The Crimson Campaign

by Brian McClellan

  She whirled on her heel and strode down the column. Soldiers stared openmouthed at her as she went past, then turned to look toward Tamas, waiting for his wrath to follow like thunder after lightning.

  Tamas watched Vlora almost disappear around a bend in the road. She made an abrupt stop as Olem rode into view. The bodyguard leaned over his horse, said something to her. She put her hand on his thigh. He pushed it away gently and gave a meaningful glance at Tamas.

  Vlora grabbed Olem by the belt and pulled him off his horse, pushing him into the woods off the trail. Tamas swore under his breath and took two steps down the column.

  Someone cleared their throat. Tamas looked around.

  It was the soldier he’d sent for water. “Your canteen, sir.”

  Tamas snatched the canteen. When he looked again, Olem and Vlora were gone.

  He took several deep breaths and went back to his horse.

  “Sir, you mind if I ask how long until we march again?” the soldier asked.

  Tamas took a long draw of water. It was so frigid it seemed to burn his throat going down. It made his teeth hurt.

  “Thirty minutes, damn it. Get some rest.”

  Adamat rapped on the door of the foreman’s office in the textile mill. Below him, dozens of steam-powered looms thundered at full tilt throughout the day, creating a racket that drowned out all but the loudest shouts. Hundreds of workers tended the millworks, moving about the floor like so many insects.

  Adamat let himself into the foreman’s office. Inside, the sound was greatly reduced.

  “Margy,” he called.

  The woman emerged from the back of the room and smiled when she saw Adamat. He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

  She stepped back from him in shock. “What in all the Nine have you done to yourself?”

  “Fell down the stairs,” Adamat said. His voice whined nasally, and his face still hurt as if the broken nose had happened only an hour ago.

  Margy harrumphed. “Looks more like you got it punched in,” she said. “I alway told you putting your nose in other people’s business was going to get it broken.”

  Adamat threw his hands up in mock surrender. “I’ve only got a moment, Margy. I just dropped by to see if you had a lead on that rug.”

  “Fine, fine.” Margy moved over to the desk beside her microscope and began leafing through papers. “I sent Faye a letter last week,” she said.

  “I’ll ask if she got it.” Adamat leaned against the doorpost and closed his eyes. His face hurt. His back hurt. His hands and his head hurt. Everything hurt, and he wasn’t getting enough sleep. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten more than toast and tea. He opened his eyes again when Margy pushed a piece of paper into his hand.

  “That’s the buyer,” she said. “I couldn’t get a name, just the address from a check receipt.”

  “Thanks, Margy.”

  “Tell Faye to come visit soon, will you?”

  “Of course.”

  Adamat left the textile mill and didn’t look at the paper until he was outside. With no name, it would be more work for him to find out the owner of the address, and knowing the Proprietor, Adamat would have to go through several layers of fake names and addresses before he found the Proprietor’s identity.

  He hailed a hackney cab and looked at the address.

  He had to look again, blinking to be sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.

  This was an address he knew.

  The weather had grown overcast as the morning progressed, and Adamat stopped by his safe house in western Adopest to get an umbrella. He paused in the hallway. The door to the flat was open.

  Part of him screamed to just turn and walk away. He might not survive the next run-in with Vetas’s goons.

  He drew his pistol and checked to see if it was loaded before pushing gently on the door.

  SouSmith sat on the sofa. His arms were folded over his stomach, his chin resting on his chest as he dozed. His shirt was covered in blood.

  “SouSmith?”

  The big boxer jerked awake. “Ah.”

  “What happened?”

  SouSmith cocked an eyebrow at him, as if it were strange of Adamat to ask after his bloody shirt. “What happened yourself? Someone break your nose?”

  Adamat called for the landlady to put a kettle on, and closed the door behind him. “You’re soaked with blood.”

  “None of it’s mine,” SouSmith said. “Least, not much. Nose?”

  “One of Vetas’s goons was waiting at my old house. Hit me in the face with a cudgel. Now what’s this? You can’t be sitting in a man’s living room covered in someone else’s blood without an explanation.”

  “Four o’ Vetas’s men came by my brother’s place,” SouSmith said. “Shot one of my nephews. Me and Daviel… we killed all four.”

  “Pit, SouSmith. I’m sorry. Is your nephew…?”

  “Kid was twelve. Daviel had just got it together to send ’im to school.” SouSmith stood up and stretched. The blood on his shirt was black and dry, probably hours old. His piggish eyes glinted with anger. “I’m in,” he said. “Proprietor or no, I’m ’a see Vetas burn. Then I’ve got to see to my family.”

  Adamat was about to ask what they did with the bodies when he remembered SouSmith’s brother was a butcher. He probably did not want to know. He gave a wary nod.

  Could he trust SouSmith? What if Vetas’s goons had turned him? What if, like Adamat, SouSmith’s family was being held by Vetas?

  Could he even afford to ask these questions? Adamat needed every man he could get on his side.

  “Get cleaned up,” Adamat said. “You left some clothes here.”

  “We going somewhere?”

  “I have to see a man about fifty thousand krana.”

  Adamat stepped out of the carriage in the Routs – the very best part of town, filled with large brick bankers’ houses. The streets were wide, paved with flat cobbles, and lined with towering elms. Adamat tilted his hat up and looked for the house he wanted.

  There – in between two of the immense city townhouses owned by the wealthy bankers sat a small, austere house with a well-kept garden. Adamat headed up the walk to the house, followed closely by SouSmith.

  “The Reeve, right?” SouSmith asked.

  “Yes.” Ondraus the Reeve. One of Tamas’s councillors, and an architect of the coup that overthrew Manhouch. He was a sour, unfriendly old man. Adamat did not relish a second meeting. He pounded on the door.

  He pounded for ten minutes before he finally heard the latch inside move, and the door opened a crack.

  “For a wealthy man,” Adamat said, “I’m surprised you answer the door yourself.”

  Ondraus the Reeve glared at Adamat through narrowed eyes. “Get off my front step, or I’ll have you jailed for harassment.” Ondraus was wearing a robe and slippers. His hair was unkempt.

  “I need money,” Adamat said. “Your accountants told me I’ve been cut off.”

  Ondraus sneered at him. “Tamas is dead. Whatever access to funds he promised you is gone. I’d suggest you find employment elsewhere.”

  “See, that’s a problem. May I come in?”

  “No.”

  Adamat leaned on the door. Ondraus started, reeling back into his tiny foyer.

  “Wait out here, please,” Adamat said to SouSmith. The boxer nodded.

  Ondraus stormed toward his office. Adamat drew the pistol from his pocket and cleared his throat.

  The Reeve froze when he saw the pistol. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  Adamat drew his eyes across the room. It had changed little in the months since Adamat’s last visit. The mantel had been dusted, the fireplace cleaned, but the carpet showed no more wear and the smells were exactly the same. The house seemed almost unused.

  “I can see through the open door to your office there,” Adamat said, “a bell cord. Hardly worth noticing on my last visit, but I find myself wondering, in a house with three rooms
and no servants, why you have a bell cord.” Adamat motioned toward the only chair beside the fireplace. Ondraus took a seat.

  “Are you here to rob me?” Ondraus said. “All my money is in investments. As you can see, there’s nothing of worth here. I don’t even keep a checkbook in my home.”

  “See,” Adamat continued without acknowledging the interruption, “my guess is that bell cord leads to a system of rooms beneath your house, and in one of those rooms you have a permanent staff of four large, dangerous men ready to come to your defense if you need it. And off of those rooms leads a tunnel, likely going to one of these nearby manors that you own under a false name. You don’t live in it, of course. You just use it to conceal your comings and goings under your other name.”

  Ondraus watched Adamat from the chair, saying nothing. His glare was less angry now and more… calculating. For some reason the change made him far more frightening.

  “You haven’t yet told me that I’m a dead man,” Adamat said. He considered Ondraus for a moment. “I suppose you’re not the type.”

  “What is your insurance?” Ondraus asked.

  “Letters. Sent to certain friends I have in the police force.”

  “Telling them that I am the Proprietor?”

  It was a thrill to hear Ondraus say it out loud. No denial. No admission. A simple statement, and it made the hair on the back of Adamat’s neck stand up. “No, of course not. Telling them that if I disappear, my body can be found beneath your house. No one wants to investigate the Proprietor. But my friends on the force will have no problem combing through the affairs of one accountant. You’re known as a shut-in. Shut-ins are always interesting. My friends might even find it fun. And when they find out about the rooms beneath your house, and the bodyguards, and the manor and the huge amounts of money in your portfolio, they will become extremely interested indeed.”

  Ondraus scoffed. “You think that will save you?”

  “Yes, I do.” Adamat felt a crack in his confidence. What if Ondraus just didn’t care? A man with his connections could just disappear if an investigation started on him. “I think that my life is a trivial thing to spare, if it will save you even a few months’ worth of scrutiny and trouble.

  “If that is not the case,” Adamat added, “I have sent another letter to a friend in the publishing business, telling him I know who the Proprietor is. If I wind up dead, and he hears of an investigation of my death involving you, he’ll draw conclusions and, let me say, he’s not a very smart man. He values headlines far more than his own life.”

  Ondraus began to chuckle. It was a dry sound, and for a moment Adamat thought he was coughing. “Very clever,” he said.

  “If you’d given me help, instead of deciding to let me take Vetas on my own, I wouldn’t have even wondered about your identity.”

  “You’d have still wondered,” Ondraus said, waving one hand dismissively. “What do you want?”

  “Fifty – no, seventy-five thousand krana in cash, and your help killing Lord Vetas and rescuing my wife.”

  Ondraus steepled his fingers and leaned back. “You need to learn to get more out of your blackmail. I’m one of the richest men in the Nine.”

  “I’m not interested in your money. I just want to get Faye back.”

  “Vetas still has a Privileged.”

  “That’s what the money is for. If I have the money, I’ll have my own Privileged.”

  Ondraus mulled this over. “Resourceful. And if I decide to let you live once Vetas is dead?”

  “I’ll forget you exist.”

  “You surprise me, Adamat,” Ondraus said. His body was no longer tensed and angry. He lounged back in the chair, steepling his fingers. “The lengths you’re going to. I was warned years ago that you were the most principled, tenacious man on the Adopest police force. I actually have gone to a few small lengths to avoid you.”

  “Believe me,” Adamat said. “If this didn’t involve my family, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Well, in that case, I have a stipulation. After this is over, you promise to work for me when I have need of you.”

  “No.”

  Ondraus held up his hand to forestall the protest. “I’ll pay you, if it happens. The work will likely be dangerous. But agree to this, or I’ll kill you and SouSmith, and see what happens.”

  Adamat searched Ondraus’s eyes. There was an iron resolve there that told him Ondraus would do just that. And maybe… a hint of humor? A touch of a smile on his lips? Was Ondraus enjoying this?

  “Agreed,” Adamat said.

  “Wonderful.” Ondraus paused. “Does SouSmith know?”

  “He thinks I’m here to ask for money,” Adamat said. He left out that he’d told SouSmith he planned on blackmailing the Proprietor. SouSmith might make his own deductions, or he might not. If he did, he was smart enough to keep quiet. No need telling Ondraus any of that.

  “You’ll have it tomorrow,” Ondraus said. “I’ll have it delivered to…?”

  “I’ll meet your man in Elections Square. By the stains.”

  “You’re not to come here ever again,” Ondraus said. “Our contact will be through my eunuch. You may go now.”

  Adamat slid his pistol into his pocket with the sudden realization that he was no longer in control.

  “And Adamat,” Ondraus said, “if I ever have need to regret this, everyone you’ve ever loved will regret it too.”

  CHAPTER

  21

  At some point during the beating they’d put a black hood over Taniel’s head and now he tripped and struggled as he was shoved through the camp by the provosts. He could hear their warning to those who passed to stay clear, and their quiet curses when he stumbled. Disoriented, he would have fallen but for the strong arms beneath his armpits. His head pounded, his body a knot of pain.

  They forced him up a set of stairs and dragged him inside a building. An inn? Officers’ mess? He didn’t know. He was thrown into a chair, then tied down. He tried to struggle. The effort earned him a cuff on the back of the head.

  Taniel slumped against his bonds and strained to hear some sound that would tell him his location. Nothing but the chatter of soldiers outside the building, too low to hear the voices. He might have been anywhere in the Adran camp.

  How much time passed, he couldn’t be sure. The air grew cooler, so it must have been night. His face was completely numb. They had to have beaten it into a mess. He felt along his teeth. All there. His shirt was soaked – probably his own blood, and as he sat there, it grew cold.

  The numbness in his body began to fade, along with his last powder trance, leaving him to feel the full pain of the beating, when he finally heard the door open. Multiple sets of heavy footsteps. Then another set. Lighter, but no less military.

  His hood was pulled off. A match was struck and the lanterns on the wall lit. The room was no bigger than three yards square and was bare but for two chairs and the lanterns on the wall.

  General Ket stood above him, arms crossed, her face impassive. She was flanked by two of her provosts. The men glared at him, cudgels held in such a way as if they were daring him to move.

  “You’ll need more men,” Taniel said.

  She seemed taken off guard that he spoke first. “What?”

  “If you’re going to beat me into submission, or whatever it is you’re here to do.”

  “Shut up, Two-Shot.” Ket scratched at the stub of her missing ear and then began to pace. “I should have you shot.”

  “You’ll have to hang me,” Taniel said. He couldn’t help but chuckle. Shot. These officers all acted like they knew everything, but you can’t put a powder mage in front of a firing squad. Not one armed with conventional rifles, anyway.

  One of the provosts put his full weight behind his fist and slammed it into Taniel’s jaw. Taniel’s head snapped to the side and his vision spun. The provost became a fuzzy blur. Taniel hawked a wad of bloody phlegm at the provost, and the man drew back for another punch.

 
Ket held up a hand. “That’s not necessary, provost.” She rounded on Taniel. “Is this a joke to you? You’re looking at being executed!”

  “For what?” Taniel scoffed. “Holding the line?”

  “For what?” she echoed incredulously. Ket stopped her pacing to face him. “Insubordination, conduct unfitting an officer, disobeying direct orders. Physically assaulting an officer. The way you act verges on treason.”

  “Go to the pit,” Taniel said. He was proud when he didn’t flinch at the provost coming toward him.

  Ket stopped the man again.

  “Keep it up,” Taniel said. “I can do this all night. Treason? Is it treason to be the only officer in this bloody army that seems to care about winning a battle? Is it treason to rally the men? Give them something to stand up for? You talk to me about treason, when the trumpets sound a retreat every time we’re about to win a battle.”

  “That’s a lie!” Ket stepped forward, and for a moment Taniel thought she’d hit him herself. “We sound the alarm when the battle goes against us. You’re down on the lines. You don’t see the desperation of the fight where you are.”

  Taniel leaned forward, straining at his bonds. “I don’t see it because I’m winning.” He leaned back. “You’re scared of me. Have you gone over to the Kez? Is that why? You’re scared I’ll —”

  Ket didn’t stop the provost this time. Taniel’s words were cut off by the blow, and he was genuinely surprised to find his teeth still there when his head stopped ringing.

  Taniel tasted blood. He swallowed. “Is that why you arrested me in secret?” Taniel spoke around a swollen tongue. “Had me dragged through the camp in a hood? So no one could see me?” Taniel snorted and looked the provost in the eye, daring him to hit again.

  General Ket scratched at her ear. “You are very popular,” she admitted as she began to pace again. “But even the popular – someone like you, who the common soldiers call a hero – need to be disciplined. Otherwise the army falls apart. It’s unfortunate, but that’s the way it is. I’d make you a public display, but the other generals don’t agree with me. They think if the men see you flogged, it’ll hurt morale and, Kresimir knows, it’s already low enough.”