“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 facade. 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.”