He’d been a fool.
White met his gaze. “Well,” she said, “It was good working with you, Adamat. Pity this turned out the way it did.”
“I didn’t … “ Adamat started.
White stepped past him to stand in front of Commissioner Aleksandre. “I’ll continue my investigation,” she said. “Without Adamat. My priority is still to find the powder mage.”
“Of course, Attaché,” Aleksandre said. “Adamat,” he barked, “you’re dismissed!”
Adamat left the office. Outside, his hat and cane were returned to him, the brim of the former badly bent, and his wrist-irons were removed. He felt as if in a daze, walking through the precinct building, the eyes of dozens of constables on him as he left. He reached the front door when a voice stopped him.
“Well look at that, lads,” Lieutenant Dorry said. “If it isn’t the captain’s sweet little favorite. Where are you going, Adamat?”
Adamat put his hand on the door. He could hear Dorry’s footsteps coming up quickly behind him. Dorry grabbed the door handle and pulled it shut, forcing Adamat to turn around and face him.
Dorry bent over, leering in Adamat’s face. He was taller than Adamat and thicker at the shoulders. Adamat guessed the extent of his exercise tended toward striking unarmed witnesses and walking to and from a carriage.
“Are you going to answer me, smart man? The Knacked with the memory? Did you remember that I told you you’d get yours.”
“You never said such a thing,” Adamat said quietly. “You just told me the captain would hear about it.” He raised his voice so the rest of the constables in the recreation room would hear him. “That was right after I implied that you were a sloppy investigator.”
Dorry glanced over his shoulders. “What is that, meant to hurt my feelings?”
“I didn’t mention at the time,” Adamat said, “That you were also a bloody imbecile. That you wouldn’t be able to properly solve a murder if it happened right in front of your face. I may be disgraced, but you’re a failure and a fool. And this, all of this bluster, hides that you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Something in Dorry’s face-the reddening of his cheeks, the widening of his eyes-told Adamat that he’d struck Dorry right where it hurt the most. Dorry flexed his fingers and took quick, shallow breaths.
“May I speak to you from one citizen to another?” Adamat asked. He felt numb inside. A little part of him, distant and still in control of his emotions, told him he was digging his own grave. He didn’t care.
“I don’t know what the pit that means,” Dorry growled.
“It’s an archaic phrase, but it’s still on the books. Rather silly if you ask me, but if you say it to a police officer in front of at least three neutral witnesses, and give him five seconds to say no, you can then punch him in the face without being arrested for striking an officer of the law.”
Dorry squinted at him.
Adamat balled up his fist and planted it between Dorry’s eyes. The lieutenant went down in a spray of blood and curses, crimson streaming from between his fingers as he clutched at his face.
“Bloody pit!” he yelled in a nasally tone, “He just broke my nose!”
Adamat rubbed his fist. The brief moment of satisfaction he felt left him almost immediately. There would be reprisal for this, regardless of any archaic law. He was just as big a fool as Dorry. Best to leave the scene immediately and go somewhere he could figure out how to put his life back together.
He pushed open the door, vaguely conscious of the constables rushing to help Dorry. The lieutenant called out after him. “You’re not just a failure, Adamat! You’re a disgrace! Everyone’s always going to know it, from me down to that stupid cook Genetrie that you tried to convince me didn’t kill her master! You’re a bloody disgrace, and that’s something I’ll never be.”
Adamat kept walking, trudging through the snow. He still had his spare pocketbook on him, but he had the feeling he should save his krana for when he needed to pay the fines that would no doubt be levied when they convicted him for bribery. He’d walk home instead of taking a cab tonight.
He was three blocks from the precinct building when something clicked in his mind.
The cook. Dorry had said her name. Genetrie. Adamat had read that name recently, and not just in the newspapers. He ran through his memories until he found it.
By Kresimir, Dorry was right about the cook. She did murder her master. But not for the reason Dorry thought.
Adamat set off at a run.
Adamat caught up to White as she left by the front door of the precinct building about forty minutes later. He was out of breath and panting as he reached her, a large book from the Public Archives stuffed under his arm. She did not stop, forcing him to walk at a quick pace beside her.
“I’ve nothing to say to you,” White said.
“I wasn’t bribed,” Adamat said. “I swear this to you. And even if I was, would it matter to our investigation? I can still help you!”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Yes,” Adamat said, “you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come to me in the first place.”
White’s brisk pace increased. “It’s not about being bribed. It’s that you have vested interest in steering my attention back to the murder at the Kinnen Hotel, something I’ve expressed to you in no uncertain terms I will not become involved with.”
“But I don’t have vested interest, I wasn’t … “ Adamat stifled a shout. As White said, she didn’t care whether or not he had been bribed. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that they were growing near to White’s cab. He had the feeling that if he tried to get inside with her he would get himself gutted.
“Look,” he said, “whether or not you believe Aleksandre’s accusations-which, I might add, are all too damn convenient coming after I visited his cousin-our search does have to do with the murder at the Kinnen Hotel. It began there, it will end there. There is something far bigger at work that includes Ricard Tumblar’s attempts at unionization. If we only catch the powder mage and do nothing about the root of the problem, Walis Kemptin and his family will continue to make a mockery of our laws, of the king, of the cabal!”
White stopped walking and slowly turned toward Adamat. “You still have no first-hand evidence that connects the Kemptin family to any of this. Perhaps it aligns with their interests, but that does not prove anything.”
Adamat said, “Listen to me for just another minute. Let me show you something intriguing and if it doesn’t catch your interest I will walk away immediately.” He hefted the book in his arms.
“Where did you get that?”
“I stole it from the Public Archives about twenty minutes ago.”
White’s eyes were cold and calculating. She produced a pocket watch and sprang the lid with her thumb. “You have fifty-five seconds left.”
Adamat opened the book, flipping through the pages as fast as he could. He found the right one and then drew a finger down it, searching for a name. “Genetrie Kemptin,” he said, “is the name of a cousin of the Kemptin family, four times removed from the main branch. Her name doesn’t appear in the official family tree, but it does show up in the Family Codex, which is right here in my hand. Her father was a disgrace, all but disowned by the main family.”
He showed White the entry in the Family Codex, then closed the book and shifted it to one arm, removing several newspapers from his pocket. “If you’ll look here, on the very last page, in very small letters, it announces tomorrow’s execution of Genetrie Kemptin, a distant relative of the Kemptin family, for the murder of her master the Viscount Brezé.”
“You have ten seconds,” White said.
Adamat shifted to the second paper. “Four days ago, in the Adran Herald, which is not owned by any of the Kemptin family’s allies, the Viscount Brezé announced his intention to support Ricard Tumblar’s bid for the legalization of unions in the House of Nobles. That,” Adamat slapping the paper with the back of his hand, “cannot be a coincidence!”