“Adamat,” Hewi said, “you said that was only the first part of your theory. What was the second?”
Adamat turned around and gave her a tight smile. “That the success of framing Ricard Tumblar depended in part on the incompetence of the police of the First Precinct.”
“I see.”
“I’m thinking now that they depend on a little more than just incompetence.”
Hewi tapped the bowl of her pipe in the palm of one hand. “Adamat.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”
Adamat ducked his head. “Of course, ma’am. Would never dream of it.”
Adamat left the precinct building and made his way to his favorite cafe just off the public square. He needed someplace he could think, and oftentimes the buzz of a busy cafe gave him just the right amount of useless noise that allowed him to focus on the task at hand.
What task at hand? he asked himself as he was seated at one of the window tables on the second floor. He had no task. Just a few days at his newest assignment, and he had already been kicked off one investigation by the leading officer and another by the commissioner himself. He should be focusing on how his career could recover from this whole debacle.
Adamat ordered his tea and stared out the window. He found himself wondering about Melany, Ricard’s mistress. A beautiful girl and, knowing Ricard, intelligent and witty. Who was she? Did she have friends or family in the city, or was she a foreigner, as suggested by her dark skin? In the rush of the afternoon he’d overlooked sending someone to notify her next of kin. Clumsy and inconsiderate of him. He would have to rectify that in the morning.
Adamat could see out the window and down the street where a city worker was clearing the snow off a scaffold in the center of the square. The middle of the scaffold was dominated by an immense guillotine-a tool of the Iron King that reminded both his friends and enemies who held the power of life and death in Adro.
The guillotine saw use almost every day for all manner of crimes, and Adamat recalled reading that this particular guillotine had been in service for almost nine years straight. The blade was removed and polished regularly, the mechanisms replaced to account for rust, but the main frame was the original.
He still remembered reading about the first guillotine in the newspapers when he was a boy. The Iron King claimed it would bring dignity to and remove suffering from state executions. The newspaper had called it “industrialized death.”
Thanks to the commissioner and whoever was pulling his strings, Ricard would face that blade within the next few weeks. And Melany, his mistress, would be a byline in the scandal that would ruin Ricard’s dreams of unionization.
Adamat, ever the good public servant, would be expected to bury his powder mage theory and quietly follow orders. Perhaps in a few years his obedience would be remembered and he’d receive a promotion. Granted, of course, that he not stir up trouble between now and then.
That was the system. That was how it was supposed to work for the men and women who held power. Everyone was expected to fall in line behind them.
Adamat considered himself a quiet man. Even at his age he preferred to spend his free time with his wife than late nights playing billiards at the tavern. He didn’t like attention, and he considered it the duty of the police to do their work with discretion.
There were times, he decided as he drained the last of his tea, that discretion wouldn’t get the job done.
This might be the stupidest idea he’d ever considered. This might end his career, or even get him killed. But then what was one man’s career against the life of another? Or against justice for a slain woman?
He held his hand up to attract the waiter. “A pencil and paper, please.”
“What the pit do you think you’re doing?”
Captain Hewi had intercepted Adamat as he came into the precinct building the next morning and hurried him into her office, slamming the door behind her.
“I’m not sure what you mean, ma’am,” Adamat said, giving her his best blank look.
Hewi slapped his chest with a handbill and rounded her desk, where she quickly packed a pipe and began smoking up a storm. Adamat looked down at the handbill. It was a single sheet of paper, the kind that newsies handed out on the street corners once they were out of proper newspapers. They often contained advertisements for plays or local businesses.
This particular handbill belonged to the Yellow Caller, the publication of a disreputable and widely despised printer that specialized in sensational and misleading headlines.
“Police of the First Precinct cover up murder committed by mad powder mage,” Adamat read aloud. “Local businessman takes fall. Powder mage still at large, quite dangerous.”
“This was your doing, wasn’t it?” Hewi demanded.
Adamat held the handbill at length to examine it. Cheap quality paper. Several words misspelled. Typical of the Yellow Caller. “I know nothing about it.”
Hewi glared at him. “I’m certain you don’t, and you better stick to that story when the commissioner gets here. He’ll arrive any minute, and he wants your head.”
“Why my head?” Adamat asked. He tried to keep his breathing steady. He wanted attention and this was not unexpected. But he’d hoped to attract a different kind of attention first.
“Don’t patronize me,” Hewi said, pointing her pipe at the handbill. “Officers are forbidden from speaking to the newspaper about an existing case without permission from their superior.”
“They do it all the time,” Adamat said.
“Just because no one follows a rule doesn’t mean that the commissioner won’t enforce it at his leisure.”
Adamat gripped the head of his cane, not looking the captain in the eye. “Well,” he said quietly, “It’s a good thing the Yellow Caller isn’t a newspaper.”
Hewi seemed to consider this then shook her head. “You’re too clever by half, Adamat. The commissioner can still ruin your career.”
“Everyone knows the Yellow Caller is rubbish. This handbill will be forgotten by the end of the week.”
Hewi threw her arms wide. “Then why bother at all?”
Adamat opened his mouth to answer but closed it again as the door to Hewi’s office burst open. Commissioner Aleksandre strode into the small room, his face red, his chest heaving. Adamat took an involuntary step backwards and reflected on the resemblance between Aleksandre and Lieutenant Dorry.
“What,” Aleksandre said, throwing a handbill identical to the one Adamat still held down on Hewi’s desk, “is that?”
Adamat considered informing him that it was a cheap handbill, but one look at Hewi and he swallowed the quip.
“I was just discussing that with the special constable here,” Hewi said. She stared Adamat in the eye as she said it, and her face clearly said, This is your problem. You deal with it.
“Oh?” Aleksandre whirled on Adamat. “Would you like to explain it to me, then?”
Adamat pretended to examine the handbill in his hand. “It appears that my investigation yesterday was leaked to someone at the Yellow Caller and they’ve printed a gross misinterpretation of my conclusions.”
“A gross … “ Aleksandre sputtered, his face growing even more red.
“I can start an internal investigation immediately if you’d like the culprit found,” Adamat continued, “but I think it’s better to ignore this entirely. After all, you’ve instructed us to disregard the powder mage theory and focus on Ricard Tumblar. It’s just the Yellow Caller, sir. No one will remember this within days.”