They passed by dozens of rooms, each one seemingly bigger than the last, with more ornate gold-work trim and colorful frescoes. Marble-faced fireplaces took up entire walls in some rooms. Curtains were drawn in most of them, casting the rooms into shadow, and what little furniture was left had been covered in white sheets to keep the dust off.
The servant stepped aside suddenly and gestured to a doorway.
Hewi and her officers went inside. Adamat paused momentarily, wondering if there was any significance to Claremonte’s having them use the servants’ halls and entrances instead of the immense, echoing hallways and full-length doors. Letting them know they were beneath him, perhaps?
Adamat glanced at SouSmith to reassure himself and then went in.
“Welcome, welcome!” Claremonte’s voice bounced off the vaulted ceilings. The room was about thirty feet by forty. Unlike the others they’d passed, this one was decorated entirely in silver—metallic paint on the walls, ornate silver-plated trim. Even the dual fireplaces were a marbling of light and dark gray that matched the walls. On the ceiling was a mural showing some ancient hero making a deal with a two-faced celestial being.
Brude. Fitting that Claremonte would pick a room watched over by Brudania’s two-faced patron saint.
Claremonte wore a fine robe over silk pajamas, though it was well past nine in the morning. He lounged lazily in a wingback chair beside one of the windows overlooking the garden and held a cup in one hand, newspaper in the other. He stood as they approached, repeating his welcome.
“I’m sorry I’m not yet dressed, Commissioner. It was a late night last night, working on a campaign speech for a meeting I’m having this afternoon with the Society for City Gardens.”
Hewi extended a hand. “Thank you for allowing us to come by on such short notice.”
“No trouble at all. Oh, Inspector Adamat. Good morning to you, sir.”
“Good morning,” Adamat said stiffly. He felt a drop of sweat snake its way down the nape of his neck.
“How are your lovely wife and children?”
Adamat forced a tight-lipped smile. This had been a terrible mistake.
“I wasn’t aware you knew the inspector,” Hewi said. “Or that you’ve met his family!”
“The inspector was among those who greeted me upon my arrival to the city,” Claremonte said, a magnanimous smile on his lips. “And I only know his wife by reputation.”
To other men, Claremonte’s smile may have been gracious. To Adamat, it seemed full of mockery. Claremonte extended his hand to Adamat.
“Pardon if I don’t shake,” Adamat managed.
“Of course.” The words were almost a purr. “Hewi—may I call you Hewi? Hewi, I can only assume that you’ve come to ask me about the unfortunate incident with Ricard Tumblar yesterday.”
“That’s true,” the commissioner said.
“I want to assure you that I had nothing to do with it.” Claremonte moved back to his chair by the window and dropped gracefully into it, sending his robe fluttering. “Can I offer any of you some breakfast? Eggs? Coffee? Biscuits?”
“Nothing, thank you,” Hewi said. “You understand that we’ll need to look into your records? This case will be very high-profile and you are running against Mr. Tumblar for First Minister of Adro. You have the means and the motive.”
“I understand. Your men are welcome to my records and to question my employees. As long, of course, as it does not interfere with my campaign.”
“We’ll do our best to keep the investigation discreet.”
“Many thanks.”
Adamat let his eyes search the room once more, trying to find anything he had missed—and trying to get his emotions under control. No good inspector could allow himself to be ruled by emotion.
There were three other chairs aside from the one Claremonte sat in, but he hadn’t offered his guests a seat. The sun blazed through the window, casting long shadows on the floor and inside wall and making it hard to look directly at Claremonte. Strategic placement, or happy coincidence?
Something about that bothered Adamat. He couldn’t quite place what it was.
Strategic placement, Adamat decided. A man like Claremonte didn’t do things by accident. Which meant his pajamas were meant to say something as well. Presenting casual indifference? Disrespect?
“Lord Claremonte,” Adamat said, interrupting something Claremonte had been saying. “Can you give us any reason why you wouldn’t want Ricard dead?”
Claremonte seemed taken aback. “Why, several. For one, attacking Mr. Tumblar and failing to kill him will only raise his public sympathy.”
“Or expose your opponent’s weakness.”
“Perhaps, but he’s very well liked. For another thing, if he had been killed, his Second Minister would have stepped forward to run in his place. And I have no desire to run against a war hero like Taniel Two-shot. Not with all these rumors going around that he’s killed a god and what other nonsense. He’s got a cult of worship among the people almost as deep as his father’s.”
But would he step up, Adamat wondered. He decided not to voice the question, lest it give Claremonte any ideas. “So you think you have the best shot of winning with Ricard alive?”
“Yes. Alive, and in one piece.” Claremonte shook his head sadly. “Regardless of who is to blame, some of the public will surely blame me. I would rather the whole event never have happened. I’m in a very good place right now—public perception is high and supporters are flocking to me in droves. I’ve just landed an incredible endorsement. The election is just over a month away, and anything like this bombing that could destabilize public perception can only work against me.”
“May I ask who will be endorsing you?”
“You’ll find out with the rest of Adro in a few weeks. He’s my trump card, if you don’t mind the saying. I don’t want to let out the word too early.”
“I see. I’m sorry to have interrupted, Commissioner,” Adamat said, lapsing into silence.
Hewi examined Adamat for a moment and then turned back to Claremonte, asking him a series of standard questions. Adamat was pleased to hear her go a little harder on him than she would have before Manhouch’s removal. He had heard from his friends still with the police that investigations were so incredibly easier now that kowtowing to the nobility wasn’t a standard part of the job.
Adamat listened to the questions for several minutes before slipping out the front of the room and into the grand hallway of the north wing of Skyline Palace. He needed to clear his head. Something in that room bothered him. It lurked on the edge of his awareness, tantalizingly out of reach.
He strolled down the hallway, listening to the click of his cane and the heavy footfalls of SouSmith following along behind him. Aside from those sounds, the hall was absolutely silent. Strange, what with most of Claremonte’s five thousand men stationed on the grounds. He would have thought there to be more activity.
A small sound caught his attention. He followed it, head turned, past three empty sitting rooms and into a fourth, where a series of small scratching noises proved to come from fifty pens all writing at once. A salon had been turned into a clerks’ office. Several dozen men sat at desks set up in the room, working studiously while a monitor moved up and down the aisles, occasionally bending to whisper to one of the clerks.
Adamat continued to explore the wing of the palace. He found two more rooms filled with Claremonte’s employees and another with printing equipment. The presses were all cold and empty, but they must have been used recently, as the room had been lined with cotton batting to keep down the sound. Thousands of newspapers were hung to dry on lines up in the vaulted ceiling.
Printing his own paper, in addition to the presses he’d bought from Ricard’s competitors. Smart. “Claremonte seems very confident,” Adamat commented, his words echoing down the hall.
“Yeah,” SouSmith rumbled. “Too confident.”
“I don’t like it. Have you heard anything about thi
s endorsement?”
SouSmith shook his head. “People talk. Some like him. Some hate him. Nothing certain.”
Well, that wasn’t much help. Adamat drummed his fingers on the head of his cane. “Did anything seem strange about Claremonte himself?”
SouSmith shrugged. “Seems nice enough.” He cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing down the hallway, and a dark look passed over his face. Lord Vetas had killed SouSmith’s nephew, and SouSmith wasn’t ever going to let that go. Adamat realized suddenly that bringing the big boxer here may not have been the best idea.
Of course, if he put Claremonte’s head through a wall, it would certainly make life a lot easier for everyone.
“There’s just something…” Adamat trailed off as they returned to the silver sitting room. Claremonte’s manservant eyed him and SouSmith suspiciously, but didn’t ask where they had been.
“Ah, there you are,” Hewi said. “We were just leaving, Inspector.” She made an impatient gesture toward the door with her hat.
“Pardon me, Commissioner,” Claremonte said, “but could I speak with Adamat alone?”
Hewi gave a nod and stepped outside. Adamat felt his heart suddenly beat a little faster. Alone? With Claremonte? The temptation to brain him over the head with his cane might prove too much. He nodded to SouSmith, and a moment later he was alone with Lord Claremonte.
“Inspector,” Claremonte said. “I hope that any past unpleasantness that you may think occurred between us can remain in the past.”
Adamat bit his tongue. Your man kidnapped my wife and family! Abused them in unspeakable ways, and caused the death of my son! I’ll see you dead. “As you say,” he said, remembering one of the phrases he used to use when caught in an awkward conversation with a nobleman.
“Don’t waste your time with me, Inspector. I didn’t try to kill Mr. Tumblar. I don’t know who did. I would offer my help with the investigation, but I don’t think you’d accept it.”
“We’ll see,” Adamat said, matching Claremonte’s condescending tone. “Thank you for the advice.”
Claremonte quickly rose from his seat and crossed the room to stand beside Adamat. The sun shone just behind him, surrounding Claremonte with a glowing halo and forcing Adamat to look away. “If I wanted Mr. Tumblar dead, Adamat,” Claremonte said, his voice barely above a whisper, “then he’d be dead.”
“Or else your men cocked up the job.”
Claremonte snorted. “Indeed. You’re a very suspicious man, Inspector. Be sure it doesn’t put you in an early grave.” Claremonte turned away, his back to Adamat, and Adamat was sorely tempted to take a swing at him. One well-placed strike with his cane could paralyze the man—Adamat was sure he’d then be able to strangle him before anyone returned to the room.
Instead, he tried to come up with some witty retort. When none was forthcoming, he joined Hewi, SouSmith, and Hewi’s officers in the servants’ halls.
“What did he want?” Hewi asked.
“Nothing important,” Adamat murmured.
They were led back out through the maze of corridors and servants’ doors to the side of the palace and Adamat got inside his carriage. It rocked heavily when SouSmith climbed in beside him. Adamat rapped on the ceiling with his cane, but the carriage didn’t move.
“Inspector,” Hewi said, coming to the window. “You should steer clear of Claremonte.”
I should. But I won’t. “I have work to do, Commissioner. With all due respect.”
“And with all due respect, steer clear. Claremonte isn’t the man we want.”
“How do you know?”
Hewi tipped her hat back and leaned into the carriage. She glanced at SouSmith, then gestured for Adamat to step outside. He followed her a dozen paces from the carriage. “One of the officers I had with me is a Knacked,” she said in a low voice. “We keep it quiet, because he’s very hard to see in the Else if you have the third eye.”
“What is his Knack?” Adamat asked.
“Swear to keep this quiet?”
Adamat nodded.
“He can hear lies. He knows when a man is telling the truth or a fib. It’s one of our secret weapons, and if it ever got out, the Proprietor would doubtless have him killed.”
Adamat whistled. “With good reason.” He’d heard of Knackeds like that. One of the most valuable Knacks in the world, and very rare. Adamat wanted to ask what the man was doing working for a police force in Adopest when he could be some king’s truthsayer and living like, well, a king. But that would have to wait.
“And you’re saying that Claremonte didn’t lie?”
“Not a word of it. Fudged a little bit when he said we could have access to all his employees, but that’s no surprise. A man like that has secrets. But he didn’t order Ricard killed.”
Adamat bid farewell to the commissioner and returned to his carriage, dropping into his seat with a sigh.
“Somethin’ important?” SouSmith asked.
“Claremonte isn’t our man.”
“Hmm.”
“My thought exactly. I don’t even bloody well know where to start if it’s not Claremonte.” The carriage was soon rolling, and Adamat slowly went through the list of Ricard’s known enemies in his head. “We’ll have to go see Ricard. I have to find out if Claremonte has as good a chance at winning as he seems to think. Maybe we’ll have a…” Adamat trailed off, a thought entering his mind.
“What?”
“We need to go to the library, too. It’ll have to wait until tomorrow, but… Pit!”
SouSmith cocked an eyebrow at him. “Yeah?”
“I just figured out what was bothering me so much about that room. Claremonte was sitting in the window, with the morning sun at his back.”
“And?”
“And he didn’t cast a shadow.”
CHAPTER
28
Field Marshal Tamas!”
The voice echoed up the line and made Tamas’s shoulders tighten with recognition. He could hear the approaching rhythm of hoofbeats and the occasional curse of the infantrymen as a man rode up the lines too closely. A glance beside him showed Olem turned in his saddle—not, as some might think, to look toward the rider, but to see which soldiers he’d show the back of his hand later that night.
This was no time to tolerate any show of disrespect, even to Adro’s enemies.
“Good afternoon, Beon,” Tamas said as the rider came abreast of him.
“Field Marshal,” Beon said. The third in line for the Kez throne looked well. His wounds had healed nicely, thanks to the Deliv Privileged, and his cheeks were fuller now from weeks of inaction and enjoying Sulem’s hospitality. “I must speak with you.”
“It appears you already are,” Tamas commented. The wound in his side still itched despite Sulem’s healers and he imagined he could still feel the sharp pain deep in his flesh, though whether that was real or was due to the sting of an old friend’s betrayal, he did not know.
Beon had a boyish face despite being in his late twenties—the effects of cabal sorcery meant to keep the royal family looking young—and Tamas thought that the pale scars from the Battle at Kresimir’s Fingers helped make him look more serious. He removed his hat and mopped at his forehead. “In private, if possible.”
Tamas exchanged a look with Olem. The bodyguard gave a slight smirk.
“There’s not a lot of privacy on the march, Sir Prince,” Tamas said.
“This is a serious matter,” Beon insisted. “I have…”—he checked himself, glancing toward the nearby marching infantry, and lowered his voice—“I have learned that you sent away my father’s messengers. Without even hearing them!”
“Someone’s tongue has been wagging, Olem.”
“I’ll see to it, sir,” Olem said gravely.
Beon stiffened. “I don’t make use of spies, but I do have ears, sir! Your men talk to each other loudly and I need only but listen to find out what’s going on in the camp.”
“You disapprove? I find l
etting my men gossip is easier and more beneficial than the Kez way—silence enforced by fear. Keeps up the morale.”
“You evade my meaning.”
“The messengers? It’s true. I have nothing to say to them and nothing to hear from them. You know what your father did.”
“But did he do it?” Beon demanded. “Can you be certain?”
“I have the bodies of thirty-seven grenadiers in Kez uniforms, carrying Kez muskets, bayonets, swords, and powder. They have Kez coins in their purses and they wear boots made in the south of Kez. That’s fairly damning evidence.”
“I would agree, sir, but…”
“But what?” Tamas felt his ire returning. He respected Beon. He even liked him, as much as he could like a member of the Kez royal family. He was a talented cuirassier and had a sharp mind. Tamas had not thought him so naïve.
Beon plowed on before Tamas could continue. “But I don’t think my father would have done this. Why did they go west instead of south? If they were my father’s men, they would have bolted straight for the Kez lines after such a daring attack.”
“They went west because they hit the rear of the camp and it was easier and faster to take the western road and skirt brigades than it would have been to fight through them. And you don’t think he would have done this? Your father, who authorized the sacking of Alvation in order to turn Deliv against Adro? Your father, who by your own admission is just as likely to have you executed for your failure to stop me as he is to welcome you, his son, back from a harrowing campaign?” Tamas shook his head. “Explain it to me. And use small words, for I fear I’m not as nimble-minded as you on this matter.”
Beon scowled at Tamas, and Tamas was reminded of Ipille’s famous temper. Would Beon reach over and strike him for that? And would Olem shoot him the moment he did? Part of him wanted to find out. But this wasn’t the time. “This isn’t Kez,” Tamas said softly. “And you decided to march with me instead of with the Deliv. You will be accorded respect, but your royalty means little here, son of Ipille.”