"That won't be necessary." The gentleman finally spoke. His voice was quiet, steady. He sounded educated. "Go on," he told the dockworker.

The dockworker pushed past Nila, politely but firmly, and began emptying the closet and the dresser drawers onto the bed. He tossed a wooden train and a pair of tin soldiers on the pile and gathered it all up in one of the sheets, tying it in a knot at the top.

"I'm sure he has a travel bag..." Nila began.

"That won't be necessary," the gentleman said again. "You may take care of the rest of the bedding." He left the room.

The dockworker swung the whole bundle over his shoulder and carried it out into the hallway. Nila followed him, watching him head down the hallway behind the gentleman. When neither turned to look back at her, she began pushing her cart after him.

She followed them at a distance down the main hallway, then down a side corridor before they turned into a room at the end of the hall: one of the many offices in the building. Nila left her cart and slowly approached the door. She peeked around the corner.

A hand grabbed her roughly by the shoulder. She was jerked into the room and slammed hard against the wall. Someone gripped her by the chin, and she found herself staring into the compassionless eyes of the gentleman.

"What does the boy mean to you?" he asked. His voice was still calm, collected, despite the bruising grip he had on Nila.

Nila mumbled in surprise, not certain as to what to say. Who was this man? Why would he treat her like this? How could he know Jakob meant anything to her?

"What," the gentleman said, jerking her face from one side to the other with emphasis on each word, "does the boy mean to you?"

"Nothing. I'm just the laundress."

"I have a Knack for knowing when I'm being lied to," he said. "You have five seconds to tell me. Then I will strangle you."

Nila felt his fingers close around her throat. She stared back into his eyes. She'd seen more life in the eyes of dead men. She counted down in her head. His grip tightened.

"I was..." she started, feeling her throat constrict. He let up slightly. "I was his family's laundress before the purge. I've known him since birth. I wanted to help him escape from Tamas."

The fingers dropped from her throat. "Fortunate," the gentleman said. "We had problems with his nurse. You will take her place and come with us."

"I don't..."

He grabbed her by the back of the neck, half dragging her across the room as one might an unruly child. He opened a closet and forced her to look down.

Nila remembered the nurse who'd been watching Jakob when Olem had taken her to see him. She was an older woman, heavyset. She lay at the bottom of the closet unnaturally, her eyes staring up at nothing. Nila tried to back away. The gentleman's grip on her neck prevented her from doing so.

"This," the gentleman said, "happened because she had qualms. If you decide to have qualms... if you ever disobey me... I will not hesitate to kill you with my bare hands. My name is Lord Vetas, and I am your master now. Follow me."

He closed the closet door and led her out into the hall. The dockworker appeared with the sack of Jakob's clothing over his shoulder. Vetas gestured to Nila. "She will be the boy's new nurse. Take her. I have business to attend to elsewhere."

Vetas left at a brisk pace. Nila couldn't help but watch him go. Her heart hammered in her chest, her legs sagging beneath her. She'd never felt fear like this. Not before Olem had saved her from rape, not when she'd almost drowned as a child in the Adsea. That man was pure malice.

The dockworker shrugged and took Nila by one arm. He led her down the hallway and out a side door, toward a carriage waiting in the street. Even on the back side of the House of Nobles there was a crowd. Nila looked up at the dockworker. His grip was not painfully tight. She could kick him and get away, disappearing into the throng.

They drew closer to the carriage. Some dread in the pit of her stomach told her that if she set foot in that carriage, she would never escape Lord Vetas. She watched for an opportunity, her body tensed, her skirt gathered in one hand so that she could run.

"Miss Nila?" Jakob appeared in the door of the carriage. His hair was mussed, his jacket askew, but he seemed unhurt. "Miss Nila! I didn't know you were here!"

Nila let her skirt fall from her hand. She took Jakob's hand and stepped into the carriage. "Don't worry," Nila said. "I've come to take care of you."

Chapter 36.

Tamas leaned back in his chair, one leg up on a hassock, and watched Mihali's feast draw what seemed like half the city for a late breakfast. The entire square was full, and the streets beyond overflowing with lines waiting their turn. Some of them watched jugglers while they waited, and thousands crowded around a raised platform near the middle of the square, eating porridge on their feet as a troupe of mummers performed a lewd comedy. This was the last day of the festival, and no expense had been spared for the entertainment of the masses.

A large parasol shaded Tamas from the midmorning sun. He sat on the front step of the House of Nobles, feeling better than he had for months, while he worked his way through a basket of rolls Mihali had left with him an hour ago.

"With your leg, you should be in bed," Lady Winceslav said. "Are you sure you're feeling well enough to be out?"

He looked her over once, noting her pallor, and wondered if he should ask the same.

"Of course, Lady. Never better." Brave words, maybe, but the fact was his leg did feel better. He could almost feel it healing, his strength returning to him. He knew he had work to do, but damn it, none of it seemed to matter. For the first time since his wife's death, he felt whole again.

Even Lady Winceslav seemed in better spirits. She'd braved the crowds despite her recent scandal with Brigadier Barat. She wasn't directing the festival-that was all in Mihali's hands now-but at least she was here.

"Do you think everyone will come?" she asked.

Tamas eyed the crowd. "I think the whole city is here, Lady."

"I meant of the council." She gave him a playful cuff on the arm.

"Ricard has been here since half past six," Tamas said, "rolling out food and wine with the rest of his workers." And under strict, but discreet, watch, until Adamat returned with evidence for or against his guilt. If the union boss knew anything about the attempt on Adamat's life, he gave no sign.

"Has he?" She seemed surprised by this. "Incredible."

"Ondraus is somewhere out there, yelling at his clerks," Tamas said. "Olem says he saw the eunuch just an hour ago. Of Charlemund I haven't seen hide or hair. And there"-he pointed-"is the vice-chancellor."

Tamas watched Prime Lektor pick his way through the crowd. The birthmark spidering across his face looked darker than usual. The vice-chancellor eyed the food as he passed the serving tables, but he seemed to have something more important on his mind. He paused briefly at a stern look from Tamas's bodyguards and then ducked under the parasol. He tipped his hat to Lady Winceslav.

"Seat?" Tamas asked, gesturing to one of the guards.

"Please," Prime said. He observed the feast while waiting for a chair, and then took a seat next to Tamas. "You seem to be in unusually good spirits."

"I do?" Tamas said. "I haven't said two words."

Prime cleared his throat. "I can sense it about you. It's in the air. Like a first-year student who knows he's going to be every professor's favorite. It's annoying." Prime looked about again. He kept looking toward the serving tables and watching assistants bring out bowls and platters and everything else.

Tamas gave the vice-chancellor a sidelong glance. "Can't you feel it?" he said. "It's not just me. It's the whole city. It's... this." He gestured to the feast, the tens of thousands gorging themselves on Mihali's food without a care in the world. "The wealthy and the poor, the noble and the ignoble rubbing shoulders. I've never seen anything like it."

Prime gave the feast a long-suffering once-over. "You don't believe this rubbish, do you?" he said. "About this chef being a god?" His eyes lingered on a pot of porridge.

Tamas hesitated, trying to read Prime's tone. There was something off about it. Despite the gruff way he spoke, it almost sounded as if Prime wanted Tamas to say yes.

"Ha. A god? No. A powerful Knacked. A little mad, maybe. But harmless," Tamas said. "But then again..." He raised a finger alongside his nose in a secretive gesture. "What does a god look like? What does a god do? Who am I to know one when I see him?" He shook his head with a laugh at Prime's exasperated look. "Mihali is a gifted man. Greatly so. I don't think a god, though. How about you? You're probably the most qualified to know. You've every history of the Nine at your fingertips. Do any talk of Adom?"

"I realized a long time ago Kresimir would never return." Prime fell quiet, and Tamas realized he had no idea how old the vice-chancellor was.

"And Adom..." Tamas prompted.

"He loved his food," Prime admitted. "He's the patron saint of chefs for a reason. He was a big man, strong, powerful, and"-he tracked one of Mihali's female assistants with his eyes as she passed by, a platter of stuffed waterfowl balanced on one hand-"he was very popular with the women. He had over four hundred wives, and loved every one of them. Figuratively and literally."

"Four hundred?" Tamas said. "I could barely handle one." His throat caught on that, and he had to clear it. "You speak as if you knew him yourself."

Prime said nothing.

"Sounds like Mihali is a pretty good candidate."

"There are too many questions," Prime said. "There hasn't been a god on this earth for hundreds and hundreds of years. Kresimir left, off to resume his exploration of the cosmos. Novi and Brude went the same way just days after. The rest followed, or disappeared without fanfare. There was a rumor that one or two of them had remained behind... ," he said, trailing off.

Tamas exchanged a curious look with Lady Winceslav.

"Do you feel well?" Tamas asked.

Prime spared him a glance. "Would you believe me," he said, "if I told you Mihali is a gifted sorcerer?"

"Without a doubt. Not a Privileged, though. A Knacked."

Prime snorted. "A Knacked, my ass. What if I were to say, 'the most powerful sorcerer in the world'? Or if I said that that's all the gods ever were: immensely powerful sorcerers?"

"Hypothetically?" Tamas said, revealing his skepticism.

"The most powerful to ever live?"

"You're joking."

"It's just a question," Prime snapped.

"So what if he was?"

"The problem with logic," Prime said, "is that sometimes you are forced to believe your own hypothesis, even if you don't want to. What do you feel when you sense toward Mihali?"

"A Knacked, as I said. He has the soft glow to him. Less power than a Privileged by far."

"Can you be sure?"

Tamas sighed. He opened his third eye and looked toward Mihali. There had to be many Knacked in such a large crowd, but Mihali was easy to find. Something about him stood out above the others. Yet his glow was no stronger.

"Yes," Tamas said. He watched Prime's face. The old man was frowning toward Mihali. "You don't think it's possible, do you? That he's really a god?"

Prime closed his eyes and was quiet for several minutes. Tamas was beginning to wonder whether the old man had nodded off, when his eyes opened.

"Too many questions," he said again.

"You said 'the other gods,'" Tamas said, "I thought Kresimir was the only god."

Prime shifted in his chair and watched a service-pressed clerk roll out a barrel of ale and gingerly move it down the front steps. "That's not precisely true," Prime said.

"It's dogma," Tamas said. "Charlemund reminded me so just the other day."

"Just because something is church dogma does not make it true."

"Well, certainly," Tamas said, "any educated man..." He trailed off at Prime's scowl.

"Educated men," Prime said. "Bah. There were ten gods. Not one god and nine saints. Kresimir came initially, and then requested the help of his brothers and sisters to organize the Nine."

"There's ten gods?" Tamas said. He struggled to remember his history lessons. "I always thought Kez took Kresimir as their patron. Who is the tenth, then?"

Prime shook his head. "That's the wrong question. You should be asking: If Mihali is a god, why is he here now?"

South Pike Mountain was hidden behind the House of Nobles, but they both turned in that direction. Tamas thought back to the warnings he'd received from Bo and Taniel. Ancient sorcerers trying to summon God. It was almost quaint, as if from a storybook. Fears generated from the stress of months of battle. Although, Tamas remembered, those first warnings came before the start of the siege. Tamas scratched at the top of his wounded leg. It began to hurt more, the pain returning like an ache long thought gone.

"Have you ever heard of Kresimir's Promise?" Tamas said suddenly.

"Rubbish," Prime said.

"Rubbish? You know of it? I was told it was a cabal secret, only known to the kings and their Privileged."

"It is." Prime mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.

Tamas was about to press him more when he heard a scream.

Another followed, and then another. A ripple of fear moved through the large crowd as a murmur of yells grew to a roar in moments. People rose from their places, their food forgotten, trying to see the source of the commotion.

"What's going on?" Tamas snatched his crutch and struggled from his chair. "Find out what's going on," he told a guard. "Get inside," he said to Prime. "Guards, take Lady Winceslav inside." Tamas watched Mihali climb up onto a table, nimble despite his girth, and strain to see what was happening.

"Calm down!" Mihali shouted. His voice carried over the crowd with surprising force. "Please, return to your seats." People paused, half-risen, unsure of what to do. Those in line seemed to hesitate, unwilling to lose their places but concerned by what could be happening. Everyone remembered the dragoons on Election Day.

Tamas could still see nothing. The commotion seemed to be coming from the far end of the tables. Some people ran, struggling against those who tried to get closer and see.

"My pistol," Tamas said. He noticed Prime had gotten to his feet and was craning his neck for a better look. Lady Winceslav waited beside the door to the House of Nobles with her bodyguard.

"Get inside," Tamas said again. "I don't want you killed by a fear-stricken mob."

Prime ignored him.

"Suit yourself," Tamas growled, taking one of his dueling pistols from a guard. He checked that it was primed and loaded before scanning the crowd.

"There," Prime said, pointing.

Tamas caught sight of a man several hundred paces away. The crowd had backed away from him. He looked to be holding something in his hand. Tamas bit into a powder charge and swayed as the full force of a powder trance hit him. He took a few shallow breaths and straightened, sharpening his gaze on the man.

The man was dressed as a Barber. He wore a white shirt and dark pants under a white apron. The apron itself was stained with blood. There was a body at his feet, with the long, blond hair of a woman. He wiped the blade of his razor on his apron and sprinted toward the crowd.