“We should start looking for a way to break it,” Taniel said. He hoped he sounded confident. “Privileged wouldn’t attach themselves to something they can’t get out of. It’s just another secret. Maybe one of the Predeii knows.”
Taniel examined his friend, realizing just how much the fight yesterday had taken out of him. His cheeks were gaunt. His skin looked saggy, wrinkled, as if he were forty years older than he was.
“We’ll find out together,” Taniel said. “We’ll break it. I swear.”
Bo gave a tired chuckle. “My eyes are going to itch every day I’m with you, you optimistic bastard. Come on.” He stood up, stretching. “We have to go find out if we killed that bitch.”
Chapter 20
The parlor of Winceslav House was a spacious affair with ornate brick walls and a granite fireplace big enough to drive a pair of oxen through. Adamat had politely refused a seat from the butler and made his way slowly around the room as he waited for the lady of the house. There were a number of paintings of Lady Winceslav and her late husband, Henri Winceslav, as well as a single painting of the two of them with their four children. The painting was perhaps five years old, done just before the old duke passed away and each of the children had since been sent to boarding schools or resided in the country with their governesses, according to Adamat’s research.
Adamat examined the floor, the walls, and the doors. A lot could be discovered about the waxing or waning fortunes of an Adran noble family by observing the state of their manor. When money was tight, upkeep and repairs often fell behind as housing staff were let go and materials became scarce.
Everything was pristine. The wood furniture and brass hangings were polished, the floor recently replaced, and the brickwork dusted. Her mercenaries had done quite well, even without Lord Winceslav to direct them. They fought in Fatrasta against the Kez, against the Gurlish on behalf of the Brudanians, and just about everywhere else colonists from the Nine had the coin to pay them.
Adamat had to remind himself that it wasn’t Lord Winceslav alone who was responsible for the Wings. It was said Lady Winceslav had a mind sharp enough to match most field generals and that Lord Winceslav had relied heavily on her advice in all matters before his death. The lord had been clever; a man skilled with words and people. The lady was astute and practical; a forward-thinking planner.
Adamat faced the door when he heard voices in the hall outside. He smoothed the front of his waistcoat. A small group filed into the parlor: three men and a woman, all of them in white uniforms, military sashes of gold across their chests. Four brigadiers of the Wings of Adom. They were followed by Lady Winceslav. She wore a riding gown of fine purple wool, the collar pulled tight despite unseasonal warmth, and a matching shawl draped around her shoulders. Her heeled boots clicked on the wooden floor.
The commanders regarded Adamat with some wariness. He recognized two of them from paintings in the great hall outside: Brigadier Ryze was an older man, older even than Field Marshal Tamas, his hair as white as his uniform. He bore a number of visible scars on his hands and face and wore a white sash of linen across one eye to conceal a wound received in battle half a decade ago.
Brigadier Abrax was a woman, and her appearance could not have been more opposite Lady Winceslav’s. Short blonde hair was cropped above her ears. Her face was tanned and weather-beaten from too many campaigns in Gurla. Her uniform matched the others’ completely, apart from the slight bulge of small breasts. She regarded Adamat with a coldness he rarely felt from another person.
Introductions were short and brisk. The younger two were Brigadier Sabastenien and Brigadier Barat. Compared with their elders they were barely weathered, and looked almost like a pair of boys playing in their father’s uniforms. They couldn’t have been past their midtwenties. Brigadier Barat approached Adamat.
“I’d like to see your credentials, please,” he said briskly.
Adamat narrowed his eyes at the impertinence. “I showed them to the butler when I arrived. They are in order.”
“Even so…”
Adamat produced an envelope and handed it to the young brigadier. He forced himself to check his indignation. Unlike many modern armies, a commission in the Wings could not be bought. Everyone climbed the ranks. To be a brigadier at that age was remarkable.
Brigadier Barat read over Adamat’s papers. He crossed the room to his elders and handed them one of the papers – the note from Tamas that granted him freedom in the investigation.
“Why,” Brigadier Ryze said slowly, “does Tamas feel the need to imply threats to his closest advisers?”
“It’s just a precaution,” Adamat said. “An assurance that my investigation will proceed quickly, without any… hitches.” But there would be plenty, he was sure. Tamas’s note promised that anyone attempting to hamper Adamat’s investigation in any way would be presumed guilty, yet a hundred of those notes wouldn’t prevent nobles from trying to keep their secrets to themselves. Adamat wondered if Tamas would actually back up the threat if he were found facedown in the ditch outside the manor.
Brigadier Ryze handed the papers back to Brigadier Barat, who returned them to Adamat. Adamat took the papers from the younger brigadier without acknowledging him and returned the papers to his pocket. He could almost feel Barat seethe as he returned to his superiors. Barat had been plucked from the nobility, Adamat would wager. The type to look down on anyone beneath him and bend knee to anyone above him.
“Get on with it,” Brigadier Ryze said. “Lady Winceslav has nothing to hide.”
Adamat ran his gaze over the four brigadiers and turned pointedly to Lady Winceslav. She sat in one corner of the parlor, to the left and behind her brigadiers, as if she expected to be but a witness to an exchange of words. She seemed surprised when Adamat addressed her directly.
“Did you inform the Kez of the location of your meeting with Field Marshal Tamas?” he said.
“How dare you!” Brigadier Barat stood, hand going to the small sword at his side.
Adamat waited for a moment, giving the other brigadiers a chance to reprimand their younger comrade. They did not. Adamat pointed to Barat’s chair with the tip of his cane. “Sit.”
The brigadier blinked at him for a moment, jaw tightening, before he returned to his seat.
“Do I need to ask again, my lady?” Adamat said.
“I did not,” Lady Winceslav said.
Adamat allowed himself a small smile. “Let us pray you are all as forthright and honest.”
“That is unnecessary,” Brigadier Abrax said. Her tone was like a schoolteacher’s, the words said quickly, clipped off at the end.
Adamat paused for a moment. The brigadiers sat as if to form a shield around the Lady. He wondered if she was a fool to be prevented from speaking, of if they were really that protective of her.
“I am here to interview you, my lady,” Adamat said. “I’m not here to receive condescension from your brigadiers. I’m sure you have servants for that.” Adamat cringed inside. He was letting his annoyance do the talking. He could hear his old commanding officer from his young days in the force. The old man had been clear how you treat the nobility: never antagonize them.
Lady Winceslav examined Adamat from beneath the brim of her riding hat for a moment. Her eyes were cool, her hands composed in her lap. She stood and crossed the room, taking a seat just opposite Adamat.
“Ask your questions, Inspector,” she said. Despite her polite tone, there was an air of superiority to her words, and her nose was turned up slightly.
Adamat sighed inwardly. It was the best he was going to get. “Why did you support Tamas’s coup?”