Adamat gave a half bow at the waist. “I’d rather not make an appointment. I just need to speak with Ricard. It’s a terribly urgent matter.”
“Please, sir.”
“I just need to speak with Ricard.”
Her voice dropped slightly – instantly more threatening. “If you do not come with me, I will have you taken to the police for trespassing.”
“Now look here!” Adamat raised his voice. The last thing he wanted to do was cause a commotion, but he desperately needed Ricard’s attention.
“Fell!” Ricard’s voice called from inside the office. “Fell! Damn it, Fell, what is that ruckus!”
Fell narrowed her eyes at Adamat. “What is your name?” she asked sternly.
“Inspector Adamat.”
Fell’s demeanor changed instantly. Gone was the severe gaze that brooked no argument. She let out a soft sigh. “Why didn’t you say so to begin with? Ricard has us looking all over the city for you.” She stepped past Adamat and opened the door. “It’s Inspector Adamat here to see you, sir.”
“Well, don’t leave him in the hallway. Send him in!”
The room was cluttered but clean – for once. Bookshelves ran the length of each wall, and an ironwood desk framed the center of the room. Ricard was sitting behind his desk, facing a woman who looked to be about fifty. Adamat could immediately tell she was wealthy. Her rings were gold, set with precious gems, and her dress made from the finest cut of muslin. She fanned her face with a fine lace handkerchief and pointedly looked away from Adamat.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Cheris,” Ricard said. “This is very important.”
The woman pushed past Adamat and left the room. Adamat heard the door slam behind him and they were alone. Adamat thought briefly to ask what that had been about – then decided against it. Ricard was just as likely to spend an hour explaining as he was to tell Adamat it was private business. Adamat removed his hat and coat and returned Ricard’s embrace.
Ricard sat back down behind his desk and gestured to the vacant chair. They spoke at the exact same moment:
“Adamat, I need your help.”
“Ricard, I need your help.”
They both fell silent, and then Ricard laughed and ran a hand across the bald spot on the front of his scalp. “You haven’t needed my help for years,” he said. He took a deep breath. “First, I want to tell you how sorry I am about the Barbers.”
The Black Street Barbers. The street gang that supposedly reported to Ricard, but that had come after Adamat in his own home. Had that really been only a month ago? It seemed like years.
“Tamas wiped them out,” Adamat said. “The survivors are rotting in Sablethorn.”
“With my blessing.”
Adamat nodded. He didn’t trust himself to say more about the topic. He didn’t precisely blame Ricard for the incident, but he now had far less faith in Ricard’s people.
“Is Faye still out of the city?” Ricard said.
Something must have showed in Adamat’s eyes. Ricard was a man who’d made his living reading facial tics and knowing what to say at the right moment. He stood up and opened the door a crack. “Fell,” he said. “I don’t want to be bothered. No people. No sound.”
He closed the door and slid the latch, returning to his desk.
“Tell me everything,” Ricard said.
Adamat paused. He’d fought with himself for days about whether to come to Ricard at all, and what exactly to say. It wasn’t as if he didn’t trust Ricard – it was that he didn’t trust Ricard’s people. Lord Vetas had spies everywhere. But if he couldn’t trust Ricard himself, then there was no one left in his life to turn to for help.
“Faye and the children were taken by a man named Lord Vetas,” Adamat said. “They were held against their will to guarantee my cooperation. I gave Vetas information about my conversations with Tamas and my investigation.”
Ricard tensed. Whatever he’d expected, this was not it. “You crossed Tamas?” And you’re still alive? was the unspoken question.
“I’ve told Tamas all of it,” Adamat said. “He has forgiven me – for now – and sent me on a hunt for Lord Vetas. I managed to rescue some of the children, but Vetas still has Faye and Josep.”
“Can’t you use Tamas’s soldiers to go after Vetas?”
“I’d have to find him first. Once I do, I wish it were that simple. The moment Vetas finds out where I am, he will no doubt threaten me with Faye’s life. I need to find him silently, track him, and get her out of his hands before I bring down Tamas’s wrath upon him.”
Ricard nodded slowly. “So you don’t know where he is?”
“He’s like a ghost. I looked into him when he first started blackmailing me. He doesn’t even exist.”
“If you can’t find him, I doubt any of my people can.”
“I don’t need you to find him. I need information.” Adamat reached into his pocket and removed the card Vetas had left him months ago. It had an address on it. “This is the only lead I have. It’s an old warehouse not all that far from here. I need to know everything about it. Who owns it? Who owns the properties around it? When was it last sold? Everything. Your people have access to records I can’t easily get my hands on.”
Ricard nodded. “Of course. Anything.” He reached to take the card.
Adamat stopped him, clutching Ricard’s hand. “This is deadly serious. The lives of my wife and my son depend on it. If you don’t think you can trust your people, just tell me now and I’ll find him myself.” Remember what happened with the Barbers, Adamat said silently.
Ricard seemed to get the message. “I have some people,” Ricard said. “Don’t worry. This will be safe.”
“One more thing,” Adamat said. “There are two people involved in this somehow that you might blanch at crossing.”
Ricard smiled. “If it’s not Tamas, I can’t imagine who.”
“Lord Claremonte and the Proprietor.”
Ricard’s smile disappeared. “Lord Claremonte doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “The Brudania-Gurla Trading Company has been trying to move in on the union since our inception. He’s tricky, but he doesn’t scare me.”
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss him. Lord Vetas works for him.” And Vetas was holding Adamat’s wife and son hostage. Claremonte, as far as Adamat was concerned, might as well have been holding Faye and Josep personally.
Ricard made a dismissive gesture. “You say that the Proprietor might be involved? I don’t trust him, of course, but I thought you cleared him of treachery yourself.”
“I never cleared him,” Adamat said. “I just found out that Charlemund was the one trying to kill Tamas. One of the Proprietor’s boxers was holding my family hostage. You know how he is about his boxers finding work elsewhere – no one works for someone else without the Proprietor’s permission.” Which meant that the Proprietor may be in league with Lord Claremonte.
“Tread carefully on this, my friend,” Ricard warned. “Vetas may be trying to use you, but the Proprietor will cut and bury your entire family without so much as a thought.” He glanced at the card Adamat had given him and put it in his vest pocket. “I’ll look into this, don’t worry. But I need a favor from you.”
“Go on.”
“Do you know Taniel Two-Shot?”
“I know of him,” Adamat said. “Everyone in the Nine does. The newspapers were saying he was in a coma after a battle of sorcery on top of South Pike Mountain.”
“He’s not in a coma anymore,” Ricard said. “He woke up a week ago, and he’s disappeared.”
Adamat’s first thoughts went to Lord Vetas. The man was working actively against Tamas. He would leap at the chance to capture the field marshal’s son. “Any sign of violence?”
Ricard shook his head. “Well, yes. But it’s not like that. He left his guard duty of his own volition. Tamas had his own men guarding him, but my people were keeping an eye on him as well. That he slipped both our nets is rather embarrassing. I need him
found quietly.”
“Do you want him returned?” Adamat said. “I’m not about to make a powder mage do something he doesn’t want to do.”
“No, just find out where he is and let me know.”
Adamat stood up. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“And I’ll look into this Lord Vetas.” Ricard held up a hand to forestall Adamat’s protests. “Discreetly. I promise.”
Tamas entered Budwiel’s biggest mess hall and was nearly knocked over by the swirl of enticing smells wafting from inside.
He swept past the tables where hundreds of his men were having their evening repast and headed toward the kitchens, trying to ignore his hunger pangs.
The man he was looking for was hard to miss: big, fat, taller than most, with waist-length black hair tied behind his head and his olive skin showing just a touch of Rosvelean ancestry. He stood in one corner of the kitchens, on his toes to be able to see into the highest row of ovens.
Mihali was, officially, Tamas’s chef. He and his cadre of assistants provided food of the highest caliber for Tamas’s entire army, and even for the city of Budwiel. The people loved Mihali; the men worshipped him.
Well, perhaps they should worship him.
He was Adom reborn, patron saint of Adro, and brother to the god Kresimir. Which made him a god in his own right.
Mihali turned to Tamas and waved across the myriad of assistants, flour going up in a cloud around him.
“Field Marshal,” the chef called. “Come over here.”
Tamas stifled the annoyance at being summoned like a common soldier and made his way through the tables of bread.
“Mihali —”
The god-chef cut him off. “Field Marshal, I’m so glad you’re here. I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you.”
Great importance? Tamas had never seen Mihali so distressed. He leaned forward. What could possibly worry a god? “What is it?”
“I can’t decide what to make for lunch tomorrow.”
“You git!” Tamas exclaimed, taking a step back. His heart thundered in his ears, as if he’d expected Mihali to announce that the world would end on the morrow.
Mihali didn’t seem to notice the insult. “I haven’t not known what to cook for decades. I normally have it all planned out but… I’m sorry, are you mad about something?”
“I’m trying to fight a war here, Mihali! The Kez are knocking at Budwiel’s front door.”
“And hunger is knocking at mine!”
Mihali seemed so out of sorts that Tamas forced himself to calm down. He put a hand on Mihali’s arm. “The men will love whatever you make.”
“I’d planned poached eggs with asparagus tips, filet of salmon, lamb chops glazed with honey, and a selection of fruit.”
“That’s three meals you just named there,” Tamas said.
“Three meals? Three meals? That’s four courses, barely enough for a proper lunch, and I did the same thing five days ago. What kind of a chef serves the same meal more than once a week?” Mihali tapped flour-covered fingers against his chin. “How could I have messed up? Maybe it’s a leap year.”
Tamas counted to ten silently to keep his temper contained – something he’d not done since Taniel was a boy. “Mihali, we’re going into battle the day after tomorrow. Will you help me?”
The god appeared nervous. “I’m not going to kill anyone, if that’s what you’re asking,” Mihali said.
“Can you do anything for us? We’re outnumbered ten to one out there.”
“What is your plan?”
“I’m going to take the Seventh and the Ninth through the catacombs and flank the Kez position. When they try to attack Budwiel, we’ll smash them against the gates and route them.”
“That sounds very military.”
“Mihali, please focus!”
Mihali finally stopped casting about the mess tent as if searching for tomorrow’s menu and gave Tamas a level stare. “Kresimir was a commander. Brude was a commander. I am a chef. But since you ask: The strategy sounds very high-risk with an equally high payoff. It suits you perfectly.”
“Can you do anything to help?” Tamas asked gently.
Mihali seemed to think on this. “I can make sure that your men remain unnoticed until the moment you charge.”
Tamas felt a wave of relief. “That would be perfect.” He waited for a few moments. “Mihali, you appear agitated.”
Mihali took Tamas by the elbow and pulled him into one corner of the tent. In a low voice, he said, “Kresimir is gone.”
“That’s right,” Tamas said. “Taniel killed him.”
“No, no. Kresimir is gone, but I didn’t feel him die.”
“But the whole of the Nine felt it. Privileged Borbador told me that every Knacked and Privileged in the world felt it when he died.”
“That wasn’t him dying,” Mihali said, waving the lump of bread dough still in one hand. “That was his counterstroke against Taniel for shooting him in the head.”
Tamas’s mouth was suddenly dry. “You mean Kresimir is still alive?” Privileged Borbador had warned Tamas that a god couldn’t be killed. Tamas had hoped that Borbador was wrong.
“I don’t know,” Mihali said, “and that’s what worries me. I’ve always been able to sense him, even when half the cosmos separated us.”
“Is he with the Kez army?” Tamas would have to cancel all his plans. Rethink every strategy. If Kresimir was with the Kez army, they might all be swept away.
“No, he’s not,” Mihali said. “I would know.”
“But you said that…”
“I assure you,” Mihali said. “I would know if he was that close. Besides, he wouldn’t risk an open confrontation between us.”
Tamas balled his fists. The uncertainties were the worst part of planning for a battle. It always put him on edge, knowing he couldn’t plan for everything, and this was a god-sized uncertainty. He’d have to go forward with his plans and hope that Mihali’s help in concealing the troops would be enough.
“Now,” Mihali said, “if we’re quite through with that, I need help with tomorrow’s menu.”
Tamas poked the god in the chest. “You are the chef,” he said. “I am the commander, and I have a battle to plan.”
He left the mess hall and was halfway to his command tent when he cursed himself for not snagging a bowl of Mihali’s squash soup.
Less than twenty-four hours after Ricard sent him looking for Taniel Two-Shot, Adamat found himself sitting back in Ricard’s office near the docks.
Ricard chewed on the end of a rough-cut pencil and stared across at Adamat. What little hair he had left stuck up from the top of his head like a wind-blown haystack, and Adamat wondered if he’d slept at all in the time between their meetings. At least he was wearing a different shirt and jacket. The room smelled of incense, burned paper, and foul meat. Adamat wondered if there was an uneaten sandwich beneath one of the stacks of records.
“You didn’t go home last night, did you?” Adamat asked.
“How could you tell?”
“Besides the fact that you look like the pit? You didn’t change your boots. I haven’t seen you wear the same pair of boots two days in a row since I met you.”
Ricard looked down at his feet. “You would notice that, wouldn’t you?” He wiped fatigue from his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve already found Two-Shot?”
Adamat held up a piece of paper. On it, he’d written the address of the mala den where he’d found the hero of the Adran army wallowing in his own self-pity. He held the note out to Ricard. When Ricard reached for it, he pulled it back at the last second, as if suddenly changing his mind.
“I read something interesting in the newspaper this morning,” Adamat said. When Ricard didn’t respond, he took the newspaper in question from under his arm and threw it on the desk. “‘Ricard Tumblar to Run for First Minister of the Republic of Adro,’” he said, reading the headline out loud.
“Oh,” Ricard said blan
dly. “That.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You seemed to have a lot on your plate.”
“And you’re vying to become leader of our new government. What the pit are you doing business down at the docks for?”
Ricard perked up. “I’ve built a new place. Moving into it tomorrow, actually. Still in the factory district, but it’ll be fantastic for entertaining dignitaries. Would you like to see it?”
“I’m a little busy now,” Adamat said. When Ricard’s face fell, he added, “Some other time, I’m sure.”
“You’ll like it. Gaudy. Grand. But stylish.”
Adamat snorted. Knowing Ricard, “gaudy” only began to describe it. He tossed the paper on Ricard’s desk. “Either you had less people looking for him than you made me believe, or your people are idiots.”
“I don’t recognize the address,” Ricard said, grinning so hard it made his cheeks red.
Adamat wasn’t in the mood for the enthusiasm. “After a battle, soldiers go straight for one of two things: either home or vice. Taniel Two-Shot is a career soldier, so I guessed vice. The quickest place to find that near the People’s Court is to head northwest into the Gurlish Quarter. He was in the sixth mala den I checked.”
“You got lucky,” Ricard said. “Admit it. He could have gone anywhere. You just looked in the Gurlish Quarter first.”
Adamat shrugged. Investigative work depended more on luck than he cared to admit, but he’d never tell that to a client. “Any chance you found the record for the address I gave you yesterday?”
Ricard sifted through the papers on his desk. A moment later he handed Adamat back Vetas’s card. It had a name and address written on it in pencil.
“Fell checked herself,” Ricard said. “The warehouse was bought by a tailor – of all things – two years ago. There are no records to indicate it had been sold after the tailor bought it, which means it didn’t fall into the hands of the union. Must have been purchased privately. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more to help.”
“This is a start,” Adamat said. He stood up and retrieved his hat and cane.
“You’ll be taking SouSmith with you, won’t you?” Ricard asked. “I don’t want you going after this Vetas alone.”
The Crimson Campaign Page 4