Promise of Blood by Brian McClellan Page B

gold epaulettes on each shoulder, and gold buttons—each of them a small powder keg. The lapel, collar cuffs, and wings of his uniform were of red velvet, his belt of black leather. He wore his medals at the insistence of his aides: gold, silver, and violet stars of various shapes and sizes awarded to him by half a dozen Gurlish shahs and kings of the Nine. He held his bicorne hat under one arm.
    The sun was just barely above the rooftops of Adopest, yet he guessed there were already fifteen thousand people below watching as crews constructed a line of guillotines. It was said the Garden could contain four hundred thousand, half the population of Adopest.
    They would find out today.
    His gaze fell across the Garden to the tower that rose like a thorn against the morning sky. Sabletooth had been built by Manhouch’s father, the Iron King, as a prison for his most dangerous enemies, and as a warning to all the rest. It had taken almost half of his sixty-year reign to build and its color had given the Iron King his nickname. It was three times the height of any building in Adopest, an ugly thing, a nail of basalt that looked like it had been ripped from the pages of a legend from before the Time of Kresimir.
    At the moment Sabletooth was full to capacity with nearly six hundred nobles and many of their wives and oldest sons, as well as another five hundred courtiers and royal dignitaries that couldn’t be trusted on their own. When Tamas closed his eyes, he thought he could hear wails of anguish, and he wondered if it was his imagination. The nobility knew what was coming to them. They had for a century.
    Tamas turned away from his view of the city when the door behind him clicked. A soldier stepped out onto the balcony. His solid blue uniform with a silver collar matched Tamas’s, with a gold sergeant’s triangle pinned to the lapel, and stripes of service above his breast to indicate ten years. The man looked to be in his midthirties. He wore a finely trimmed brown beard, though military regulation forbade it, and his hair was cut short above his ears. Tamas gave the man a nod.
    “Olem, sir. Reporting.”
    “Thank you, Olem,” Tamas said. “You’re aware of the duties I need you to perform?”
    “Bodyguard,” Olem said, “and manservant, errand boy. Anything the field marshal bloody well pleases. No disrespect meant, sir.”
    “I take it those were Sabon’s words?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Tamas suppressed a smile. He could like this man. Too free with his tongue, perhaps.
    A thin ribbon of smoke rose from behind Olem.
    “Soldier, is your back on fire?”
    “No, sir,” Olem said.
    “The smoke?”
    “My cigarette, sir.”
    “Cigarette?”
    “All the latest fashion. Tobacco as fine as snuff, sir, and half the price. All the way from Fatrasta. I roll them myself.”
    “You sound like an advertisement.” Tamas felt annoyance creeping on.
    “My cousin sells tobacco, sir.”
    “Why are you hiding it behind your back?”
    Olem shrugged. “You’re a teetotaler, sir, and it’s well known among the men you won’t abide smoking either.”
    “Then why are you hiding it behind your back?”
    “Waiting for you to turn around so I can have a hit, sir.”
    At least he was honest. “I had a sergeant flogged once for smoking in my tent. Why do you think I’ll treat you any differently?” That had been twenty-five years ago, and Tamas had almost lost his rank for it.
    “Because you want me to watch your back, sir,” Olem said. “It goes to logic that you won’t hand out a beating to the man you expect to keep you alive.”
    “I see,” Tamas said. Olem hadn’t even cracked a smile. Tamas decided he did like the man. Against his better judgment.
    They examined each other for a moment. Tamas couldn’t help but watch the ribbon of smoke rising from behind Olem. The smell reached him then. It wasn’t terribly unpleasant, less pungent than most cigars, but not as pleasant as pipe tobacco. There was even a minty