Adamat went on, “The only thing that gives me hesitation in removing your name from my list is that I can’t for the life of me discover why you supported the coup in the first place. You have motive for neither supporting Tamas nor wanting him dead… that I can discover.”
“What gives you authority to question me?” the arch-diocel asked coldly.
Adamat produced Tamas’s note from his breast pocket and held it out to the arch-diocel. Siemone stepped forward and took it with an apologetic mumble. He cleared his throat and read it out loud.
The arch-diocel threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Cooperate with you? Answer your questions? What care I if Tamas suspects me? What can he do? He needs me in this war. He needs me to keep the Church out of things.”
Adamat took the note back from Siemone and folded it into his pocket.
“I could spit on Tamas,” the arch-diocel went on, “and still have him beg for my support. You think I care about this investigation?” He shook his head. “No, not one wit. You are right about one thing, though; if I wanted Tamas dead, he’d be in a pauper’s grave right now. Tamas will deal with a higher power one day soon for the things he’s done. I have no need to get involved.”
A higher power? Adamat wanted to scoff. Charlemund wasn’t exactly the model priest. Adamat took a deep breath and leaned forward on his cane, looking the arch-diocel straight in the eye. He knew he was going to pay for this persistence.
“What,” Adamat asked, “is your interest in supporting Tamas?”
The arch-diocel met his gaze. He seemed to consider Adamat as one considers a mouse that will not get out of the pantry but is too pathetic to squash underfoot. “The Church deemed it necessary that Manhouch be removed from his position. The monarchy of Adro had pulled too far away from the people.”
Adamat bit back a comment about a holy man running a bawdy house out of his villa. “Does the Church still support Tamas?”
“That is a question Tamas may ask me,” the arch-diocel said. “Not his dog. Now, if you really want to get somewhere with your investigation you should question Ricard Tumblar, or perhaps Ondraus the Reeve. They are both untrustworthy men – men that should not be on Tamas’s council.”
“Why is that?” Adamat asked quietly.
“Neither man works for the good of Adro. Ricard is a blasphemer, hidden from justice behind his godless unions. He accepts bribes from any quarter–”
“Excuse me, how do you know that?”
Charlemund stumbled on this. His lip curled in a sneer. “Do not interrupt me.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“He has accepted bribes from the Kez, from criminals and gangs. He is a corrupt man, evil and beyond Kresimir’s love.”
“How do you know that he has accepted bribes from the Kez?”
“The Church has its sources. Do not question me.”
“And Ondraus?”
“The man tries to levy taxes against the Church,” Charlemund said. “His soul is in great peril. He fights me – a man of Kresimir! – on every topic. He does not pay his tithe, and hides his books from Church accountants. Not even the king hid his books from our censure! Look through his books and I guarantee you will find evidence of treachery.” The arch-diocel checked his pocket watch. “I will be late for the races. You may leave now, before I lose my patience.” Charlemund was off, bellowing for a carriage, before Adamat could get in another word.
Adamat watched him go. Charlemund’s opinions on Ondraus seemed to hold little weight. Simply dislike, nothing more. Yet it was the third time Adamat had heard tell that Ricard was receiving large sums of money. It did not bode well.
“I’ll have a look around the grounds now,” Adamat said to Siemone.
The priest gave a quick shake of his head. “I’m sorry, that’s not possible.” He wrung his hands.
“I have an investigation to carry out,” Adamat said. “I will not be underfoot. The arch-diocel’s family will not be bothered.”
Siemone licked his lips. “It’s not that, sir, I… His Lordship is a very private man. I’m sorry, but you have to go now.”
Further arguing got Adamat no closer to even a tour of the grounds. When it became clear he was expected to leave immediately, Adamat brushed off the offer of a buggy from Siemone and strode briskly back to his carriage. He climbed in, more than ready to be gone from the villa, and shook SouSmith awake.
“How do you feel,” Adamat asked, “about investigating the arch-diocel’s villa grounds under the cover of night?”
SouSmith’s eyes widened. “Quick way into a pine box.”
“Indeed.” Adamat tapped his fingers on the coach window as they pulled away from the villa. “Still… we have work to do.”
Chapter 31
Tamas woke with a start. His clothes were soaked with sweat, his body almost too hot to breathe. He could see the sun through one of the windows; it was past ten in the morning.
“Sir,” Olem greeted him. The bodyguard stood over him. He held a bowl of porridge in one hand, a newspaper in the other. He’d had some rest, apparently, though Tamas didn’t know how if the man never slept. Olem’s eyes looked more lively, and the wrinkles on his face had smoothed out. He set breakfast down and helped Tamas to a sitting position. “Compliments of Mihali,” Olem said, setting the bowl on Tamas’s bedside table.
Tamas shook his head to clear the sleep from his brain. He felt foggy – headed and slow. Five days since his surgery, and Brigadier Barat’s death. Tamas’s damned leg hurt more every hour. It began to throb the moment he moved it.
“Would you like to read on the balcony?” Olem said. “Doctor Petrik said the air would do you good.”
Tamas considered the sunny weather through the window. He looked at his leg. Pain, or being stuck inside all day? “Fine.”
Olem helped him up and handed him his crutch, and they slowly made their way out onto the balcony. Olem headed back in for a chair while Tamas hobbled over to the railing. “Awfully loud today,” he murmured. He glanced over the edge. There were a lot of people in the square. A second look, and he realized the square was close to full. He hadn’t seen a crowd like this since the Elections.
“Olem!” He turned, startled when the bodyguard was right there.
“Sir?” Olem wore a self-satisfied smile, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and a chair in hand. Tamas didn’t like it at all.
“What the pit is this?” Tamas gestured down to the square.
Olem craned his neck. “Oh, yes. Mihali’s work.”
The square below was filled with dozens – no, hundreds – of tables, and chairs around each one. Every table was fully occupied, with countless more people still standing, waiting for their turn at a place to sit. More people stood in line; men, women, children. The line stretched down the Martyrs’ Avenue and around the corner. Tamas leaned out, though it hurt to do so, searching for the head of the line.
It was right below them. Long, rectangular tables – Tamas recognized them from the Hall of Lords – stretched the whole length of the building. The tables were covered in food. Mountains of bread. Vats of soup. Meat roasting on spits. More food than one would find at a king’s feast.
Tamas turned on Olem. “Wipe that smug look off your face and help me down the stairs.”
It took some time, but Tamas was able to hobble down to the front of the House of Nobles with Olem’s help. Tamas paused. The crowd had looked overwhelming from the top of the building. It looked twice the size from here. He paused, astonished, on the front step.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Tamas shuffled out of the way. A squad of soldiers moved past him, carrying a table from the Hall of Lords. They were followed by clerks bringing chairs and then a cook with a bowl of soup almost too big for her to carry. Everywhere he looked, people were either eating, waiting their turn, or helping. Accountants, soldiers, townsfolk, even sailors and dockworkers. It seemed as if everyone had been pressed into service.