#### Chapter 33

Adamat returned to his home after nightfall, another day of questions without answers, of sifting sand and finding nothing of value. Another day of agonizing over a family he couldn’t protect and a blackmailer he had no defense against. His feet hurt and his eyes wanted to close on their own. The buzz of festivity in the city, the growing excitement for a festival that looked to be forgotten amid war and chaos, had bolstered his spirit, but there was only so much excitement a man could take before it wore him down as much as the rest. He paused at the back door, examining the lock for a moment by the light of the moon. He put his finger out, rubbing it over the area just around the keyhole. He caught a hint of some faint smell: sweetbell, a Gurlish spice.

“What is it?” SouSmith asked from behind him.

“Nothing.” Adamat unlocked the door. They’d spent the better part of the evening searching the Public Archives for the architectural plans for Charlemund’s villa. They’d succeeded, but the plans were old, and even from Adamat’s brief visit he knew that Charlemund had made significant changes to the house since it had been built. He wrestled with the decision of trying to enter the villa at night. If caught, the consequences would be severe, but he couldn’t conduct a full investigation without a thorough search.

SouSmith went straight to the guest bedroom to change, and Adamat went to his office, feeling his way through the old, familiar home without the lights on. The smell of sweetbell, still very faint, was strongest in his office. He opened the liquor cabinet, removing a bottle of brandy, and poured out three glasses. He took one of them and sat down in his chair, lighting a match and setting it to the end of his pipe. He took a few deep puffs, making sure it was lit, and breathed the smoke out through his nose. He touched the match to his lantern wick.

“I’ve had a long day,” he said. He pressed the cool glass to his forehead and examined the man in the corner through the slits of his eyelids.

The man blinked in the sudden light of the lantern, his mouth slightly open. His skin, hued with an almost reddish tint, marked him from Gurla, while his pudgy face and a body flabby around the middle and soft like a woman’s betrayed that he had been castrated sometime before puberty. His head was shaved and he had no facial hair whatsoever.

Adamat gestured to one of the glasses on his desk. “Drink?”

The eunuch had been standing in the corner, hands folded within a long-armed robe. He stepped forward slowly. “How did you know I was here?” he asked. His voice was pitched high, like a child’s.

“I’ve heard about you,” Adamat said. “The Proprietor’s silent killer. It’s said you can appear and vanish without a trace. I’ve been an investigator for a very long time. Even the very best leave scratches when they pick a lock.”

“You are being followed by a number of people,” the eunuch said. “Field Marshal Tamas, agents of Lord Claremonte. How did you know it was me?” He sounded genuinely curious.

Agents of Lord Claremonte? Adamat tried not to let surprise show on his face. So that was Lord Vetas’s employer? “I’ve been expecting a visit from you since Tamas set me after his traitor. It had to come sooner or later.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Adamat raised his glass in recognition of the question, but did not answer.

The eunuch stepped up to the desk. He examined the glass of brandy but did not drink. SouSmith entered the room in nightclothes and a dressing gown. SouSmith paused. Adamat noticed his fists tighten, but that was the only reaction he gave to the eunuch’s presence.

“Hello, SouSmith,” the eunuch said. He inclined his bald head toward the boxer. “We haven’t seen you in the Arena for some time. We’d wondered when you were going to come back to us.”

SouSmith sniffed, as a bear might when it senses a snake. “When the Proprietor stops trying to kill me,” he said.

“Have a drink, my friend,” Adamat said to SouSmith.

SouSmith took his glass and retreated to the doorway to position himself in the only exit. The eunuch seemed unconcerned.

“I presume you’ve come because of my investigation,” Adamat said.

The eunuch’s face took on a businesslike seriousness. “My master instructs me to answer any of your questions, within reason, that will satisfy you that he is not the traitor you seek.”

Adamat considered this. He already knew why the Proprietor supported Tamas: Part of the Accords included a Kez police force that would have drastically changed the criminal underworld of Adopest—the Accords specifically mentioned the Proprietor’s head in a basket. They knew he was too powerful in the criminal underworld to leave alive. Hidden identity or not, the Kez would have torn Adopest apart until they found him.

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.

One of the men lit a lamp in the study. Adamat briefly glimpsed his assailant’s outline. The man was of medium height, crouched low, legs spread for good balance. Pit, Adamat thought. The other assailant stepped around a corner, hooded lantern in one hand. The light shone toward Adamat, blinding him while giving his assailants a good look at their quarry. Adamat leapt forward, striking sightlessly.

He felt a cold sting across his chest as someone cried out. He jerked back with his penknife. A hand grabbed his knife arm, and he struggled against it, waiting for the familiar weakness of a deadly wound. Pain flared as an elbow struck his chest.

There was a commotion farther on in the hallway. The light spun away from Adamat’s eyes. He caught a brief glance of SouSmith, big arms swinging, grabbing ahold of the man with the lantern. A pistol shot rang in Adamat’s ears, pounding inside his head.

Adamat managed to free his knife arm. The man with whom he grappled tried to push forward, razor in hand. Adamat’s heart leapt and he stabbed with all his strength, praying the strike would fall true. He pulled back and stabbed again, and again, until the man cried out for mercy and slumped to the floor.

Adamat fell against his back door and surveyed the hallway, watching for any movement. He tried to control his ragged breathing, listening for any sign of assassins in the rest of the house.

“All of ’em?” SouSmith mumbled.

Adamat took a few more breaths before he answered. “I think so. One dead on the stairs, two down here. You hurt?”

“Shot,” SouSmith said. “Twice. You?”

Adamat grimaced. “I don’t know.”

He nudged the figure at his feet with his toe. The man gave a low moan. Adamat stumbled into the study, pain blossoming on his chest. He put one hand to it, felt it slick with blood. He bent down, every inch agony, until he got ahold of the hooded lantern where it had fallen. Somehow the candle had remained lit. He removed the hood.

The hallway was a mess. There was broken plaster on the floor in pools of blood. Three bodies. Adamat ignored them all and crossed to SouSmith. The old boxer sat on the bottom step, one hand shoved inside his shirt. His front was covered in blood.

Adamat swallowed a lump in his throat. “Let me get more light.”

He lit the hallway lanterns and removed SouSmith’s shirt, borrowing a razor for the job from one of the dead attackers. A bullet had grazed SouSmith’s left arm, taking a finger-sized chunk of flesh from it. The other had entered his belly, and Adamat nearly choked when he saw the wound.

“It’s bad?” SouSmith let his head rest against the wall. Sweat beaded across his brow and cheeks. He’d tried to wipe it away at some point, leaving a smear of blood across his face.

“You were hit in the stomach. No way to tell whether the ball hit any organs. We need a surgeon. Keep your hand here, try to staunch the blood. I’ll try to find help.”

He didn’t have far to go. A number of his neighbors had heard the shots and stood in the street holding lanterns and pistols. They gaped at Adamat and tried to peer past him into his house.

“Someone get a surgeon,” he said weakly. “And send a boy to the House of Nobles. A message for Field Marshal Tamas. Make sure he gets it. Tell him… tell him Adamat has been attacked by the Black Street Barbers.” No one ran down the street, or went to fetch a coach. Some of them moved back nervously, frightened by the mere mention of a street gang. “Please,” Adamat said. He heard the desperation in his voice.

One of his neighbors stepped forward. He was an older gentleman, a veteran of the Gurlish wars, with long gray muttonchops and a black coat pulled on over his nightclothes. He clutched an old blunderbuss in his hands. Adamat recalled his name was Tulward.

“I’ve some surgery experience. From the field,” Tulward said. He turned around, shouted toward his house, “Millie! Send the boy out here. Now!” He turned to the group of onlookers. “Get back to your homes, folks. Go!”

Adamat nodded his thanks as Tulward stepped into his house.

“Are you hurt?” Tulward asked. Adamat pointed to SouSmith. “He’s worse. Took a bullet to the stomach.”

Tulward grimaced and ran an experienced eye over the bodies. He stepped across them, making his way toward SouSmith.

Adamat sighed, slumping against the wall. He took a moment to look long at the carnage. One of the men was still hanging on to life, lying in the entrance to the study. Adamat ignored the pleading look in his eyes. The second body was at the top of the stairs. He lay on his side, shot by his own comrade in an attempt to get Adamat. The bullet had entered his cheek and killed him instantly, and a pool of blood trickled down the stairs.

The last body still stood upright, his head lodged in the wall. Adamat stumbled over to examine him closer. It was the one who’d been holding the lantern. SouSmith had grabbed him by the face, shoving his entire head through plaster and brick.

Tulward crouched over SouSmith, talking to him quietly, fingers feeling along his belly. Adamat moved over to the surviving assassin. He removed the man’s coat, trying not to cause untoward pain. The man moaned.

“I’m trying to help…” Adamat froze. He looked at the man’s face again—really looked, for the first time. “Coel,” he said. Ricard’s scrawny assistant from the docks. Adamat took a shaky breath.

He finished removing Coel’s coat. In his panic, he’d stabbed Coel at least ten times in the chest with the penknife. The wounds were not deep, but he would bleed out quickly. He rolled up Coel’s shirtsleeve, just to be sure. There it was, as he’d expected: a black tattoo of a barber’s razor on his forearm.

Coel was long dead by the time Tamas’s soldiers arrived. The house swarmed with men, setting to rest Adamat’s fear that more of the Barbers would come to finish the job. A team of surgeons carried SouSmith into the sitting room, and SouSmith’s swearing and yelling bore testament to them trying to remove the bullet. Adamat sat on his stairs, watching the front door blankly as people moved in and out.

“You might need stitches for that.”

Adamat looked up. Tamas stood at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the railing, leaning heavily on a crutch. He reeked of gunpowder. He nodded at Adamat’s chest.

Adamat looked down. The wound was superficial, but it stung like someone had squeezed a lemon into it, and it still bled.

“When they’re done with SouSmith, I’ll take my turn.” Adamat paused. “You didn’t have to come yourself.”

Tamas watched him for a few moments. “The Black Street Barbers were not supposed to take other jobs. Things will be very unpleasant for them in the morning. You’re a very lucky man. I’ve seen the Barbers operate.” Tamas looked away from Adamat and at the bloodstains on the floor. “It’s a pity none of them lived.”

“Yes,” Adamat said, “I just wasn’t thinking right, assailed in the dark by men with razors.” He grunted. “I won’t be able to shave for months.” He ran his hand over his throat, where the skin had barely been broken. There was a line of dried blood there. His hand trembled. A sudden impulse seized him to tell Tamas all: about Lord Vetas, about his family. Maybe Tamas already knew. He was not a man to be duped. Yet Tamas would not allow Adamat to continue his investigation if he thought Adamat’s integrity had been compromised. Adamat felt his face turn red.

Tamas didn’t seem to notice. “Who do you think ordered your death?” Tamas said.

It was obvious, wasn’t it? “The Black Street Barbers are loyal to Ricard Tumblar.” He jerked his head at Coel’s body, pushed to one side of the hallway. “And he was bringing Ricard wine when I met with him a month ago.”

“Fairly damning evidence,” Tamas said. “Any other reasons why Ricard would want you dead?”

“No,” Adamat said miserably. He remembered a time when Ricard had been imprisoned for his latest attempt at unionization some fifteen years prior. Adamat, already with a reputation for honesty, had given testimony on behalf of Ricard’s character that saw him released the next day.

Two years after that, when Adamat was too poor to buy his children presents for St. Adom’s Day, Ricard had shown up at his door with gifts worth half a year of Adamat’s salary. They’d leaned on each other a lot over the years. Adamat found it hard to believe such a friendship would end like this.

“I’ll send a squad to bring him in right now,” Tamas said. He turned to one of his soldiers.

“Wait,” Adamat said.

Tamas paused, turned back with a wince.

Adamat closed his eyes. “Give me a little more time. We can’t be sure it’s Ricard.”

Tamas’s eyebrows rose. “The Black Street Barbers finish a job, Inspector. This was no feint. They report to Ricard. When I’m finished with them, the Barbers will not exist.”

“They do jobs for hire,” Adamat said. It was a weak argument, even to him. “I gave Ricard a chance to kill me just last week. He didn’t take it.”

Tamas gave Adamat a level stare. “If we wait even a few more hours, word will get to him that the assassins failed and he’ll be on a boat to Kez before sunup.”

“Give me until noon,” Adamat said.

“I can’t afford that.” A hint of anger entered Tamas’s voice. “If the traitor gets away from me, I’ll lose my grip on the council, and they will turn on me.”

“Send a squad,” Adamat said. “Have them watch Ricard—by all means, arrest him if he tries to flee. It will be a sure sign of guilt. But if you make a mistake now, you’ll still have a traitor in your midst, and the Noble Warriors of Labor will turn against you.”

Tamas seemed to hesitate.

Adamat said, “Give me until noon. I think I can get to the bottom of this.”

“How?”

Adamat swallowed hard. “I’ll need to borrow one of your powder mages. I’m going to see the Black Street Barbers.”