A newsie lad, no more than ten, sprinted into view. He stopped on the corner next to Adamat and took mighty gasps before throwing his head back and shouting: "Manhouch has fallen! The king has fallen! Manhouch faces the guillotine at noon!" Then the boy was gone, onto the next corner.

Adamat snapped himself out of a stunned silence and turned to watch others do the same. He knew that Manhouch had fallen. He'd seen the blood of the royal cabal on Tamas's jacket. Yet hearing it spoken aloud on a public street made his hands tremble. The king had fallen. Change had been forced on the country, and the people would be forced to choose how they'd react.

The initial shock of the news passed. Confusion set in as pedestrians changed their plans midstride. A carriage turned around abruptly in the street. The driver didn't see the small girl selling flowers. Adamat rushed out, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her away before the horses could trample her. Her flowers spilled into the street. One man shoved another in a sudden, hurried dash across the street and was in turn shoved to the ground. A fistfight began, only to be quickly put down by a truncheon-wielding police officer.

Adamat helped the girl pick up her flowers before she ran off. He sighed. It's begun. He put his head down and pushed on toward the postmaster's.

Chapter 5.

Tamas stood on a balcony six floors above the enormous city square called the King's Garden, his face in the wind, watching the crowds gather. His two hounds slept at his feet, unaware of the importance of this day. He wore his freshly pressed dress uniform; dark blue with 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 tinge to it.

"Do I have the job, sir?" Olem asked.

"You really don't need sleep?"

Olem tapped the middle of his forehead. "I have the Knack, sir. Runs in the family. My father could smell a liar from a mile away. My cousin can eat more food than a hundred men, or none at all for weeks. My particular Knack? I don't need sleep. I even have the third sight, so you know it's the real thing."

Men with a Knack were considered the least powerful among those with sorcerous ability. It usually manifested itself as one very strong and particular talent, though some were quite powerful. There were plenty of men who claimed to have a Knack. Only those with a third eye-the ability to see sorcery and those who wield it-were truly Knacked.

"Why haven't you been swept up as a bodyguard before?"

"Sir?"

"With a talent like that you could be running security for some duke in Kez and making more money than a dozen soldiers. Or perhaps serving overseas with the Wings of Adom."

"Ah," Olem said. "I get seasick."

"That's it?"

"Bodyguards to the rich need to be able to sail with them. I'm useless on a boat."

"So you'll watch my back as long as I don't go sailing?"

"Pretty much, sir."

Tamas watched the man for another few moments. Among the troops, Olem was well known and well liked-he could shoot, box, ride, and play cards and billiards. He was an everyman as far as soldiers were concerned.

"You've one mark on your record," Tamas said. "You once punched a na-baron in the face. Broke his jaw. Tell me about that."

Olem grimaced. "Officially, sir, I was pushing him out of the way of a runaway carriage. Saved his life. Half my company saw it."

"With your fist?"

"Aye."

"And unofficially?"

"The man was a git. He shot my dog because it startled his horse."

"And if I ever have cause to shoot your dog?"

"I'll punch you in the face."

"Fair enough. You have the job."

"Oh, good." Olem looked relieved. He removed his hands from behind his back and immediately stuck the cigarette in his mouth and pulled hard. Smoke blew out his nose. "It would have gone out soon."

"Ah. I'm going to regret this, aren't I?"

"Of course not, sir. Someone's here."

Tamas caught sight of movement just inside. "It's time." He stepped toward the balcony door and paused. The hounds rose from their sleep and crowded around Tamas's legs. He gave Olem a look.

"Sir?"

"You're also supposed to get the door for me."

"Right. Sorry, sir. This might take me a while to get used to."

"Me too," Tamas said.

Olem held the door for Tamas. The hounds hurried in ahead of him, noses to the floor. The room was near-silent despite the growing volume of voices in the Garden. Running on days without sleep, Tamas found the silence soothing.

He was in a grand office, if a room so big could be called that. Most houses could fit inside. It had been the king's, a quiet place for him to study or review decisions by the House of Nobles. Like everything else that required a hair of a brain or a single krana's care for how the country was run, the room had remained vacant for the entirety of Manhouch's reign-though Tamas had it on good authority that Manhouch lent it to his favorite mistress last year, before his advisers found out.

Ricard Tumblar stood over a table of refreshments, picking through a stack of sugar cakes for the best ones. He was a handsome man despite his receding hairline, with short brown hair and full features, and lines in the corners of his mouth from smiling too much. He wore a costly suit made out of some animal hair from eastern Gurla, and his beard was worn long in Fatrastan style. A hat and cane of equally eclectic and expensive taste rested by the door.

Ricard controlled Adopest's only workers' union and of all of Tamas's council of coconspirators; he was the only one that could provide pleasant company for longer than a few minutes. Hrusch and Pitlaugh sniffed at him till he gave them each a sugar cake. The dogs took their prizes and retreated to the window divan.

Tamas sighed. He hated it when people fed them. They wouldn't shit right for a week.

"Help yourself," Tamas said.

Ricard grinned at him. "Thank you, I will." He popped a sugar cake in his mouth and spoke around a mouthful. "You did it, old boy. I couldn't believe it, but you did it."

"Not quite," Tamas said. "The executions must be carried out, the city brought to order; there will be riots and royalists, and I still have the Kez to deal with."

"And a country to run," Ricard added.

"Lucky for me, I'll leave that to the council."

Ricard rolled his eyes. "Lucky you indeed. I dread working with the rest of them. We need your balancing hand to keep us from each other's throats."

"I agree," Ondraus said.

The reeve entered the room at a slow walk, cane in one hand, a thick ledger under the other arm. He crossed the room and tossed the ledger down on the king's desk, then dropped down in the chair behind it. Tamas stifled a protest.

Ondraus opened the book. Tamas would have sworn dust rose from the thing. He stepped closer. It was an ancient tome, with gold-thread lettering stitched onto the front-a word in Old Deliv. Something about money, Tamas guessed. The pages themselves seemed almost black. Closer inspection revealed tiny writing-letters and numbers boxed off, written so densely as to require a looking glass to see the actual figures.

"The king's treasury is empty," Ondraus announced. He produced a looking glass from his pocket and set it on the page, peering through it as he perused a few numbers at random.

Ricard inhaled sharply, choking on a sugar cake.

Tamas stared at the reeve. "How?"

"I haven't seen this thing since the Iron King died," Ondraus said, gesturing at the tome. "It records every transaction made in the name of the crown for the last hundred years, to the krana. It's been in the hands of Manhouch's personal accountants since he took the throne. They kept solid records; that's the best I can say for them. According to this, there's not a krana in the king's treasury."

Tamas made a fist to stop his hands from shaking. How would he pay his soldiers? How would he feed the poor and bankroll the police forces? Tamas needed hundreds of millions-he'd hoped for at least tens.

"Taxes," Ondraus said, closing the ledger with a thump. "We'll have to raise taxes first thing."

"No," Tamas said. "You know that's not an option. If we replace Manhouch with even higher taxes, stricter control, then it'll be our heads in a basket within a year."

"Why should we raise the taxes?" Arch-Diocel Charlemund swept into the room, long, purple robes of office trailing behind him. He was a tall man, strong and athletic, who'd not lost the power of his youth in middle age like most men. He had a square face and evenly set brown eyes, his cheeks clean-shaven. He was swathed in fine furs and silk, with a round, gilded hat upon his head. There were rings on his fingers with enough gold and precious stones to buy a dozen mansions. But that wasn't uncommon for an arch-diocel of the Kresim Church.

"I see you brought the whole wardrobe," Ricard said.

Tamas inclined his head. "Charlemund," he said.

The arch-diocel sniffed. "I'm a man of the Rope," he said. "I have a title you may use, though it weighs upon me to inflict it."

"Your Eminence!" Ricard mimed removing a hat from his head and bowed low to the ground.

"I wouldn't expect a man like you to understand," the arch-diocel said to Ricard. "I'd call you out, but you're too much of a coward to duel."

"I have men to do that for me," Ricard said. There was the slightest fear in his eye. The arch-diocel had been the finest swordsman in all the Nine before his appointment to the Rope and he was still known to call men out on occasion and-priest or not-gut them mercilessly.

"Property," Tamas said to the reeve. "We own half of Adro now, what with every nobleman and his heir about to find himself tasting the guillotine's edge. Ondraus, I expect you'll take great delight in this: Dissolve the property. Slowly, but fast enough to fund all the projects we've discussed. Sell it outside the country if need be, but get us some damned money."

"There were plans for that property," the arch-diocel said.

"Yes, and-"

"What is being done with the property?"