“No, sir, but—” He hesitated. “It’s past the sixth hour. Everyone is gone for the day.”
Gavriel stared at him. “Their consul has been murdered. They demanded my presence. And now they’ve left for supper?”
Bottas shifted uneasily. “It is how things are done here, Lord Morningstar.”
Gavriel drew a slow breath and tamped down his fury. “So it is. I had forgotten.” He fixed Bottas with an icy stare. “But you will go nowhere until I dismiss you.”
“Of course not, sir.” He handed over a book. “I retrieved Consul Casolaba’s appointment diary from his residence. And I can give you a preliminary list of his close associates.”
“Good.” Gavriel turned to Yarl. “I’ll want records of criminal cases with his name on them, both as complainant and accused. And you should go to his home and fetch his banking records, his will, and a summary of assets.”
“His wife may object, sir,” Bottas ventured.
“His wife has no choice.” Gavriel opened the first dossier and set to work.
For the next several hours, he sifted through Haniel’s haystack while Bottas and Yarl came and went, fetching more documents. The picture that emerged was of a vindictive, petty, greedy man whose corruption was matched only by his success in evading punishment. Bribery, witness tampering, and extortion were among the various charges, none of which resulted in conviction.
“What great fortune!” Gavriel muttered acidly. “Accusers who recant or disappear, evidence that goes missing, judges who suddenly reverse themselves and rule in his favor.”
“His patronage extended throughout the city,” Bottas admitted. “From the docks to the fire brigades.”
“And where were you the night he died?” Gavriel asked, looking up from the records.
“In my flat sleeping, sir. Like most people at that hour.” Levi Bottas looked frightened, but that didn’t mean he was guilty. Anyone in his position would be worried.
“Do you know whom he might have met with?”
“I don’t, sir, I’m sorry. His last appointment of the day was at four-thirty. I attended him and we left the Assembly together.”
“Who was it with?”
“Primo Roloa. The head of the Freedom League.”
“I know who he is. What was discussed?”
“Just the usual end-of-the-day meeting. They talked about some upcoming bills and went over the expected vote tallies.”
“You shall write a statement detailing every word that was said, to the best of your memory.”
Bottas stared at him like a cow over a fence.
“Now, please,” Gavriel barked.
Casolaba’s aide drew a breath and leapt up to fetch some blank paper. “Certainly, sir.”
The sixth hour became the ninth, then midnight. Bottas brewed a strong pot of kopi. The wheels of the empire’s justice tended to turn slowly, but Gavriel could not afford to waste a moment. His reputation depended on it. If someone in Kota Gelangi thought they could commit murder and escape the reckoning, they were badly mistaken.
Dawn was creeping over the rooftops when Gavriel closed the last ledger. Yarl, who had been dozing with his back straight as a board, stirred and blinked owlishly. Levi Bottas was still awake, but he looked bloodshot and rumpled, his maroon coat dangling from the back of a chair.
“You’re dismissed, Bottas,” Gavriel said. “Go home and return in four hours. We shall commence with the interviews at nine sharp.”
Bottas bowed, obviously relieved to be cut loose. Gavriel and Yarl gathered a few essential documents and locked the consul’s office behind them. It was a pleasantly cool morning. Gavriel wondered if Tristo Arpin might be sweeping the square, but no one was about. Perhaps the man had taken his bounty and gone on a seaside holiday.
It was almost funny. Gavriel had expected to find a city in mourning, but Kota Gelangi seemed to greet Casolaba’s demise with a shrug. Which, he supposed, was entirely in keeping with a province where fortunes might be won and lost in a single day.
The biggest mining operations were owned by a handful of old witch families and their human surrogates. They were the lions, but there were plenty of scavengers who fought over the leavings. Likely Casolaba had done someone dirty, expecting he’d be untouchable—but this time he was wrong.
Above the two men, dark ribbons of bats streamed through the sky, returning to their roosts after a night of hunting. Yarl peered up at the infamous spire atop the Red House. “If only they could speak,” he murmured.
