The Autumn Republic (42 page)

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 question. 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
K
elly-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.

“It didn’t go well, sir.”

“Did you fail?”

“The magebreaker is dead. His men are killed or captured.”

Tamas took the colonel’s pins and set them in front of Olem. “If you try to give these back again, I’ll shove them up your ass.”

“But…”

“That was your only warning.”

Silently, Olem returned the pins to his lapels. Tamas glanced out of the corner of his eye to see Olem struggling with the pins, one of his arms in a sling. His face was one large bruise, and his brows and lips between them had dozens of stitches. The bottom of one earlobe was gone.

“You look like the pit,” Tamas said without reproach.

Olem finished putting his pins back on one-handed and managed a wan smile. “You don’t look so well yourself, sir.”

“I’ve had better days.” Tamas’s memories of the battle were a blur of blood and steel and he could not recall where he’d gotten half of his wounds, but he
could
remember the faces of hundreds of his men whom he watched die. He wouldn’t sleep well for some time.

“My report’s going to be a bit late, sir. I can’t write left-handed.”

“Don’t worry too much.”

“I can give it to you now if you’d like.”

“Later. Wait. How did the Privileged girl do?”

“Very well.” Olem hesitated. “I don’t know much about sorcery, sir, but Privileged Borbador said she’s going to be the strongest Adran Privileged in six hundred years.”

“Bo has been known to exaggerate.”

“She set fire to a magebreaker, sir. With sorcery. At least, that’s what Bo said.”

“That’s… remarkable.” Tamas remembered Taniel’s report of the magebreaker Gothen being slain by what turned out to be one of the Predeii. Tamas had barely believed him at the time and might not have believed this either but he felt too tired to doubt Olem. After all, he had seen things in the last ten months to shake the foundations of the Nine.

He realized with a start that Olem was still talking, and waved him off. “That’s enough. I’ll get the rest later.”

“Of course. Congratulations on the victory, sir.”

“We’re not done yet.”

“Sir?”

Tamas lowered his voice. “Ipille’s betrayal of the parley? It wasn’t him. It was Claremonte’s men in disguise.”

“We’ll feed him his own shoes, sir.” Olem’s eyes hardened, and his one good hand tightened into a fist.

Tamas turned to gaze back over the Adran camp and the incoming Deliv procession. There was a trumpeter at the front of the Deliv column now. The sound grated on his nerves. “I intend to.”

They watched the procession draw near, and Tamas guessed that Sulem had just five thousand men with him, the rest of his forces camping up north with the captured Kez brigades. He wondered how many soldiers the Deliv had lost during their battle.

“They look like conquering heroes,” Olem said, a note of bitterness in his voice.

“They should. They met the bulk of the Kez army to the north of us. Surely you passed the battlefield on your way here?”

“I saw it at a distance.”

“They provided the distraction so we could take the city.”

“To hazard a guess, they had a much easier fight. The Grand Army wasn’t hiding behind the walls with Ipille’s personal guard.”

Tamas wasn’t going to debate that. “I need them, Olem. His soldiers and his Privileged.”

“Sir?”

“We captured nearly seven thousand Kez soldiers the other day. There’s just over six thousand left alive. I can’t keep the peace, not even with my best men. Word has gotten around about the atrocities committed by the Kez in Budwiel, and vengeance is taken out upon them every night. I’m going to hand these prisoners over to Sulem as quickly as possible, or there won’t be any left.”

“I’ll do what I can to bring order among the men, sir.”

“Save your strength. We leave for Adopest in the morning.”

“You won’t stay for the treaty negotiations?”

“I have to discover what’s happening in Adopest. Claremonte is playing at some larger game and I need to find the end of it. I will make him answer for the attack that disrupted our parley, but I have to do it carefully. He’s holding my capital – he has the knife to our throat. I don’t know if it’ll take a fight to unseat him or if he wants something else.” Tamas shook his head. “I’m leaving General Arbor in charge here. The negotiations will take months at best. If Ricard Tumblar has managed to scrape together some manner of civil government, I’ll have him send a delegation to join them.”

“Very good, sir. Will the Deliv help us with Adopest?”

“Sulem has no fight with Brudania. We’re on our own.”

“Unfortunate.”

“I thought so as well.”

“Do you have orders, sir?”

“Find one of the Deliv Privileged and get yourself healed. I need you by my side. We may yet have killing to do before this is all over.”

A
damat wound his way through the thick crowd gathered in Laughlin Square on the north side of the city.

It was a gorgeous autumn day with barely a cloud in the sky and although the wind had picked up, Lord Claremonte’s Privileged had used their sorcery to create an umbrella of calm around the entire square for his biggest public appearance since his arrival in the city. It looked to Adamat’s eye that over five thousand people had turned out for Claremonte’s speech – and the promised announcement of his newest and reportedly most groundbreaking endorsement.

He’d already been going on for almost an hour when Adamat arrived. From the rapt attention of the crowd and the frequent cheering, Adamat guessed it was going quite well for the head of the Brudania-Gurla Trading Company.

Claremonte himself stood upon a wooden podium erected at the south end of the square. Adamat had to admit that he made a dashing figure dressed in the finest suit and tails, gesturing for emphasis as he promised inheritance tax reform, more public services, and the establishment of a national museum in Skyline Palace.

Adamat gave up trying to get closer to the podium after twenty minutes of working his way forward and receiving dozens of elbows in his ribs. He retreated to the next best place – a raised walk along the east side of the square that was mostly filled with schoolchildren and shoppers, who had forgotten about the row of stores behind them and now watched Claremonte speak.

It gave Adamat a clear view of the podium and, more interestingly, of the tent behind the podium. No doubt it doubled as a shaded location for Claremonte’s most prominent supporters, who would also give speeches after the main address, and as a hiding place for Claremonte’s new endorsement.

Adamat wondered if he could slip around the back and glance inside, but dismissed the notion immediately. Claremonte’s security was tight – Brudanian soldiers were stationed at every possible approach.

He watched as one such soldier sternly rebuked a young boy who had gotten near the tent, likely with the same aim in mind as Adamat.

This promise of a public-figure endorsement had been the buzz of the city for weeks.

The speech itself held little interest for Adamat. He half listened for the big announcement as he let his eyes wander over the crowd, trying to get a sense for Claremonte’s supporters. There were the fervent believers near the front, applauding at every small thing. These could have been either paid performers or the real thing.

There were the wealthy donors, who had rented balcony rooms in the town houses along the north side of the square behind Claremonte. Most of the crowd seemed to be working-class men and women of all walks.

Adamat judged Claremonte to have a rather good spread of supporters, with a definite leaning toward the common man, which was more the pity. It meant that Ricard’s command of the union was giving him less traction than one might think.

Adamat’s eyes caught more than a few familiar faces. Government employees. A couple of soldiers. A large number of the lesser nobility who had avoided Tamas’s cull. His eyes continued to roam until they stopped on one particularly interesting figure.

It was a woman with dark hair and a narrow face, dressed in black pants and a matching jacket. She stood stoically in the crowd, ignoring her fellow listeners when they cheered, her hands clasped behind her back. Her name was Riplas, and since the eunuch’s death several months ago she had taken over as the Proprietor’s second-in-command. The rumors were that it was not a permanent position. Yet.

Adamat didn’t have time to wonder at her presence. Claremonte shushed the crowd after a particularly long round of applause and said, “Ladies and gentleman, I am pleased – no, I am honored – to receive the endorsement of one of Adro’s leading citizens and one of the architects of this new government: Ondraus, the Reeve of Adopest!”

Some members of the audience gasped audibly. Adamat felt his mouth fall open, and sure enough, Ondraus the Reeve emerged from the tent behind Claremonte. He wore the very best finery and sported a gold chain at his breast pocket. He approached the podium while Claremonte stepped to the side, and held his hands up for quiet.

Ondraus removed the glasses from his pocket and what looked like a ledger from beneath his arm, setting it on the podium. He examined the crowd for a few moments.

Adamat’s mind churned. What was Ondraus up to? Ondraus was one, no
two
of the remaining members of Tamas’s council. Didn’t he know that Tamas would wring his neck once he found out? Adamat looked through the crowd until he found Riplas once again. He was one of the only men in the Nine to know that Ondraus and the Proprietor were one and the same, but he couldn’t come up with a connection in this situation.

Surely there had to be one.

Ondraus cleared his throat and Privileged sorcery made his voice boom. “My friends and neighbors. I am here today to tell you that I endorse Lord Claremonte for First Minister of Adro. I am not a public man, as surely you may all know, but I thought this campaign important enough to not just show my face but to lend my voice to Lord Claremonte.”

Adamat was flabbergasted. For Ondraus to say he was not a public man was an understatement. His likeness had never once appeared in any newspaper, even though he was one of the richest and most influential men in Adro. Adamat knew it was because of his double life as a crime lord, but most people assumed he was just reclusive. If anything in Claremonte’s campaign was going to get attention, it would be this.

Ricard would be furious.

“I have done the numbers,” Ondraus said. “I have projected the financial future of Adro, and Lord Claremonte’s proposed reforms and laws are the best course for this country, and believe me, I am not unfamiliar with the ebb and flow of coin.” Behind Ondraus, Lord Claremonte stood beaming, hands held high as he led the applause.

What’s his game?
Adamat asked himself. Had Ondraus really changed sides in the campaign?

There was a commotion in the crowd and Adamat looked for the source of it but could find nothing as a round of applause erupted at Ondraus’s words.

“If Lord Claremonte is elected, I give you my word that —”

Ondraus was suddenly cut off as a man threw himself up on the podium. A couple of soldiers rushed forward as the man got to his feet, and a gasp flew through the audience as he suddenly brandished a pistol.

Three things happened at once: The gun went off, the bullet flying over Ondraus’s and Claremonte’s heads and striking the building behind the podium. Second, one of Claremonte’s Privileged leapt forward, his fingers dancing, sorcery slicing the assailant to bloody ribbons. And third, a gunshot went off somewhere over Adamat’s head.

Lord Claremonte went down in a spray of blood just as the screaming began. Sorcery lashed out, destroying the roof off the building behind Adamat and forcing him to leap from the raised walkway to get away from the rain of wood and stone.

Crouching, eyes on the sky, Adamat began to run, forcing himself against the suddenly panicked crowd. The frightened stampede began almost immediately. He felt himself jostled and thrown, and he stopped to help an old woman to her feet. Then forced himself against the crowd once more.

Everyone was yelling. It was a chaotic mess. There were more gunshots, and Adamat heard the concussion of sorcery blasts and had no way of knowing if they were attacks upon the podium or reprisal from Claremonte’s men.

He managed to reach the spot where he last saw Riplas. He forced himself through the throng, cursing and shouting and elbowing. Where was she? Had she fled? If so, where to? Adamat had the immediate feeling that something had been engineered by the Proprietor. If Riplas had been going with the flow of the crowd, she would be up ahead.

He plowed onward until he reached the main street, and threw himself into the nearest alleyway to get out of the chaos. Catching his breath, he worked his way down the sidewalk until he spotted a familiar black coat. Crossing the street was a chore, but he made it only a moment later to find Riplas strolling along, letting the fleeing crowd pass her by.

Adamat snatched her by the elbow and was startled to find himself suddenly pressed up against a shop window, her forearm across his throat and something sharp jabbing him in the ribs.

Her eyes searched his for a moment.

“Riplas,” he said. “It’s me, Inspector Adamat.”

“I know who you are, Inspector.” She slowly released him.

He dusted off the front of his jacket. She had begun to walk again, and he jogged to catch up. “I need to see him,” he said.

“Him?” she asked innocently.

“
Him
,” he repeated.

“Well then.” She scratched at her chin. “That’s harder than you’d think. My lord is pretty busy these days and —”

“Now, Riplas! This is a matter of national security! Or would he rather I make a house call?”

Riplas stopped suddenly and turned. “You be careful, Inspector.”

“I am being careful. He’ll want to know what I have to tell him, and you know enough about me to realize I wouldn’t lie about something like this.”

“I hope you don’t regret it. Come with me.”

Adamat was carted around the city for almost two hours by a pair of the Proprietor’s goons, and he was not allowed to take off his blindfold until he was standing in the foyer of the Proprietor’s headquarters.

He brushed off his arm as he was unhanded, removing his blindfold and tossing it to one of the men. “That’s no way to run a business,” he said.

“Sorry, Inspector. Riplas’s orders.”

“Does everyone have to be blindfolded?” he asked. “How the pit do you get anything done around here?”

“Not everyone,” the man answered. “But you’re an inspector, Inspector. Be glad we didn’t give you ether.”

“I am, thank you. That happened last time. Now I must see your master.”

One of the goons nodded to the other, who went off down one of the halls of the immense building. As with Adamat’s last visit, he was left with the impression not of a den of iniquity, as one might expect of a crime boss, but of a place of business. The marble floors gleamed, the plaster walls were freshly painted, and the candlesticks had been shined. Bookkeepers ran to and fro, while big, no-nonsense thugs lurked in the corners.

He was about to check his watch for the third time, when the second goon reappeared and gave him a “come hither” gesture. Adamat followed him down a hall to the nondescript door on their right. The man opened the door with his back to it, eyes averted, and pulled it shut after Adamat had stepped in.

The fine wood paneling was the same as it was on Adamat’s last visit, as were the few decorations. Only the rug had been changed – a fact that he noted with interest. The desk was still covered by a screen, while the chair that the Proprietor’s “translator” had occupied was empty.

Ondraus the Reeve stepped around the screen and sat in the translator’s chair, gesturing Adamat to take a seat across from him. “I think we can dispense with the usual procedure, can’t we, Inspector?”

“I believe so.”

“Good. Secrecy is a necessity in this game, of course, but I will admit that it’s a relief to talk to someone who knows my identity. There are only three of you left, with the poor eunuch dead.”

“Riplas knows, I assume?”

“Yes. She and my translator are the only ones.” The words were spoken without menace, but Adamat wasn’t slow to note that it left very few people in the world who needed eliminating if Ondraus wanted to destroy his second life as Adro’s criminal overlord. “Now,” Ondraus continued, “what is it you needed so urgently?”

“I was at Claremonte’s speech today.”

“Were you, then?” Ondraus leaned forward, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “What did you think?”

“I thought it was an interesting career choice, what with word that Tamas has returned.”

Ondraus rolled his eyes. “You think I’m that stupid? Is that what you’re here for? You were curious about my endorsement of the late Lord Claremonte? You only have so much of my goodwill left to feed upon, Adamat. Especially after you got my eunuch killed.” There was something smug about the way Ondraus said “late,” and it gave Adamat a thought.

“ ‘Late,’ you say? He’s dead?”

“You saw the assassination, didn’t you?”

“Considering your endorsement of him, you don’t seem very broken up about it.”

“Because I ordered his death, of course.”

Adamat barked out a laugh. “You did? Why bother endorsing him, then?”

“Oh, my dear Inspector. That’s very naïve. I wasn’t just endorsing him. Claremonte named me as his
S
econd
M
inister. We didn’t get to that point of the speech, I’m afraid. My men may have gotten ahead of themselves. All the paperwork is done, anyhow. It’s quite official.”

“And now that he’s out of the way, you’ll be in position to take his place.”

“It’ll be in the papers tomorrow morning, I suspect.”

“And what will Field Marshal Tamas say about this? I read that he should be here in the morning.”