"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."

Chapter 34.

The Black Street Barbers were one of the oldest street gangs in Adopest. They claimed to be between one hundred fifty and three hundred years old, depending on who was asked and how drunk they were. They operated out of a ramshackle line of apartments only a few blocks from the Jalfast Waterworks. The local police guessed their number at around seventy-five.

Adamat watched the apartments from a safe distance down the street. From the look of things, their fortunes had been better. The building was a dilapidated ruin. It was two stories, all of poorly made mud bricks far too old to be safe. The second story contained dormitories, while the first floor looked to be a large bar. Chairs sat out in the sunshine in front of the building. A number of Barbers skulked nearby, throwing dice on the pavement while they waited for dockworkers in need of a shave.

"Don't like getting involved with the Barbers," SouSmith said.

Adamat glanced at his friend. SouSmith wore a short black coat, the sleeves rolled up. He leaned against the wall of a decommissioned coal coking plant, eyeing the Barbers' headquarters. There was a bead of sweat at his brow and a pain in his eyes, the only indication that he'd been shot twice and operated on last night. They'd removed the lodged bullet safely. A lesser man would be neck deep in opiates to kill the pain.

"I told you not to come."

"You paid me," SouSmith said. "Can't go in alone."

Adamat snorted. He was far from alone. SouSmith just wanted to put another Barber's head through a wall. Adamat rubbed his chest, resisting the urge to pick at the stitches he'd received from Tamas's surgeon.

He watched as three squads of soldiers filled the street, cutting off foot and carriage traffic in both directions. Another two squads fell in behind the Barbers' building, unseen. One of the Barbers throwing dice looked up. He tapped his friend on the shoulder and pointed, then hurried inside.

"Time to go in," Adamat said. He pushed himself away from the wall and strode down the street. Tamas's Deliv lieutenant, Sabon, appeared from one group of soldiers. His blue uniform was immaculately pressed, his ebony skull shaved clean. He wore a pistol on one hip, a smallsword at his other. He greeted Adamat with a nod.

"Don't let them get too close to you," Adamat said. "They're deadly with those razors." He waited a moment for SouSmith to catch up. Just the walk up the street had turned SouSmith's face white, and the old boxer was sweating as if it were midsummer. Adamat opened his mouth to send him off, but thought better of it. If SouSmith wanted to come, he'd come.

Adamat felt for the pistol under his long coat to reassure himself. He took his cane firmly in hand and strode toward the front door, ignoring the pain across his chest.

He kicked open the front door. It fell from the hinges completely, rust spraying the floor. The room inside was well lit, windows open along the east side behind a row of barber's chairs. There were old signs of blood underneath these chairs, rusty stains on the brick floor. On the opposite side of the room was a long bar with bottles of liquor stacked on the wall behind. There was a cask of wine at the end of the bar almost as wide as a man is tall.

A group of men looked at each other and walked toward Adamat from the bar. The type looked contagious: whip-lean, sickly-looking men wearing aprons over white shirts. Adamat addressed the one in front.

"Hello, Teef."

The man was in the process of drawing a razor from his pocket when he locked eyes on Adamat's face. His eyes went wide. He fumbled his razor, nearly dropping it. Adamat's cane flicked out, catching Teef on the wrist. The razor went flying.

His comrades didn't recognize Adamat. Their razors came out true, and pasty-white hands lunged toward Adamat, blades held out front. Adamat flinched.

The three men around Teef all had the same reaction at the crack of gunpowder. Their razors fell from their hands. Surprise crossed their faces, then pain as they clutched at bleeding wrists. Three bullets had gone clean through three wrists without a pistol being drawn. Adamat dealt Teef a glancing blow on the cheek with the tip of his cane, then held it at the Barber's neck. He looked over his shoulder. SouSmith stood just inside the door, eyes closed as he leaned heavily against the wall. Sabon stood silently to the side, eyes traveling around the inside of the barbershop as if he were casually perusing a store. Only the cloud of powder rising from him indicated what he'd done.

"What the pit?" Teef said, his voice cracking. "What are you doing? Cut them down!" He glanced at his comrades, and his mouth fell open. "What happened...?" His mouth worked like a fish out of the water. He stared at Sabon, and realization spread on his face. Adamat pressed the tip of his cane against Teef's throat.

"Cut them down, eh?" Adamat said. "That what you told Coel and the other two you sent to kill me last night?"

"I swear it wasn't personal, Adamat." Teef held his hands out in front of him, glancing nervously at the space between Sabon and Adamat. His eyes stopped over Adamat's shoulder. "Oh shit."

"They didn't tell you SouSmith was my bodyguard, did they?" Adamat said. He smiled at the panic in Teef's eyes. "He put one of your men's head through a brick wall. It'll take me hours to scrub the blood out of my front hall. Now, who hired you, Teef?"

"I swear, I didn't want to, but-"