Adamat expected her to take a carriage within a block or two. She was dressed like a lady in that evening dress, and her heeled boots were not meant for long walks. But she stayed in the street and veered northwest, picking her way along slowly. She stopped by a street vendor’s stall once to purchase a fruit tart, then continued on her way.
She turned down a quiet street in the Routs. It was a wealthy part of town, predominantly known for the banking district at its center. The street itself had less foot traffic, which worried Adamat. At some point he would become noticeable, and that would be the last thing he wanted.
He fell back another forty feet before turning onto the same street. He was just in time to see the woman disappear into a large three-story townhouse.
The house had a broad front that came all the way up to the street. The walls were white brick, and the shutters blue. It was quite large, of the type built to house several families of the growing middle class. If it involved anyone else but Vetas, Adamat would have passed the house by as being too out in the open and ordinary.
As it was, he wondered if perhaps he’d made a mistake. Maybe the jacket did not belong to Vetas. Maybe he’d been watching the wrong jacket through the window of Haime’s shop. Perhaps the woman had noticed him following her and had come here to give him the slip.
Adamat cursed under his breath. There were too many variables.
He walked down the street at a slow pace, taking long, casual steps as if admiring the houses. He drew close to the house and made a mental note as to the number and street name, and let his eyes wander past each of the windows. Surely, Vetas would have a man keeping watch if this was his headquarters.
Nothing. Adamat tried not to dwell on disappointment, but there was absolutely nothing to mark this house as belonging to Vetas. He would have to check the property records.
Just as Adamat was passing by the last window, he caught sight of a face. It was a boy of six, watching as the traffic passed his home. He waved to Adamat.
Adamat waved back.
No. This couldn’t be Lord Vetas’s house. What use could he possibly have for a small boy?
Unless Lord Vetas had a son. That seemed unlikely. The boy shared nothing of Vetas’s facial structure. A ward? No. Vetas was a spy for Lord Claremonte. He wouldn’t keep a ward. Perhaps another hostage? That did seem a possibility.
Adamat continued down the street. He’d take the next carriage and come back and stake out the house. It was his only lead at this point.
He climbed into a carriage and took his seat, only to find someone else climb in behind him. It was a street sweeper, his face and clothes grimy from a long day at work in the sun.
“Pardon me,” Adamat started to say, when he saw the pistol in the street sweeper’s hand.
He felt a cold bead of sweat trickle down the small of his back.
“What’s this all about?” Adamat said.
“Your pocketbook,” the man said, his voice a growl.
Relief swept over Adamat. A mugging. That’s all this was. Not one of Vetas’s men, having recognized him going past. Adamat slowly removed his pocketbook from his vest and handed it to the thief. It wouldn’t do the man much good. Only fifty krana in banknotes inside. No checks or identification.
The man flipped through the pocketbook with one hand, sure to keep the pistol on Adamat. A few moments and the man would exit the carriage and disappear into the afternoon crowds.
But then, this was the Routs. Who had the stones to pull a mugging on a residential street in the Routs in the middle of the afternoon? Adamat opened his mouth.
That’s when he recognized the child in the window.
That boy was the son of Duke Eldaminse. The royalists had fought a small war with Tamas in the city center with the goal of putting him on the throne after Manhouch’s execution. Adamat remembered the boy from a job he did for the Eldaminse family almost a year ago.
The thief looked up at Adamat. “Not good enough,” he said.
“What?”
The thief flipped the pistol around in his hand, and the last thing Adamat saw was the butt of the weapon coming at his face.
When Taniel awoke, Fell was sitting next to his hammock.
They were back in Kin’s mala den. Smoke curled through the air, but it wasn’t mala. Cherry tobacco, by the smell. He could see Fell out of the corner of his eye, a short-stemmed pipe hanging from the corner of her mouth.
A woman smoking a pipe. Not something Taniel had seen often. Most of the women he knew preferred Fatrastan cigarettes.
The union undersecretary was a handsome woman. Far too severe for Taniel. With her hair back and thin face she reminded him of a governess he’d once had. He watched her for several moments through half-closed eyes, wondering what she was thinking. She didn’t seem to notice that Taniel was awake. She was staring across the room. Taniel shifted in his hammock to see what Fell was looking at.
Ka-poel. Of course. She sat next to the stairs, forming a wax figurine with her fingers. Her satchel sat on her lap. She glanced up at the undersecretary every so often. She was making a doll. Of Fell.
Taniel wondered if the undersecretary seemed enough of a threat to her to warrant a doll, or if she had just started making one for every person they met. She was going to run out of room in her satchel if the latter proved to be the case.
The last four days were a blur. Taniel reached into his memory, but the only thing he found was mala smoke and the ceiling of Kin’s mala den. Before that…
Ricard Tumblar wanted Taniel to run for the First Ministry with him.
That meant politics.
Taniel hated politics. He had witnessed firsthand the power grabs of the mercantile elite in Fatrasta as their war for independence marched toward success; the backstabbing, the conniving. Ricard claimed that none of that was to happen. Ricard claimed that these would be elections, open and fair to the public; that the government would be chosen by the people.
Ricard, like most politicians, couldn’t be trusted.
But that didn’t seem enough for a four-day mala binge. Why would Taniel come back to this hole and–
Oh yes. Ricard had mentioned something about informing Field Marshal Tamas that Taniel was awake and doing well. Ricard, no matter what Taniel had said, did not seem to understand that Tamas would demand Taniel’s immediate presence on the front lines.
That was a good thing, Taniel tried to tell himself. He was useful. He could get back there and help defend his country.
By killing. The one thing Taniel seemed to be any good at. Pit, he’d even killed a god. Not that anyone believed it.
He shifted in his hammock, reaching for his mala pipe and the enormous ball of the sticky substance Kin had left him.
The mala was gone.
“Awake?” Fell said, her attention leaving Ka-poel.
Taniel pushed himself up. He checked his coat pocket – he still had a coat, that was good – then his trousers and the lip of the hammock.
“What are you looking for?” Fell asked. By her expression, she knew exactly what Taniel was looking for.
“Where’s my mala?”
“From what Kin said, you smoked it all. You ran out sometime last night.” Fell tossed something into her mouth and crunched. “Cashews?” she asked, holding out a paper bag made from an old newspaper toward Taniel.
Taniel shook his head. He checked the mala pipe. Nothing left. Then the floor. “That thieving Gurlish must have taken the rest of the ball. I got enough to last me weeks.”
“I know the rate you were smoking that stuff,” Fell said. “I don’t think Kin gypped you. He knows where the money came from.”