Adamat scoffed. Surely she didn’t think they would?
“I can’t do that, my lady,” Hewi said.
“Can’t? Or won’t? Because you don’t have a damned thing. If you did, you would tell me. I know what condition the courts are in. Even with my connections, it’ll be two weeks before I can get in front of a magistrate. Until that time I’ll be rotting in Sablethorn with the gutter rats, my reputation in shambles and my—”
“We have the word of Denni of Rhodigas that you paid him to acquire blasting oil from the Flerring Chemical Company,” Hewi said, her lip curled in disgust, “And to arrange for the bombing of the headquarters of the Holy Warriors of Labor.”
“That lying cretin? Hah! As if I’d have anything to do with him. I hope you have something better than that.”
“Transfer of funds amounting to one hundred and twenty-thousand krana from your personal account to an account belonging to Denni of Rhodigas,” Adamat cut in. “We’ve already arrested and questioned your personal banker.”
Cheris’s mouth hung open for a moment, then she said quietly, “Those accounts are not open to government purview, nor are they admissible in court.”
“They are now,” Adamat said. “The law was passed a month ago. For the head of the bankers’ union, I’m surprised you weren’t aware of that. Commissioner?”
Hewi oversaw the arrest as Cheris was led out the side door by one of his constables and put into an unmarked police carriage. Adamat waited beside the carriage for the commissioner to join him. “Thank you for coming, ma’am,” he said to Hewi.
“No, thank you, Inspector. If I had a thousand more officers prowling the city right now, I’d still be short. My people couldn’t possibly have tracked all of this down. You really are one of the best.”
“That’s good of you to say, ma’am. And that law I mentioned…”
“It should be on the books by now. Backdated, of course. Not something I’d normally do, but after running Denni past our lie-Knack we have to cover our evidence.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“You sure you want to ride with her?” Hewi asked.
“Yes. It’s best I question her in private.”
“Nothing official can come out of it.”
“Of course. For my own personal peace of mind.”
Adamat said farewell to the commissioner and climbed into the carriage, where Cheris sat looking out the opposite window. Her façade of a baffled, outraged businesswoman had dropped to leave behind someone who looked tired and vaguely annoyed. The carriage began to move and Adamat took several minutes to examine her before he spoke.
“Why?” Adamat asked.
Cheris glanced over as if noticing his presence in the carriage for the first time. “Because Ricard’s an idiot,” she said. “And you can tell him I said so. He’s a visionary, for certain, and that does give him something extra. But he’s a fool and he’ll be a terrible First Minister.”
“So you admit it?”
“Sounds like you already know the truth, so I might as well.” She sighed. “My resources have been stretched thin, Inspector. Having to rely on people like Denni makes my stomach turn. And you better believe that my banker will never work anywhere in the Nine again in his life.”
“You think you’ll still have that kind of power after this comes out?”
“My involvement will be forgotten in a year. Denni will go to the guillotine and I’ll pay a heavy fine and lose my position in the union, but I’ll climb back on top.”
“And make your enemies suffer, I suppose?”
“I’m not normally a murderer, Inspector. I don’t kill or maim unless I’m running out of options. But yes, I’ll make them suffer. I’ll destroy reputations if it suits me. You should know that if you’ve been investigating me.”
Adamat’s investigation had been a whirlwind that lasted only half a dozen hours between the time he took Denni in and the time he arrived at Cheris’s door. He grunted a reply.
“In fact,” Cheris added, “I’m amazed you’d allow me the knowledge of your involvement.”
“I’ve dealt with worse.” Adamat felt a bit of doubt in the back of his mind and wondered if this had been a good idea. Perhaps the commissioner’s warning had held some meaning Adamat had missed. Nothing indicated that Cheris was the kind of monster that Vetas had been, but perhaps he should have taken precautions.
A knowing smile appeared at the corner of Cheris’s mouth. Adamat narrowed his eyes, wondering if Cheris knew about Lord Vetas. Perhaps she did. With her relationship with Ricard, it was not out of the realm of possibility.
They rode into Elections Square and watched the black spike of Sablethorn Prison grow larger over their heads. The prison was full of dissidents and particularly loud royalists, but the guards had made room in one of the nicer cells for Cheris. Ricard had insisted upon that, though Adamat didn’t know the reason. Sentiment, perhaps?
Cheris was escorted from the carriage. Adamat stepped out, wondering if he would now need to extend the length of SouSmith’s contract, and watched her be led toward Sablethorn’s doors. Cheris turned suddenly and looked back, throwing him a menacing smile.
“Have a good few weeks, Inspector. I’ll see you soon.”
The residence of Adro’s former Arch-Diocel of the Kresimir Church, Charlemund, seemed bleak and bare.
Adamat remembered his first visit to the grounds. The vineyards had been full of workers, while horses practiced on the racetrack. It had been a sickening display of wealth, but Adamat almost preferred that pomposity to the overgrown hedges, deep grass, empty orchards, and cold, lifeless façade of the immense manor.
The only occupants of the manor were the dozen watchmen the city had assigned to keep looters and squatters at bay until the government got the chance to divide up Charlemund’s wealth. His library would go to the university and Public Archives. His art collections would be sold off to private collectors or donated to the city museum. The building itself might be bought up by a wealthy merchant—Adamat had even heard Ricard express interest—or perhaps torn down and the stone recycled to help in the rebuilding of the city center.
“What you looking for?” SouSmith asked.
Adamat smoothed the front of his jacket. “I’m trying to find out what kind of man doesn’t leave a shadow,” he said.
Adamat showed his papers at a temporary guardhouse a few hundred yards from the manor and was waved on. At the front door, he remembered his second visit to the manor: during the battle in which Tamas fought and captured Charlemund. The burned-out remnants of a carriage still lay beside the gravel drive, and there were still muddy furrows where Privileged sorcery had dug up the ground.
At the front door another pair of watchmen lounged on the stoop, a game of dice between them. They stood as Adamat left his carriage and approached, with SouSmith behind him.
“They said that you would have a key,” Adamat said.
“Right. We do,” one of the watchmen said. She was a young woman, no more than twenty-five, and she held a musket and wore the light blues of the city police. “Papers?”
Adamat presented his papers once more. “Did I see smoke coming from one of the chimneys?”
“Probably,” the second watchman said, rubbing a thumb under the rim of his hat. He was an older fellow with gray in his mustache.
“I didn’t know the manor was occupied.”
“The state employs a few of the former staff in order to keep the building tidy until they can get around to selling it,” the first watchman replied, handing Adamat back his papers. “Don’t worry about them, they stay out of sight. The library is in the south wing, all the way at the end. Head inside, past the first staircase, and take a left. That hall dead-ends in the library.”
“Thank you very much,” Adamat said. He waited for them to unlock the door and then slipped inside, followed by SouSmith.
The foyer still held evidence of the fight that had taken place there many months previous. Som
eone had tidied up the mess Adamat remembered, but there was no hiding the chips in the marble from bullets, nor the empty pillar where a bust of Charlemund had once stood.
SouSmith paused and gave a low whistle. “One man lived here?”
Adamat had forgotten that SouSmith had never been allowed inside on their previous visit together. “Kind of off-putting, isn’t it?”
SouSmith ran his thick thumb over a chip in the marble banister. “Nah. Should have gone into the clergy.”
They left the foyer and followed the watchman’s directions toward the library.
“You said Charlemund escaped,” SouSmith asked.
“That’s what Ricard told me.”
“Think he could be here?”
“What? In hiding?”
“Yeah.”
“They’ve got watchmen and servants. He couldn’t go unnoticed.”
SouSmith stopped suddenly and looked up and down the hallway. It was over two hundred yards long, the ceilings twenty feet high, and had no less than thirty doors. He cocked an eyebrow at Adamat.
“Okay, it’s big,” Adamat conceded. “But Charlemund is… well… you’ve met him. He’s used to command. To luxury. I don’t think he could ‘hide’ anywhere if his life depended on it. My best guess is he’s already fled to Kez or Novi or someplace farther. We’ll hear about him sooner rather than later.”
Their voices carried as they spoke, giving the place a strange echo and sending a chill up Adamat’s spine, which he attributed to the autumn cold.
The hallway ended in a pair of closed double doors. Adamat jiggled one handle, finding it unlocked, and pulled. The room inside took his breath away.
Charlemund’s library was a rectangular room several times larger than Adamat’s house. Books lined every wall, sorted neatly on cherry bookshelves. There were wooden ladders on runners to reach the high shelves, and each corner had an iron spiral staircase to reach the second floor. There was a grand, marble-trimmed fireplace at either end of the room.
There weren’t as many books here as there were in the Public Archives or the university library, but this collection was nearly as big as, if not bigger than, the late king’s library. It baffled Adamat how one man could have acquired so many books. Charlemund had been far from a “man of learning.”
“I don’t have any bloody idea where to start.”
SouSmith grunted and threw himself down into one of the leather wingback chairs by the cold fireplace closest to the door. “Wake me when you’re done,” he said.
“You’re no help at all.”
By the time Adamat had a grasp of Charlemund’s indexing methods, SouSmith was already snoring loudly.
Uskan had sent him a list of a dozen books that might be of some interest. Adamat started with those, finding them and pulling them down, stacking them on a table in the middle of the library. When he had collected them all, he began to skim each book quickly, casting each page to memory in order to examine it more closely later, all while looking for words like “shadow” and “shade.”
He finished with the first dozen books by one o’clock and returned, somewhat on edge, to the rest of the library.
Adamat’s Knack allowed him to move through the library at what most would find a startling speed. To him, it was frustratingly slow. The library was sorted according to the name of the author, which was very little help. He was forced to look for titles that stood out as religious books, or for authors he recognized as scholars. He took down another stack of a dozen books and began to run through those.
He was on his third stack of books by four o’clock. SouSmith had awoken and fallen asleep again, and the lengthening shadows told Adamat he wouldn’t have much more time to read by daylight.
“SouSmith,” he said, shaking the boxer’s shoulder.
SouSmith opened one eye. “Eh?”
“Do you have a match? I need to light the lanterns. Or a fire, or something.”
“Nope.” His eye closed.
Adamat sighed. SouSmith wasn’t going to be a lot of help here. Adamat still had him working as a bodyguard for another week, but the real danger had passed, and SouSmith knew it. He also knew that Ricard was footing the bill. Adamat couldn’t bring himself to blame SouSmith for slacking off.
“I’m going to find one of the servants,” he announced.
SouSmith grunted.
Adamat remembered that the smoke had been coming from a chimney in the north wing. He envisioned the house in his mind’s eye, remembering his brief inspection after the battle with Charlemund. The north wing had a ballroom, an observatory, the dining room, the kitchens, and the servants’ quarters.
That was his best chance for a match. Maybe they’d even light the library fireplace for him.
He gathered his hat and cane and headed down the main hallway. He climbed the foyer stairs and continued down the main hall on the second floor, where he came to the servants’ quarters. This part of the house was warmer, and he found himself looking forward to the heat of a fireplace. The autumn chill was more pronounced in this place than he’d expected.
He knocked on several of the servants’ doors, but received no answer. Three of the doors were unlocked, and inside he found evidence of habitation, but there were no servants present.
Frustrated, he took the servants’ stairs down toward the kitchens. Back on the first floor, he could hear the sound of voices. Finally!
He entered the kitchen from the back. It was an immense room, some thirty paces across, and he was startled to find it rather well stocked, despite the skeleton crew of servants. Herbs hung from the ceiling, there was canned meat on the shelves—dusted, no less—and sacks of grain unmolested by rodents. A figure at the opposite end of the room, wearing a white apron and a tall white hat, was singing to himself in front of the only lit oven.
“Excuse me,” Adamat called.
The figure turned, giving Adamat a good look at his profile, and Adamat’s feet suddenly felt like lead. He grabbed his cane in both hands and twisted it to draw his sword. His mouth was dry, and he pointed the tip of his sword at the fugitive Arch-Diocel, Charlemund.
“You,” Adamat hissed.
Charlemund’s eyebrows rose. His apron was covered in flour, and his hands full of bread dough. “Uh, yes?”
Adamat’s mouth moved, but he wasn’t exactly sure what he wanted to say. The Arch-Diocel was a national traitor and a villain, and he had wounded Adamat twice in their last encounter. But he didn’t appear to be armed. If anything, he was more surprised to find Adamat here than Adamat was to find him.
“Put down the bread dough.”
“All right.”
“Wait! Never mind. Keep a hold of it. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Fine.” Slowly, Charlemund began to knead the dough between his fingers.
“Stop that.”
“I’d rather not ruin this loaf,” Charlemund said.
“I don’t give a damn!” The words came out a shout. Sweat poured down the small of Adamat’s back.
Charlemund squinted at him, but he didn’t stop kneading the dough. “Have we met?”
“What kind of a question is that? We have met on several occasions.” Adamat’s heart hammered in his chest, but his annoyance was beginning to overcome his nervousness. This was Charlemund, was it not? He had put on perhaps two stone since their last meeting—an awfully large amount in just a few months—but otherwise it was the same man. Unless Charlemund had employed a relative in his kitchens?
And had he been singing to himself earlier?
Charlemund seemed to grow thoughtful, and his eyes focused on something over Adamat’s shoulder. “Oh, that’s right. We have met.” He grimaced. “Not on the best of terms with this body, though. I really do apologize. Let me help you.”
“Help me?”
“With your search. You’re looking for a book. I think The Compendium of Gods and Saints should be the right thing. Mostly superstition and rubbish, but it answers your q
uestion. It’s back in the library, northwest corner. About three feet from SouSmith’s elbow, actually.”
Adamat felt his sword arm waver. “How could you possibly know any of that?”
Charlemund grinned. “Just trying to be a good host. Can I offer you something?”
“Offer me what?”
“Something to eat. I made some squash soup last night. I may have leftovers.”
Tamas stood atop the blasted ruins of the walls of Budwiel with the noonday sun in his face. His body ached and his leg throbbed, skin feeling tight against the stitches. A slash along his cheek itched and he had to remind himself not to rub at it, or the damned thing would never heal.
The Deliv army approached, a snake of Kelly-green uniforms winding down the highway and into the immense camp of Adran soldiers outside the walls. Tamas’s men lined the highway in their parade uniforms as a sign of respect for their Deliv allies. Sulem and his cabal rode at the head of his army—Tamas could see their banners from this distance even without a powder trance—and he could hear the distant beat of their drums tapping out the march.
“Sir.”
Tamas spared a glance for the young corporal who had come up to join him at the wall. “Yes?”
“Colonel Olem is here to see you.”
“Send him up right away.” He waited until the corporal was gone to sag against the fortifications and breathe a sigh of relief. Olem had survived. That was good. Too many quality men and women had died these last several weeks.
A few moments later he heard a halting step on the stone stairs behind him, and then Olem joined him at the ramparts. His face was black and blue, and he bore several visible wounds on his neck and hands. Olem stood slightly hunched, his shoulders curled inward, and Tamas could tell he was in a great deal of pain. He’d seen that stance many times in his long career. It was the look of a man who had been flogged severely. Tamas didn’t even want to know what Olem’s back looked like under the uniform.
There were several minutes of silence, and then Tamas heard a small sound like clattering coins. He looked down to see Olem’s colonel pins lying on the stones.
“Did you fail your mission?” Tamas asked.