As quickly as it began, the earthquake was over. Tamas climbed to his feet, waving a cloud of plaster dust from his face. The room seemed intact, though most of the furniture was dashed to pieces. He breathed a sigh of relief that the whole house hadn't caved in on them. Many of the buildings in this part of the city were old and unreliable, and he imagined plenty of people hadn't been so lucky.

Olem had been thrown to the floor and a bookshelf had crashed down over him. Tamas's legs wobbled unsteadily as if he'd been at sea for months. He crossed to the bookshelf and lifted it up.

Olem lay on his back, rubbing at his forehead with one hand, using the other to clear away the books that had fallen on him. He took Tamas's proffered hand.

"You've blood on you, sir," Olem said.

Tamas touched his forehead. His fingers came away crimson. "Don't even feel it," he said.

"Must have caught a piece of plaster," Olem said.

Tamas looked up. There were several good-sized holes in the ceiling, one right above the command table. "Just a bump," Tamas said. "I'm fine." He surveyed the room, feeling dizzy. It would take hours to get things returned to order. His maps had been scattered. He swayed.

"You sure you're all right, sir?" Olem asked. He put out one hand to steady Tamas.

Tamas waved him away. "Fine, fine. Let's have a look at the damage outside."

The street was in chaos. People emerged from their houses, yelling for help. Mercenaries tried to right field guns that had been tossed on their sides like they weighed nothing. Cobbles had popped from the street as if the ground had flexed beneath them. Whole rows of tightly packed apartment housing had crumbled, spilling bricks out into the road.

One of the Wings of Adom mercenaries paused before Tamas.

"There's been an earthquake, sir," the man said.

"Thank you, soldier. I gathered as much."

The man rushed off, his eyes looking a little dazed. Tamas exchanged a glance with Olem. "We don't get a lot of earthquakes here," Tamas said.

Olem shook his head. "Not in my lifetime."

Tamas turned around, assessing the damage. There would be parts of the city where things were worse, and parts where they were better. Tamas didn't even want to think of the chaos this had caused at the docks.

"Does Sablethorn look like it's leaning, sir?" Olem asked.

Tamas looked. The black spire, rising over the buildings to the west, did indeed look a little off. "At least it didn't fall outright. Olem."

"Sir?"

"Find some runners. I want damage assessment from the entire city. I want to know about the barricades. If some holes have opened up, it may be our chance to punch through them."

"Now?"

"Definitely. General Westeven will take advantage of the chaos to move up his barricades and reinforce them with rubble from the quake. We need to take advantage as well."

"You sure you're unhurt, sir?"

"Positive. Go."

Olem hurried off. Tamas waited until he was out of sight before he sagged against the wall behind him. His head throbbed from where he'd been hit. He could see figures scurrying over the barricade down the street, rushing out beyond them to snatch up bricks and masonry and throwing them back over.

"Ryze!" Tamas said.

The mercenary brigadier picked his way through the rubble to Tamas.

"Any of those guns operational?" Tamas asked.

"Axles are bent, wheels broken. We'll need to call in some smiths to fix them."

Tamas indicated the barricades. "Pass word among your boys to move up within firing distance. Don't let Westeven reinforce his barricades."

Ryze snapped a salute and spun off, barking orders to his men.

Tamas went back inside. He found a chair and righted it, and then rummaged through the mess until he found a spare coat. He wadded it up and pressed it against his head. He sank into the chair.

"You'll have a nasty bump on your forehead."

A man stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, surveying the damage within. He had long black hair, pulled back in a braided ponytail that hung over one shoulder, and a thin mustache. He was a big man, twenty stone or more, and a head and a half taller than Tamas. His skin had a slight yellow tint, hinting at some Rosvelean ancestry, but he spoke with the accent of a native Adran. He wore the brown pants and long, dirty white shirt of a city worker underneath a frayed jacket.

"Yes," Tamas said, tenderly pressing his fingers to his temple. "I think I will. Are you a surgeon?"

The man looked down at his hands, surprised. "No, I think not. These pudgy hands have only one calling: the kitchens."

"A cook?" He sent Olem away for just a minute and now any kind of riffraff just wandered in to his command center. "If you need help, I'm sure the soldiers outside are setting up a field hospital."

The man narrowed his eyes. "Cook?" he snapped. "Do I look like a cheap purveyor of watery soup and half-cooked meat? I'm a chef, damn it, and you watch who you call a cook in the future. Feelings are liable to get hurt."

Tamas lowered his hand from his injured head and stared at the man. Who the pit did he think he was? Amusement turned to annoyance as the man entered the room and set a chair back on its legs near Tamas, taking a seat.

"Do you know who I am?" Tamas demanded.

The man waved a hand, using the other to adjust his big belly comfortably into his lap. "Field Marshal Tamas, unless I'm mistaken."

The gall. "And you are?"

The man removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. "It's bloody hot in here. Where are my manners? I'm Mihali, son of Moaka, lord of the Golden Chefs."

The Golden Chefs sounded familiar, but Tamas couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"Moaka?" Tamas asked. "The na-baron?"

"My father preferred to think of himself as a culinary expert above all else, Kresimir rest his soul."

"Yes," Tamas said. He touched his head gingerly. It seemed to have stopped bleeding, but his headache was getting worse. "I attended one of his galas once. The food was unparalleled. He passed on last year, didn't he?" Even the son of a na-baron didn't belong here. Where the blazes was Olem?

"He always cooked it all himself." Mihali hung his head. "A pity. His heart gave out when he tasted my lamb souffle. He was so proud of me, finally besting him." Mihali stared off across the room, exploring memories.

"Pardon me," Tamas said. The pounding inside his head began to increase. "Why the pit are you here?"

"Oh," Mihali said. "Many apologies. I'm the god Adom reincarnated."

Tamas couldn't help it. He began to chuckle, then to laugh. He slapped his knee. "Saint Adom, eh? That's a good one. Ow." He clutched at his head. Laughing had not been a good idea.

"Saint," Mihali grumbled. "I give order to chaos alongside Kresimir and these people relegate me to sainthood. Oh well, can't win them all, can you?"

Tamas managed to stifle his chuckles. "By Kresimir, you're serious?"

"Of course," Mihali said. He put one hand over his heart. "I swear by my mother's squash soup."

Tamas stood up. Was this some kind of joke? Was it Sabon? Maybe Olem. Olem was far cheekier than he should be. "Olem," he called. There was no answer. Tamas swore under his breath. He'd told Olem to send runners, not inspect the whole city himself. "Olem!" He stuck his head out into the hallway. There was no one around.

He turned about, face-to-face with Mihali. Mihali glanced out the door. "I don't really want to meet anyone yet, thank you," he said. "I don't want to cause a fuss. Meeting a god is an awfully big thing. I think."

"What are you, an actor?" Tamas said. He poked the man in the belly, checking for a stuffed shirt. It was all fat. "A mighty good show, but I'm not in the mood."

Mihali pointed at Tamas's forehead. "You were hit quite hard," he said. "I know it's a lot to take in. Maybe you should sit down for a moment. My memories are imperfect in this body, but I will do my best." He cleared his throat. "Did the dying Privileged warn you as they were supposed to?"

Tamas froze in the act of feeling his head wound. He grabbed Mihali by the lapels of his jacket. "Warn me about what?"

Mihali looked truly puzzled. He gave an apologetic shrug. "As I said, my memories are not what they should be." He seemed to perk up. "They will improve over time, though. I think."

"No more jokes now," he said. "Who the pit are you?"

Tamas flew against the doorjamb, hitting his shoulder hard, then was tossed to the floor. For a moment he thought Mihali had hit him, but then realized it was another earthquake. His heart in his mouth, he gripped the doorframe, watching more plaster fall to the floor and praying the whole building wouldn't come down this time. It was over in seconds.

He climbed up and dusted himself off, searching the room. The man was gone. Tamas gritted his teeth and looked out into the hallway. Olem was there, steadying himself up against the wall.

"Where the pit have you been?" Tamas asked.

"Finding runners," Olem said. "Everything good, sir?"

Tamas eyed him suspiciously. Not even a smirk. No one could play a joke that well.

"Fine. You see someone pass by here?"

Olem glanced at him, looking back and forth down the hallway. He reached down into the rubble at his feet and fished out a still-smoking cigarette. "No, sir."

Tamas stepped back into the command post. There was a back door to the house, he was sure, but no one could have crossed the room with the ground shaking like that.

How hard did I hit my head?

Chapter 10.

Adamat stopped by his home for his pistols. Five days since he'd hired SouSmith, and the cordon around the center of the city had left no opportunities for them to sneak into the Public Archives. That had changed with the quake. The whole city was a mess. Buildings were down, roads filled with the homeless. Adamat had taken the opportunity to scout the royalist positions for a way to get to the Archives. He'd had no such luck.

There had been rumors Tamas would bring his entire army into the city and push through the barricades, but it seemed he'd turned his soldiers and mercenaries alike to helping the citizens rather than taking the barricades. Once the fighting began in earnest, it would be very dangerous in Centestershire. Then there was the rumor that Tamas's powder mages were still hunting a rogue Privileged through the streets of Adopest. Being out and about in the city was not for the faint of heart.

Every three days, Adamat received a messenger from Tamas. Every three days, he was forced to report he'd made no headway. It was frustrating having the field marshal breathing down his neck and not being able to report any kind of success.

Adamat stooped just inside the front door to pick up the post. At least Tamas kept that running. It was hard not to admire him for that. Adamat waited for SouSmith to come inside, then pushed the door closed with his foot. SouSmith tapped his shoulder.

The back door through the hallway and past the kitchen was ajar. He dropped the post on a side table and removed a cane from the holder near the door. SouSmith headed to the sitting room. Adamat came around the corner behind him, cane held high. He lowered it slowly.

"You saved me a trip," he said.

Palagyi sat in Adamat's favorite chair, next to the fireplace, hands folded in his lap. He had the same two goons with him as last time. The lockpick lounged on the sofa, boots on, and the big one with the coal-stained arms studied his family portrait above the mantle. A fourth man sat behind Adamat's desk, hands folded serenely in his lap.

Palagyi's eyes grew wide at the sight of SouSmith. "You were coming to see me?" he said.

"Yes, I just was."

"I can't imagine why. There's no way you have the money you owe me." Again, he eyed SouSmith nervously.

Adamat took a deep breath, gathered his composure. "No, but I have some of it. You said you'd leave me be until my time was up."

"And I have," Palagyi said.

Adamat looked around the room. "I've got well over a month left."

"You gave me the wrong address for your family," Palagyi said.

"I gave you my cousins' address," Adamat said.

"Your cousins are a family of brawlers?"

"Seven sons, all take after their father," Adamat said. "Very successful prizefighters."

"Yes," Palagyi said, "Well, that may be, your family wasn't there."

"Really?"

"And when my boys pressed the question, they were forcibly removed from the town," Palagyi said. "In tar and feathers."

"I can't imagine why," Adamat said. He smiled inwardly but kept his expression flat.

Palagyi worked to control himself. "I'm willing to let this go."

Adamat froze. Palagyi was up to something. "Why?" he said.

Palagyi examined his fingernails. "I want to introduce you to my new friend," he said. He gestured to the man sitting at Adamat's desk. "This is Lord Vetas. He's a man of various talents. And he has powerful friends."

"Pleased to meet you." Adamat gave the man a curt nod and a quick inspection. He had the dusty, yellow skin of a full-blooded Rosvelean. He wore all-black clothes but for a scarlet vest and the gold chain of a pocket watch visible at his breast pocket. He sat in Adamat's chair like a schoolboy with perfect posture and his eyes traveled around the room with the steady inspection of someone who sees everything.