

  The Black Street Barbers were one of the oldest street gangs in Adopest. They claimed to be between one hundred fifty and three hundred years old, depending on who was asked and how drunk they were. They operated out of a ramshackle line of apartments only a few blocks from the Jalfast Waterworks. The local police guessed their number at around seventy-five.

  Adamat watched the apartments from a safe distance down the street. From the look of things, their fortunes had been better. The building was a dilapidated ruin. It was two stories, all of poorly made mud bricks far too old to be safe. The second story contained dormitories, while the first floor looked to be a large bar. Chairs sat out in the sunshine in front of
the building. A number of Barbers skulked nearby, throwing dice on the pavement while they waited for dockworkers in need of a shave.

  “Don’t like getting involved with the Barbers,” SouSmith said.

  Adamat glanced at his friend. SouSmith wore a short black coat, the sleeves rolled up. He leaned against the wall of a decommissioned coal coking plant, eyeing the Barbers’ headquarters. There was a bead of sweat at his brow and a pain in his eyes, the only indication that he’d been shot twice and operated on last night. They’d removed the lodged bullet safely. A lesser man would be neck deep in opiates to kill the pain.

  “I told you not to come.”

  “You paid me,” SouSmith said. “Can’t go in alone.”

  Adamat snorted. He was far from alone. SouSmith just wanted to put another Barber’s head through a wall. Adamat rubbed his chest, resisting the urge to pick at the stitches he’d received from Tamas’s surgeon.

  He watched as three squads of soldiers filled the street, cutting off foot and carriage traffic in both directions. Another two squads fell in behind the Barbers’ building, unseen. One of the Barbers throwing dice looked up. He tapped his friend on the shoulder and pointed, then hurried inside.

  “Time to go in,” Adamat said. He pushed himself away from the wall and strode down the street. Tamas’s Deliv lieutenant, Sabon, appeared from one group of soldiers. His blue uniform was immaculately pressed, his ebony skull shaved clean. He wore a pistol on one hip, a smallsword at his other. He greeted Adamat with a nod.

  “Don’t let them get too close to you,” Adamat said. “They’re deadly with those razors.” He waited a moment for SouSmith to catch up. Just the walk up the street had turned SouSmith’s face white, and the old boxer was sweating as if it were midsummer. Adamat opened his mouth to send him off, but thought better of it. If SouSmith wanted to come, he’d come.

  Adamat felt for the pistol under his long coat to reassure himself. He took his cane firmly in hand and strode toward the front door, ignoring the pain across his chest.

  He kicked open the front door. It fell from the hinges completely, rust spraying the floor. The room inside was well lit, windows open along the east side behind a row of barber’s chairs. There were old signs of blood underneath these chairs, rusty stains on the brick floor. On the opposite side of the room was a long bar with bottles of liquor stacked on the wall behind. There was a cask of wine at the end of the bar almost as wide as a man is tall.

  A group of men looked at each other and walked toward Adamat from the bar. The type looked contagious: whip-lean, sickly-looking men wearing aprons over white shirts. Adamat addressed the one in front.

  “Hello, Teef.”

  The man was in the process of drawing a razor from his pocket when he locked eyes on Adamat’s face. His eyes went wide. He fumbled his razor, nearly dropping it. Adamat’s cane flicked out, catching Teef on the wrist. The razor went flying.

  His comrades didn’t recognize Adamat. Their razors came out true, and pasty-white hands lunged toward Adamat, blades held out front. Adamat flinched.

  The three men around Teef all had the same reaction at the crack of gunpowder. Their razors fell from their hands. Surprise crossed their faces, then pain as they clutched at bleeding wrists. Three bullets had gone clean through three wrists without a pistol being drawn. Adamat dealt Teef a glancing blow on the cheek with the tip of his cane, then held it at the Barber’s neck. He looked over his shoulder. SouSmith stood just inside the door, eyes closed as he leaned heavily against the wall. Sabon stood silently to the side, eyes traveling around the inside of the barbershop as if he were casually perusing a store. Only the cloud of powder rising from him indicated what he’d done.

  “What the pit?” Teef said, his voice cracking. “What are you doing? Cut them down!” He glanced at his comrades, and his mouth fell open. “What happened…?” His mouth worked like a fish out of the water. He stared at Sabon, and realization spread on his face. Adamat pressed the tip of his cane against Teef’s throat.

  “Cut them down, eh?” Adamat said. “That what you told Coel and the other two you sent to kill me last night?”

  “I swear it wasn’t personal, Adamat.” Teef held his hands out in front of him, glancing nervously at the space between Sabon and Adamat. His eyes stopped over Adamat’s shoulder. “Oh shit.”

  “They didn’t tell you SouSmith was my bodyguard, did they?” Adamat said. He smiled at the panic in Teef’s eyes. “He put one of your men’s head through a brick wall. It’ll take me hours to scrub the blood out of my front hall. Now, who hired you, Teef?”

  “I swear, I didn’t want to, but-”

  “It was a lot of money, I know. Must have been a king’s ransom. Tell me, how many times did I let you walk, back before you ran the Black Street Barbers? When you were just a stupid kid with talent with a blade and a whole run of bad luck? I don’t appreciate favors being paid back like that, Teef.” He pressed harder on Teef’s throat, and shook his head slightly when Teef tried to step back. The Barber quaked.

  “Where the pit are they?” he screamed suddenly. “Help!”

  Adamat gave Teef a long-suffering sigh. “Five squads of Tamas’s best soldiers are rounding up your boys, Teef. Razors are a pretty thing in a close fight, but not against seasoned riflemen with bayonets fixed.” Gunshots went off outside the building as if to punctuate Adamat’s words. There was a scramble of feet on the floor above them, then the thud of a body hitting the floor.

  Teef clenched his fists, but kept them out in front of him. “We’d give you a run,” he said, lip curling, “if all our boys were here, we’d give you a pit-damned run.”

  “Sure you would,” Adamat said. “Who hired you to kill me?”

  Teef’s jaw clicked shut.

  Adamat took a deep breath. He didn’t have time for this right now.

  Adamat felt himself pushed gently aside. He lowered his cane as SouSmith stepped up to Teef. The boxer was at least a head taller than Teef, and twice as wide. Adamat bit his tongue. SouSmith was covered in a cold sweat, and he clenched his teeth in pain. He reached out and took one of Teef’s hands.

  “I’ll break this one first,” SouSmith rumbled.

  “Ricard,” Teef said. The name came out like a startled curse word.

  “Not good enough,” Adamat said.

  He heard a snap as SouSmith bent Teef’s finger back far enough to touch his wrist. Teef screamed in agony. One of the other Barbers stood up and reached out for Teef, only to receive SouSmith’s boot on his chest. He was kicked halfway across the floor. Adamat put out a hand, steadying SouSmith when he stumbled. SouSmith regained his balance and twisted Teef’s wrist.

  The Barber sank to the floor screaming. Adamat tapped SouSmith on the shoulder with his cane. The boxer stepped back.

  “Who hired you?” Adamat said.

  “The Proprietor!” Teef squealed through a string of curses. “He came in here looking for your head!”

  “At least make your lies plausible.” Adamat flicked his cane against Teef’s wrist. He felt a pang of pity as Teef screamed again, but forced it down. Teef’s blades came to Adamat’s home, where his wife and children slept, and tried to kill him. His family would have been killed in their beds, every one of them, if they had been there. Adamat knew how the Barbers worked. They were as cold and ruthless as Lord Vetas. Adamat raised his cane to bring it down hard.

  “A priest.”

  Adamat stopped. “A priest? Come now.”

  “It was a priest,” Teef said. He sucked in shaky breaths, chest heaving as he talked, tears running down his face. “He came in here yesterday morning. He was crying the whole time, kept asking Kresimir for forgiveness.”

  “What did he look like?” Adamat asked.

  “A priest. White robes and sandals. Blond hair. A little taller than you. A mole on his right cheek. He wouldn’t look me in the eye.”

  Siemone. Adamat felt his mouth go dry.

  “How much?”

  “Five
hundred thousand krana.”

  Adamat nearly dropped his cane. “What? For me?”

  Teef wheezed a laugh. “Two jobs. Fifteen thousand for you.”

  “And the rest?” Adamat looked around. He’d trusted it to good fortune that there’d been only a few of the Barbers around. He realized now why there weren’t more: They were at a job. The thought made his skin crawl. That made at least forty Barbers unaccounted for, maybe more.

  Sabon stepped forward and dragged Teef to his feet by the front of his shirt. “Is it Tamas?” Sabon said. He shook the Barber. “You double-crossing swine! Is it?”

  “By the pit, no!” Teef said. “There’s not that kind of money in the world.”

  “Who is it, then?”

  “A chef,” Teef said. “Some big fat man in charge of the feast. My employer wanted him cut down in public. We don’t normally do that, but for the amount he offered…” Teef trailed off.

  Sabon dropped him. Teef tried to catch himself, called out in pain. Sabon gave him a look of disgust. “You’ve made a terrible mistake,” he said. He glanced at Adamat. “Take them to Sabletooth. I have to go.”

  Sabon was gone without another word, and Adamat saw that it was now just he, SouSmith, and the four Barbers. He exchanged a glance with SouSmith. The boxer shrugged. Adamat lifted Teef’s chin with the tip of his cane. “What’s so important about a chef?” he asked. Mihali, he recalled the chef’s name. Had the arch-diocel remembered the beating Mihali gave him in Tamas’s presence? It was a lot of money for revenge.

  Teef shook his head. Adamat moved his cane threateningly. Teef’s head shake was more emphatic. “I don’t know, Kresimir damn you! It was just a job.”

  “And you have no idea where the money came from?” Charlemund. Siemone wouldn’t do dirty work for anyone else. Charlemund had been trying to frame Ricard all along.

  Teef hesitated just a second too long.

  “I suggest you remain ignorant,” Adamat said. “Or your fate will be worse than it already is.” Tamas would destroy Teef. Adamat almost pitied the Barber. Almost. He stepped away from Teef as a troop of soldiers entered the room. “Get them to Sabletooth,” Adamat said. “All of them. I have to go to find the field marshal.”