“There are several mining disputes currently in arbitration between your province and Satu Jos.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Those are legal matters, as you must well know, Lord Morningstar. The Assembly had nothing to do with them. And to be perfectly candid, we preferred Casolaba to his deputy. Barsal could be reasoned with.”
“Bribed, you mean.”
The ambassador sighed deeply. “If you’re looking for suspects, I suggest you start with the witches. Who else could hang a man from the spire?”
And burn his eyes out, Gavriel thought.
“I am examining every angle,” he said. “Now, perhaps you can tell me where you were the night of the murder?”
When the first batch of interviews were concluded, Gavriel rose and stretched his uninjured wing. “I fear we are no closer to the truth than when we began, Yarl,” he said. “Let us verify the witnesses’ alibis. You and Bottas can do that.”
A pair of workmen arrived to hang the drapes. Gavriel reluctantly abandoned the desk to make room for them.
“Have you visited the scene of death?”
He turned. Cypher Rowan was looking at him expectantly.
“Both the witches and the Assembly guards examined every inch of the dome,” Gavriel said. “They found nothing besides the body.”
“I just wonder why he was displayed so publicly.” She bit her full lower lip, frowning. “They could have slit his throat and dumped him in an alley, but they wanted the whole city to see their handiwork.”
Gavriel lifted his gaze from her mouth, distracted. “Your point?”
“It just seems as if someone was sending a message. I could escort you up to the roof.” She hesitated. “Unless you have something more important to do.”
His first instinct was to refuse. Rowan’s advice was unsolicited and doubtless a waste of time. But his current approach had yielded little progress, and the workmen were now hammering.
“Very well,” he said reluctantly.
She approached Levi Bottas, who hovered at the door. “How do we access the dome?” she asked.
“There’s a stairwell at the end of the corridor.” He eyed Gavriel’s bandaged wing. “But it’s quite narrow.”
“I’ll manage,” Gavriel said.
Bottas found an elderly guard, who led them to a nondescript door. He unlocked it and stepped back. “It’s a long climb,” he warned.
“How many people have a set of keys to that door?” Gavriel asked.
“All the senior watchmen,” he said, a bit defensively. “At least a dozen of us. And I don’t think the locks have been changed in . . . oh, ages. These stairs predate the current building. When they rebuilt after the Great Fire, they incorporated the old tower. It was the only part still standing.”
The stairwell was indeed narrow, forcing Gavriel to angle himself to the side. His broken wing throbbed in protest as it brushed the wall, but he refused to admit weakness in front of Rowan. She seemed to think he was some desk-bound bureaucrat.
He expected her to tire, but she climbed the tight spiral steps without pausing for breath. Light filtered through embrasures, illuminating dust motes that swirled in her wake. At last, it opened onto a landing. Far below, through an ornate iron lattice, he could see the main floor of the Assembly Hall. Above stretched the vaulted ceiling of the dome.
“Is this where they found him?” Rowan asked.
“No. He was suspended from the spire itself.” Gavriel pointed to an exterior door. “The killer must have gone through that way. It would have to be someone strong enough to carry the body up all those stairs.”
She tilted her head, considering. “Or maybe they didn’t take the stairs at all.”
He gave her a dark look. “Are you implying an angel did this?”
“Have you ruled that out?” Her gaze had an uncanny directness.
“No seraphim would murder a human,” he said dismissively. “Their loyalty to the ideals of the empire is absolute.”
