He was not well liked among the lower classes, as arch-diocels went.
“Tamas,” Charlemund said. “I am glad to see you alive and safe, but I’ve come on business. My men say your soldiers will not give up this blasphemous cook of yours. There was some kind of scuffle yesterday when my guard tried to come for him…”
He paused, a frown crossing his face when he saw Mihali, Adamat, and the rest.
“Surely Mihali is of little import,” Tamas said.
“If it were my choice, I would leave him in your hands. What is a mad cook to me? Yet arch-diocels more zealous in the faith than I are demanding his arrest. They are putting pressure on me, Tamas. They are threatening the Church’s neutrality.”
“You’ll have my decision later,” Tamas said.
“I must insist that it be now.” Charlemund squared his shoulders. His gaze fell on Mihali. “You are he, are you not? The blasphemous cook?”
Mihali set the platter down gently beside Tamas and turned to Charlemund. He took a deep breath, sucking in his enormous gut. “I am a chef, sir, and you will speak to me as such.”
“A chef! Ha!” Charlemund threw his head back and laughed. His hand went to the hilt of his smallsword. “Tamas, I arrest this man in the name of the Church.”
“Get out.”
The words were quiet, yet Adamat felt as if all warmth had been sucked from the room. He turned to Tamas, but it wasn’t Tamas who had spoken. It had been the chef.
“How dare you.” Charlemund drew a handspan of steel.
“Get out!” Mihali bellowed. His ladle appeared in his hand, for all the world like he was holding a sword. The large end pointed steadily at Charlemund’s nose. “I will not have you here. You false priest, you abhorrent fool! Give me a reason and I will strike you down!”
Charlemund’s face contorted with rage. “What kind of madness is this? I arrest you in the name of the Church! I don’t fear your ladle, you ungodly glutton!”
Mihali advanced suddenly upon Charlemund. The arch-diocel backpedaled a few steps, drew his sword, and lunged. Mihali caught the blade with his ladle, swung it expertly to one side, and backhanded Charlemund hard enough to throw him over the sofa.
The room was silent. Olem rushed to Charlemund’s side.
“Did you just kill the arch-diocel?” Adamat asked.
Mihali sniffed. “I should have,” he said. “Drink your broth, Field Marshal.” He left the room without another word.
“He’s alive, sir,” Olem said. “Unconscious.”
Adamat exchanged a glance with Tamas. He could see his own disbelief reflected in Tamas’s eyes. The field marshal held his leg in pain. “Olem, see that the arch-diocel is put in a room downstairs. Let it be known he had a bad fall down the stairs. Find witnesses. Inspector, I’m sure you saw it.”
Adamat smoothed the front of his jacket. “It was a very nasty fall. He tumbled two flights before we could catch him.”
“I believe that was the case,” Tamas said. “Doctor, what could you prescribe for Charlemund?”
The doctor looked down his nose at the unconscious form of the arch-diocel. “Arsenic?”
“Now, really. Something to give him a quality headache and a great deal of memory loss.”
“Cyanide.”
“Doctor!”
“I’ll find something,” the doctor mumbled.
“Olem.”
Olem paused, his arms beneath Charlemund’s shoulders as he dragged him from the room. “Sir?”
“What was that bit about the men scuffling with Charlemund’s guards?”
“I was going to tell you sir, after the surgery.”
“I’m sure you were. What happened?”
Olem paused with his hands under Charlemund’s arms. “Just that, sir. The boys don’t want to lose Mihali. Say he’s a good-luck charm, cooking or not. I had nothing to do with it. At least, not too much.”
“How the pit is he a good-luck charm? What has he done to warrant that?”
“Filled their bellies,” Olem said.
“Were there any casualties?”
“There might be next time.” A cloud passed across Olem’s face.
“And if I give a direct order?”
Olem looked down. “I’m sure the men will follow it, sir.”
Tamas closed his eyes and rubbed them. “What do you suggest, Inspector?”
Adamat started. “I’m not sure I know enough details, sir.” He felt like a fly on the wall here. This was not an event he was meant to witness. This Mihali character—Adamat would need to find out more about him.
“Pretend you do,” Tamas insisted.
“It’s a poor commander who gives in to the whims of his troops,” Adamat said. “And an even worse one who ignores their wants and needs. Yet there are mitigating factors.” He jerked his head toward the arch-diocel, whom Olem had resumed dragging out