purple robes of office trailing behind him. He was a tall man, strong and athletic, who’d not lost the power of his youth in middle age like most men. He had a square face and evenly set brown eyes, his cheeks clean-shaven. He was swathed in fine furs and silk, with a round, gilded hat upon his head. There were rings on his fingers with enough gold and precious stones to buy a dozen mansions. But that wasn’t uncommon for an arch-diocel of the Kresim Church.
“I see you brought the whole wardrobe,” Ricard said.
Tamas inclined his head. “Charlemund,” he said.
The arch-diocel sniffed. “I’m a man of the Rope,” he said. “I have a title you may use, though it weighs upon me to inflict it.”
“Your Eminence!” Ricard mimed removing a hat from his head and bowed low to the ground.
“I wouldn’t expect a man like you to understand,” the arch-diocel said to Ricard. “I’d call you out, but you’re too much of a coward to duel.”
“I have men to do that for me,” Ricard said. There was the slightest fear in his eye. The arch-diocel had been the finest swordsman in all the Nine before his appointment to the Rope and he was still known to call men out on occasion and—priest or not—gut them mercilessly.
“Property,” Tamas said to the reeve. “We own half of Adro now, what with every nobleman and his heir about to find himself tasting the guillotine’s edge. Ondraus, I expect you’ll take great delight in this: Dissolve the property. Slowly, but fast enough to fund all the projects we’ve discussed. Sell it outside the country if need be, but get us some damned money.”
“There were plans for that property,” the arch-diocel said.
“Yes, and—”
“What is being done with the property?”
Tamas sighed. Lady Winceslav entered the room in a gown that could easily compete with the arch-diocel’s robes for whose used the greater amount of cloth and jewels in the tailoring. She was a woman of about fifty years with high cheekbones and a slim waist, diamonds in her earrings. She owned the Wings of Adom, the most prestigious mercenary force in the world, and was a native Adran. Her forces had been quietly pulled out of foreign postings and recalled to Adro over the last few months in preparation for the coup, and Tamas knew he’d need them desperately in the time to come.
Close behind her followed a big, bald man in a one-piece robe: the Proprietor’s eunuch. Finally, Prime Lektor—Vice-Chancellor of Adopest University—came in behind them. He was easily as old as the reeve and weighed ten stone more. He staggered over to a chair.
All six of Tamas’s coconspirators had arrived: five men and a woman who had helped him plan Manhouch’s downfall and who would now determine the future of Adro.
“By the pit, Tamas,” the vice-chancellor said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. A purple birthmark spidered across the lower left side of his face, touching his lips and one eye. He wore a beard, but no hair would grow on the birthmark, giving the old scholar a particularly barbaric appearance. “You had to choose the top floor? You’re going to regret it in a few years when your bones start to weary.”
“Lady,” Tamas said, nodding to Lady Winceslav, then to the vice-chancellor and to the eunuch. “Prime. Eunuch. Thank you for coming.”
The eunuch slid over to the corner and glanced out a window. He moved like an eel and smelled like southern spices, but the Proprietor, the strongest figure in Adopest’s criminal element, never attended these meetings personally—he sent his nameless lieutenant instead. “We had little choice,” the eunuch said. His voice was soft, like a child speaking in church. “You moved up the timeline.”
“There’s more,” Charlemund said. His voice thundered unnecessarily. “He’s trying to claim the property we’ve confiscated from the nobility.”
Tamas held his hands up to calm a sudden clamor of voices. He glared at the arch-diocel. “We’re not here to carve up Adro,” he snapped. “We’re here to give it back to the people. The king’s treasury is empty. If we’re to keep any semblance of control over the nation in the next few years, we desperately need the money. Your mercenaries will have land, Lady, and Ricard your union will have its grants. Everyone will get a cut.”
“Fifteen percent for the Church,” the arch-diocel demanded quietly, studying his nails.
“Go to the pit,” Ricard snapped.
“I’ll send you there,” the arch-diocel said, stepping toward Ricard. A hand went into his robes.