Promise of Blood

For a moment it looked like Siemone would laugh, but he just shook his head. “No, it is the afternoon prayer service. Just wait a moment.”

Despite the priest’s objections, Adamat pushed the door open just a crack. The inside of the chapel contained several rows of velvet-cushioned benches. The walls were plaster, but half-covered in rich tapestries of gold and red depicting smoking mountains and Kresimir descending from his Rope to the top of South Pike Mountain. There were only a small handful of people attending the sermon, though the chapel could seat at least thirty.

The arch-diocel stood at the front of the chapel, arms raised above him, face tilted toward the sky. His voice drifted through the chapel.

“And mighty Lord Kresimir, protect us from the unjust and the wicked, and deliver us from evil, that we might be taken into your fold…”

Adamat let the door close quietly. He retreated to the old stone wall of the chapel with Siemone and leaned against the cool brick.

“The place seems rather… deserted,” Adamat said.

“What do you mean?”

“The arch-diocel is an important man. I expected to see more visitors. Messengers, clerks, all the like.”

“Oh,” Siemone said, “very few visitors are allowed on the grounds proper. His Eminence sees everyone at the villa itself. It’s a very busy house, to be sure.”

“And why am I so special?”

“Well, you have the field marshal’s writ!”

At least that was something.

“How long have you been here?” Adamat asked.

“Two years, seven days.” Siemone still refused to look directly at him, but Adamat thought he understood this now. Siemone was trying to keep himself as pure as possible for his potential marriage—a respectable thing, even if that meant that he rarely made eye contact with anyone. To avoid the lust around him, he had to stare at his own feet.

“You don’t get out much, do you?”

“I go into Adopest occasionally. On His Lordship’s errands.”

My word. “Why don’t you leave?” Adamat asked. “You don’t need to serve penance to get a normal marriage license.”

“I’m a man of the Rope, sir. If I leave now, I’ll forfeit my rope.” His hand brushed a small rope stitched to his robe above his left breast. “And I’ll forfeit my chances to wed.”

“She wants to marry a priest, eh?”

“Many priests marry.”

“I’ve never heard of a penance like this. Aren’t they usually, what, six months?”

Siemone looked somewhat miserable. “It’s the arch-diocel’s niece, sir.”

Adamat gave Siemone as sympathetic a look as he could muster. “You poor, poor bastard.”

“The service is finished, sir.”

The front door of the chapel opened even as Siemone spoke. A number of buggies began to roll around from the opposite side of the chapel and waited for their fare. Seven men and women came out and loaded into the buggies. They were dressed in rich silks and leathers and the finest muslin. Adamat recognized a few of them as wealthy merchants. To his surprise, he noted Madame Lourent, a recent client of his. She was from an affluent family, and he was frankly shocked she’d survived Tamas’s purge of the nobility. She passed him without acknowledgment.

Adamat imagined Ricard in one of those buggies. He’d fit in perfectly in a place like this, though he wouldn’t do much praying. The buggies trotted away, across the field but not toward the front drive. They were heading for the back of the house for whatever tawdry amusements Charlemund had planned next. Adamat shook his head in wonderment.

The arch-diocel came out after everyone else had left and walked slowly toward Adamat.

“Good afternoon,” Adamat said.

Charlemund ignored Adamat’s greeting. Siemone hurried past the arch-diocel to lock the chapel doors behind him, then quickly turned to take the arch-diocel’s robes of office.

“Siemone,” the arch-diocel said, “Lady Jarvor fell asleep during the prayer session. This is the third time. Have her barred from the villa grounds.”

“Yes, Your Eminence.”

“And who is this?”

“Inspector Adamat, Your Eminence.”

The arch-diocel squared his shoulders and looked down his nose at Adamat. “Tamas’s hound. Right. Why are you here?”

Adamat looked the arch-diocel up and down. Charlemund was an imposing man, standing a full head taller than Adamat, and before he’d become a man of the Rope, he had been the fencing champion of all of Adro. He still moved gracefully enough, his steps long and purposeful, his arms giving him a significant advantage of reach over other men. Adamat still remembered when Charlemund had become a priest, then been appointed arch-diocel of Adro the next day. It had been a scandal, and was talked about for years, though his appointment was never rescinded. Charlemund had powerful friends.

The arch-diocel also had two large bruises on his face, covered up as well as possible with a dusting of white powder.

“Your Eminence,” Adamat said, bowing his head. “I hope you are feeling well after your fall last week. I saw it happen. Dreadful accident.”

Charlemund snorted. “Get on with it. Why are you here?”