With the danger of the Accords passed, the Proprietor might want to promote further chaos by removing Tamas. However, the Proprietor faced the same problems as many of his fellow council members. If Tamas died, then Kez was all the more likely to win the war, and the measures they sought to prevent in the Accords would be imposed anyway, and more besides.
“Why so forthright?” Adamat asked.
“My master has no interest in you putting your nose into his affairs – you have a certain reputation among his colleagues for unswerving doggedness. However, Tamas has made it clear that having you killed will attract his attention in a most unpleasant way. The easiest way to go about this is to get it over with.”
“Pragmatic,” Adamat muttered. Was the Proprietor being practical, or was he trying to manipulate Adamat’s investigation away from him? Adamat rolled the glass of brandy across his brow again. “Does the Proprietor know who tried to have Tamas killed?”
“No,” the eunuch said without hesitation. “He has made some inquiries of his own, to little avail. Whoever the traitor is, he is not using Adran intermediaries. My master would have known.”
“The traitor is dealing directly with the Kez, then,” Adamat said.
“It wasn’t the reeve,” the eunuch said. “As the funnel through which all money flows in the city, the Proprietor keeps him closely watched. Nor was it Lady Winceslav. We have a few agents in her household to keep an eye on things.”
“One of her brigadiers was involved,” Adamat said.
“Only one,” the eunuch said. “Brigadier Barat did not have the sense of loyalty and justice that the others do.”
“The vice-chancellor?”
The eunuch hesitated. “The vice-chancellor – Prime Lektor – is as unpredictable as Brude.”
Brude. The two-faced saint of Brudania. A strange reference.
Adamat waited for him to elaborate, but the eunuch said nothing more. The reeve had also mentioned that there was something off about the vice-chancellor.
“You suggest,” Adamat said, “that the Prime Lektor is equally capable of treachery as Ricard Tumblar and the arch-diocel? He’s a glorified headmaster.”
“As I said,” the eunuch said quietly, “he is not what he seems.”
Adamat took a long pull on his pipe. Assuming the eunuch was telling the truth – a very dangerous assumption – the most likely traitor was Ricard Tumblar. The arch-diocel was corrupt and power mad, but he had little reason to see Tamas dead. Ricard would give anything for his unions. It was perfectly possible he’d made a deal with the Kez in secret.
Adamat wondered again if he should risk a clandestine search of Charlemund’s villa. It seemed the only thing standing before an open accusation against Ricard. Of course, Adamat still needed to investigate the vice-chancellor.
“Thank you,” Adamat said to the eunuch. “You’ve been most helpful. Tell your master I will avoid poking into his affairs. If I can.”
The eunuch gave Adamat a shallow smile. “He’ll be pleased.”
“SouSmith, show our guest to the door.”
SouSmith returned a moment later and took a seat on the sofa. “My skin crawls,” he said.
“Likewise.” Adamat took a deep breath, relishing the smell of fine tobacco. It was a cherry blend, pleasant to the nose and throat, that left a light taste upon his tongue. It had a relaxing effect.
“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” Adamat asked.
SouSmith grunted. “Reputation for certain honesty.”
Adamat gave SouSmith a curious look. “Really? I’ve heard the eunuch is not to be trusted.”
“Not the eunuch,” SouSmith said. “When he speaks for the Proprietor, his word is gold.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Adamat said, though he made a mental note to look into the Proprietor’s business – though not enough to get himself killed, hopefully.
Adamat spent the next hour at his desk, reading the day’s paper while SouSmith dozed on the couch. The night was very still when he decided to head to bed.
Adamat stamped up the stairs, deep in thought, SouSmith following. When he reached the top, Adamat looked down the dark hallway. “Didn’t you light the lantern when you came up?”
Some instincts went far deeper than mere reflex. Adamat threw himself backward down the stairs, barely hearing SouSmith’s protests as a breeze passed his throat. SouSmith swore aloud, and a pistol shot went off.
Adamat lay flat on the stairs where he fell, his ears ringing from the shot. The shot had come from down the upstairs hallway. Adamat didn’t think he’d been hit and he didn’t dare ask SouSmith. Adamat pressed his hand to his throat. He felt blood there. Just a breeze of a razor – it had barely broken skin.
Adamat listened carefully. SouSmith had fallen all the way down the stairs and lay at the landing. Either he had the presence of mind to remain quiet or he had been shot and killed outright. Adamat prayed it was the former.
Adamat took a deep breath. Whoever had attacked him waited at the top of the stairs. There’d been no movement in the hallway – those floorboards were awfully creaky. The assailant was waiting there now. He had to know he didn’t get both Adamat and SouSmith in one lucky shot. Adamat listened and stared intently into the darkness, trying to determine the number of assassins. They’d entered his house while he was reading the paper, possibly through an upstairs window.
Adamat slowly climbed to his knees, avoiding the center of the steps where they were wont to creak. He moved slowly, on hands and knees, up the next few steps, until he could put his fingers out and touch the floor of the hallway.
He explored farther, brushing his fingers along the floorboards until they came in contact with something. With a feather’s touch he outlined the leather sides of a shoe, then another, until he had a good idea of where his attacker stood. He imagined the attacker’s stance. The attacker was probably holding his hand up, with a razor or knife. Adamat had no way of knowing which hand. It was a gamble Adamat had to take.
Adamat sprang upward. His left hand caught the attacker’s right wrist as his forearm connected with the man’s throat. The attacker cried out in surprise. Adamat felt something sharp graze his ear. Wrong hand!
He pulled down on the right hand and twisted the man around, trying to guess how the attacker would flail the razor with his left hand. He brought his right elbow down on the man’s shoulder, eliciting a grunt. Another pistol shot rang out, a flash of light temporarily blinding Adamat. Adamat felt his attacker jerk and sag, taking the bullet that was meant for him.
Two of them, at least, maybe more. Adamat threw himself forward. The pistol had gone off up the hall, near his bedroom door. He reached out blindly, grasping a hot pistol barrel. With the other hand he fumbled about his person for the penknife he kept in his pocket. He felt a pair of palms hit his chest. He was pushed backward, toward the stairs. His heel hit something – the body of the first assailant – and he went spinning head over feet down the stairs.
He landed next to the front door. His ears rang, his head spun. Nothing had broken in his tumble.
Footsteps thumped down the stairs after him. Two figures came into the light of the moon shining through the front window. One dropped his pistol with a clatter on the stairs and drew something from his belt. Adamat heard a faint click, and something glinted in the dim light.
Adamat surged to his feet and retreated down the main hallway toward the kitchen so they couldn’t come at him from above. The two men followed. One ducked into the study. The other came on fast.
Adamat gripped his penknife. The assailant drifted forward, the only sound the creak of floorboards beneath his feet. Adamat felt a bit of sweat drip down his brow, past his eye.