Promise of Blood (51 page)

Chapter 30

The streets at the west end of Adopest’s dock district were anything but quiet at half past one in the morning. Singing floated into the streets from the bars and bawdy houses, and more than a few groups of drunks had taken their merriment out onto the cobbles, shaking their fists at the wet sky and spitting bad poetry at anyone who’d listen.

Adamat pressed himself into a dark corner, collar drawn up around his neck, wrapped tightly in a long black coat with a bowler hat to keep off the rain and shadow his face. SouSmith waited in another corner, the big boxer surprisingly invisible in a patch of darkness two sizes too small for him. Adamat kept his eyes open and cane handy, ready to fix either of them on anyone sober enough to notice him.

The bawdy house opposite the street was a quiet affair compared with the rest. Its clientele was wealthier than most and its outward appearance was that of a butcher’s shed—the place was called Molly’s Market, and it didn’t accept new customers without a recommendation. A number of hulking men with big fists and small brains crouched under an awning near the door. They were bodyguards and bouncers, whispering quietly to one another as they struggled to stay warm. A couple had noticed Adamat and cast him dark looks, but none had come over to talk to him yet.

The door to the bawdy house opened, giving a brief glimpse of expensive furnishings and black lace. Ricard Tumblar stopped in the doorway and slipped a few coins to the man holding the door open before exiting into the rain.

Ricard walked with the gait of a man who’d drunk a lot but knew his limits. He tipped his hat to the group of bodyguards. Two of them detached themselves from the rest and came to his side. Ricard waved off one that offered him a parasol.

Adamat waited until Ricard was close before stepping out of the shadows. He tipped back his hat to be recognized in the dim lamplight. Ricard’s bodyguards stepped forward, reaching for knives, as the bouncers under the canopy stood warily. Muggers were discouraged around Molly’s Market.

“Call off your boys,” Adamat said. “I just want to talk.”

Ricard put up one hand for his guards, another on his heart. “Adamat, by Kresimir you scared me. What is it?”

Adamat twitched his head and took a few steps away from the guards. Ricard followed him.

“You know you can come to me at my office anytime,” Ricard said. “My door is always open.” Ricard wasn’t wearing a hat and he put his hand up to keep the rain out of his eyes.

“I’ve got a warning for you,” Adamat said. “As an old friend.”

Ricard had never taken kindly to threats, whether real or implied, and Adamat put a hand on his shoulder to reassure him.

“There are circumstances,” Adamat said, “that are forcing me to consider you a prime suspect as Tamas’s traitor.”

Ricard’s mouth formed a hard line, but he remained silent. Now was the gamble. If Ricard was indeed the traitor, he’d set his goons on Adamat.

“You need to clean your house, Ricard,” Adamat said. “Kez spies are being smuggled in over the Adsea. Kez Wardens, too. Tamas is not pleased. I think Tamas will hold off for now, because he needs your ships desperately to ferry his men to the Gates.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Ricard said. His tone was controlled, but there was anger there.

Adamat poked him in the chest for emphasis. “The docks are your territory, my friend. Tamas knows what’s going on down here, and if he feels threatened, he’ll shut down everything. All the trade to Novi and Unice, all your factories and mills.”

Ricard’s eyes went wide. “He can’t. That’d tear the heart out of Adopest, and the union would be up in arms.”

“He might have to, if he thinks he’s got enemies down here.”

Ricard seemed to think on this for a moment. “Who else knows you are here?”

Adamat’s heart leapt. He gripped his cane a bit tighter, not willing to go down without a fight. If luck held, he might fend the three of them off until SouSmith could cross the street.

“No one,” Adamat said.

“No one sent you?”

“I came on my own.”

Ricard gazed at him for a moment, his eyes weighing the situation, as if deciding where to put the knife. Adamat considered calling out to SouSmith.

“Thank you,” Ricard said. “If you came to these conclusions yourself… I may have some cleaning to do, indeed. Thank you, my friend.”

Adamat watched Ricard walk into the night, finally taking that parasol from his bodyguard. His walk was more sober, quicker, as if he now had somewhere to go. SouSmith drew up quietly next to Adamat.

“Take your warning?” SouSmith asked.

“I don’t know,” Adamat said. “He didn’t try to kill me, so that’s a start. But he might have known what game I was playing. He’s not an idiot. We’ll see what he does next.”

“What now?”

“I have other suspects. I still have to see the arch-diocel, the Proprietor, and Prime Lektor.”

SouSmith gave Adamat a frown. “The Proprietor? Can’t get to him.”

“I’ll think of something.” Adamat tried to sound confident. “I suppose that means the arch-diocel is next.”

SouSmith made the sign of the Rope. “Don’t like that.”

Wiser words had rarely been spoken. “He knows I’m coming. We’ve an appointment with him in the morning.”

A young, nervous-looking priest stood on the front step of the arch-diocel’s home and watched Adamat’s carriage approach with an air of expectation. The home itself was a sprawling affair of a villa, only one story high but with a footprint to rival Skyline Palace. The style of architecture was far-eastern Gurlish with accenting white spires rising above a marble façade. There were satin drapes in onion-shaped windows. Vineyards stretched off to one side of the long cobblestone drive. On the other, grooms trained racing stallions on a horse track.

It was said, Adamat reflected as he stepped from the carriage and stretched his legs, that the arch-diocel was much more a man of pleasures than a man of Kresimir. Yet wasn’t that the way of the Church these days? Oh, there were genuine priests; men who loved Kresimir and their fellow man and toiled for peace and brotherhood. But Charlemund’s type was far more common. Their love of women and gold and power burned in them like a fever.

The young priest approached Adamat at a quick shuffle. He wore white robes down to his ankles and sandals on his feet; the clothes of an impoverished monk, despite the obvious wealth of the place.

“I am Siemone,” the priest said. He looked at his feet, his hands clasped before him as if praying.

“You serve the arch-diocel?” Adamat asked.

“I have the pleasure of serving Kresimir, sir,” Siemone responded, “by attending to his righteous servant Charlemund, arch-diocel of Adro.”

“I’ve an appointment with the arch-diocel,” Adamat said. “Are we to wait inside?” He pointed to the front door with his cane.

“Er, no, sir,” Siemone said. He wrung his hands as if he were cleaning his laundry. “The house is very full right now. His Lordship’s extended family has come to the villa to celebrate the Saint Adom’s Day festivities. Children running underfoot, shoulder to shoulder.”

Adamat glanced through a window. He could see a very big man watching him from inside the window—probably one of the arch-diocel’s bodyguards. No sign, nor sound of children. Admittedly, the villa was huge. Charlemund could put an army in there and one would see no sign of it. The curtain was drawn closed from the inside.

“I see,” he said. It was an odd way to treat one’s guests, even if Adamat was unwelcome.

Siemone cleared his throat. “Besides, the arch-diocel is a very busy man. We’ll have to go find him at the chapel. What with the orgy this morning, he’s running late for the afternoon prayer service.”

“Excuse me?” Adamat blanched. “The morning orgy?”

“Yes,” Siemone said. “Now, if you please, the arch-diocel doesn’t like to feel threatened.
He’ll
have to stay here.” He gestured at SouSmith, who was just climbing out of the carriage, his hair tousled from a long nap.

“This is my associate,” Adamat said. “He’s aiding me in my investigation. He is no threat to the arch-diocel.”

Siemone looked anywhere but directly at Adamat. “You mistake my meaning, sir. Your associate is a very large man, well built, and obviously a fighter of some kind. The arch-diocel doesn’t like the eyes of his servants wandering. He, ah, doesn’t like the competition, sir. His worship is very particular about which of his guests are allowed on the grounds.”

Adamat blinked at the priest.
Doesn’t like the competition…?
He shook his head. “You’d better stay in the carriage then,” he said to SouSmith.

The boxer grunted and climbed back inside without a word.

“You said your master is running late?” Adamat said.

The corner of Siemone’s mouth twitched. “Yes, the orgy. Now, please, come with me. We can catch him right after the prayer service, before the afternoon races start.”

Siemone raised a hand. A small buggy emerged from the vineyard, where it had been concealed a moment before, and came up next to them.

Adamat couldn’t take his eyes off the driver. She was young, perhaps sixteen, and had long golden hair, down to her waist. She wore a simple driver’s uniform, a smock, hat, and gloves to hold the reins—but they were all of translucent silk, and she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. The girl gave him a polite smile.

“Sir?” she said. “If you will.”

Adamat tore his eyes away and climbed into the back of the buggy. There was only room for one, and he turned to Siemone. Before he could inquire where the priest would ride, the buggy began to move, pulled by a single white pony. The priest jogged alongside.

Adamat clutched his hat as a brisk wind nearly tore it from his head. They moved quickly down a path into the vineyard, passing a number of workers. Despite their pace and Siemone’s long robe, the priest kept up with the buggy without seeming bothered. Adamat noted that Siemone kept his eyes on the ground at his feet or straight ahead, and it was clear why.

They passed a number of workers, pruning the grapevines or tending the grounds. All the workers wore basic tunics, but as with the buggy driver, they were all made out of sheer silk. Both men and women worked the vines. They were all young and beautiful.

How could such a place exist? Adamat thought he knew the worst pleasure dens in all of Adopest, but this… These men and women would be prize pieces at a millionaire’s brothel, each one worth a thousand krana a night. Yet they worked the fields in such clothes at the arch-diocel’s villa.

“You seem… awfully out of place here, Siemone,” Adamat said. He realized too late how that must sound and cringed. “Not that you aren’t a handsome young man,” he added quickly.

A smile flitted across Siemone’s lips, but he didn’t look up. “I know your meaning, sir,” he said. “This is my penance. If I act as the arch-diocel’s steward for just another year, my application for a marriage license will be approved.” A look of worry furrowed his brow. “If she still wants me, that is.”

The Kresim Church allowed the lowest orders of the priesthood to marry, only requiring them to remain celibate if they wished to gain more power within the Church. Even those that married often had to pay some kind of penance.

Charlemund was a cruel man to require this of a priest. “Tell me,” Adamat said, “has the villa always been like this? I’ve heard that it is a magnificent place with vineyards and stables. I didn’t realize it was so… unique.” He’d heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. But he’d never believed them. A brothel in one of the outbuildings, perhaps, or a few beautiful women at his beck and call.
This
was beyond debauched.

“Yes, sir,” Siemone said. “It’s not new. The arch-diocel has a policy. His visitors may pick from anyone they see here—excluding myself—and do as they fancy. Oh, that includes you, sir, as you are a guest.”

Adamat felt his face flush. “Oh no. No.” He drew the word out long, embarrassed that it turned into a nervous laugh. “I’m a happily married old man. I’m quite fine, thank you.”

Siemone continued, “The arch-diocel’s policy is that anyone who speaks of his… servants… isn’t invited back.”

“There’s no way to keep track of that.”

“Oh, the arch-diocel knows, sir. He has ears everywhere.”

Adamat couldn’t help but smile wryly. “If that’s the case, then I can see how that would encourage silence. Does every one of the arch-diocel’s guests partake of his hospitality?”

“No,” Siemone said. “Not all. But those that don’t are generally the type with the taste not to speak of what they see.”

Or the shame, Adamat realized. No one talked because they didn’t want to implicate themselves in whatever sordid misdeeds could be found at the villa. It was the same reason a gentleman never speaks of the bawdy house he frequents.

He removed his hat to scratch his head, and spoke to Siemone in a flat tone. “So, you essentially work at the biggest brothel in all of Adro… by the pit, all the Nine… so that one day you can marry your beloved and remain a man of the Rope?”

Siemone giggled nervously. “Kresimir works in mysterious ways, sir.”