checked on those names that Adamat gave us?” Tamas said, unwilling to continue the conversation.
Olem was clearly uncomfortable with the abrupt end to the topic of Mihali’s future. “Yes, sir,” he said stiffly. “Our people are looking into it. Slowly. We don’t have enough men, to be honest, but Adamat’s hunches are proving accurate enough.”
“He said he gathered that list of names and ships in just two days of investigation,” Tamas said. “The entire police force on the docks has only given us half a dozen Kez smugglers since the war started. How can he work so fast?”
Olem shrugged. “He’s got a gift. Also, he doesn’t have the restrictions of the police. He’s not wearing a uniform. He can’t be bribed or intimidated.”
“You think he can find my traitor?” Tamas asked.
“Perhaps.” Olem didn’t look so sure. “I wish you’d put more men on it. You shouldn’t leave the fate of Adro in the hands of one retired investigator.”
Tamas shook his head. “As you said, he can go where the police cannot. I can’t trust it to anyone else. Everyone I truly trust—you, Sabon, the rest of the powder cabal—they’re doing tasks of utmost importance, and none of them has the set of talents and skills that Adamat does. If he can’t track down my traitor, no one else can.”
Olem gave him a dark stare. The corner of his mouth twitched, and Tamas felt a thrill of fear through his chest. “Give me a writ of purpose,” Olem said quietly. “And fifty men. I’ll find out who the traitor is.”
Tamas rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to let you hack apart my council with a meat cleaver and a hot iron. You’ll leave nothing left of them, and I’ll have made enemies of the most powerful people in Adro. I’m sorry, Olem, but I need you watching my back and I need the other five of the council—the ones that aren’t traitors—fully intact.”
Tamas turned as he heard horses galloping up from behind. “Pit, I was hoping for a pleasant day.”
“Ho there, Field Marshal,” Charlemund said. The arch-diocel looked nothing like a man of the Rope. He wore his hunt colors proudly on a hunter easily ten stone bigger than Tamas’s. He was followed by three young women; probably priestesses, though it was impossible to tell with them wearing hunt colors. Just behind the women was Ondraus the Reeve. The old man wore a black hunt coat and pale breeches to indicate that he wasn’t part of the hunt proper, yet he rode his hunter with far more poise and confidence than Tamas would have expected from a glorified accountant.
“How many hounds do you have competing today, Charlemund?” Tamas asked.
The arch-diocel gave him a sour look that always accompanied his response when someone failed to use his title. “Ten,” he said. “Though to be fair, three of them are running for the ladies here.” He gestured to his companions. “Priestesses Kola, Narum, and Ule, this is Field Marshal Tamas.”
Tamas gave the three women a curt nod. Not one of them looked above twenty years old, even though they bore the rank of priestess. They were far too young. And pretty. Women that attractive did not enter into service to the Church.
The reeve rode up next to Tamas.
“Ondraus,” Tamas said. “You’re the last person I’d expect to see at a hunt.”
Ondraus turned in his saddle and pointed behind them. “No, that’s the last person you’d expect to see at a hunt.”
A horse struggled through a patch of briars not far off, urged on with an incessant stream of curses by Ricard Tumblar. The union boss caught his cheek on a thorn and let out a yell, kicking the horse. Hunter and rider surged from the patch, galloping to catch up with the rest. Tamas reached out and grabbed the bridle as the horse came by. He leaned over, placing a hand between its eyes. “Shh. Quiet,” he said, soothing the animal. “Lord above, Ricard, stop urging it on. You’ll get yourself thrown.”
Ricard’s heels had been dug into the creature’s side. He let up immediately and gave a great sigh. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “I was made to ride in a carriage, not on a horse.”
Charlemund grinned at him. “I can see that,” he said. “We all can. I’ve seen children who ride better than you.”
“And I’ve seen pimps with fewer whores,” Ricard snapped.
The three priestesses gasped. The arch-diocel spun his mount to face Ricard, laying a hand on the grip of