A man crossed the marble floor toward them. He wore a white smoking jacket, a cigar clenched between his teeth. He looked to be about forty years old, with a hairline receding well past the middle of his head. He wore a long beard in the Fatrastan style, and the grin on his face reached his ears and even touched his eyes.
“Taniel Two-Shot,” the man said, holding out his hand. “Ricard Tumblar. I’m a great admirer of yours.”
Taniel took his hand with hesitation.
“Mr. Tumblar.”
“Mister? Bah, call me Ricard. I’m at your service. And this must be your ever-present companion. The Dynize. My lady?” Ricard swept into a deep bow and took Ka-poel’s hand in his, bending to kiss it gently. Despite his forward nature, he eyed her as one might something pretty but far from tame, something that might bite at any moment.
Ka-poel didn’t seem to know how to react to this.
“I’d heard you were a handsome woman,” Ricard said, “but the stories didn’t do you justice.” He broke away from them and crossed to the bar. “Drink?”
“What do you have?” Taniel felt his mood brighten a little.
“Anything,” Ricard said.
Taniel doubted that. “Fatrastan ale, then.”
Ricard nodded to the barman. “Two, please. For the lady?”
Ka-poel flashed three fingers.
“Make that three,” Ricard said to the barman. A moment later, he handed Taniel a mug.
“Son of a bitch,” Taniel said after a sip. “You really do have Fatrastan ale.”
“I did say anything. Can we take a seat?”
He led them toward the far end of the room. Taniel blamed his mala-addled mind for not noticing earlier that they weren’t alone. A dozen men and half again as many women lounged on divans, drinking and smoking, talking quietly among themselves.
Ricard spoke as they approached the group. “Oh, I had a question for you, Taniel. How much black powder does the army use?”
Taniel rubbed his eyes. His head hurt, and he didn’t come here to meet Ricard’s cronies. “Quite a lot, I’d imagine. I’m not a quartermaster. Why do you ask?”
“Been getting more and more powder orders from the General Staff,” Ricard said, waving his hand like it was a trifle. “I just thought it strange. It almost seems as if their requisitions double every week. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure.”
The talking died down when Taniel reached the group at the end of the room, and he felt suddenly uncomfortable.
“I thought this was going to be a private meeting,” Taniel said quietly, stopping Ricard with a hand to his arm.
Ricard didn’t even glance down at the hand Taniel laid on him. “Give me a moment to make introductions and we’ll get down to business.”
He went around the room, giving names that Taniel immediately forgot, and titles that Taniel took no great note of. These men and women were the heads of the various factions within the unions: bakers, steelworkers, millers, ironsmiths, blacksmiths, and goldsmiths.
True to his word, when the introductions were finished, Ricard led them toward a quiet corner of the vast room, where they were joined by just one other woman. She was one of the first Ricard had introduced, and Taniel couldn’t remember her name.
“Cigarette?” Ricard offered as they took their seats. A man in a jacket matching the barman’s brought them a silver tray lined with cigarettes, cigars, and pipes. Taniel noticed a mala pipe among the recreation. His fingers twitched to take it, but he fought down the urge and waved away the servant.
“Your secretary said you wanted to meet with me,” Taniel said, realizing with a start that Fell had disappeared. “She didn’t say why. I’d like to know.”
“I have a proposition.”
Taniel looked at the woman again. She was older, with an air of disdain particular to the very wealthy. What was her name? And who did she represent? The bakers? No. Goldsmiths?
“I’m not interested,” Taniel said.
“I haven’t even told you what it is,” Ricard said.
“Look,” Taniel said. “I came because your undersecretary made it clear that she’d make me come even if I didn’t want to. I’ve been polite. I’ve come. Now I’d like to go.” He stood.
“Is this what you brought me here for, Ricard?” the woman said, looking down her nose at Taniel. “To see a mala-drunk soldier piss on your hospitality? I fear for this country, Ricard. We’ve handed it over to the uneducated soldiers. They don’t know anything but vice and killing.”
Taniel clenched his fists and felt his lip curl. “You don’t know me, madam. You don’t know who the pit I am or what I’ve seen. Don’t pretend to understand soldiers when you’ve never looked into another man’s eyes and seen that one of you would die.”
Ricard leaned back on his divan and relit his cigar with a matchstick. He had the air of a man at the boxing ring. Had he expected this?
The woman fairly bristled. “I know soldiers,” she said. “Sick, stupid brutes. You rape and steal, and you kill when you can’t do that. I’ve known many soldiers and I don’t have to kill a man to know you’re nothing more than a churlish brigand in a uniform.”
Ricard sighed. “Please, Cheris, not now.”
“Not now?” Cheris asked. “If not now, then when? I’ve had enough of Tamas’s iron grip on the city. I didn’t want you to bring this so-called war hero here.”
Taniel turned to go.
“Taniel,” Ricard said. “Give me just a few more moments.”
“Not with her here,” Taniel said. He headed toward the door, only to find his way blocked by Ka-poel. “I’m leaving, Pole.”
She returned his grimace with a cool-eyed shake of the head.
“Look at that!” Cheris said behind him. “The coward flees back to his mala den. He can’t face truth. And you want this man at your side, Ricard? He’s led around by a savage girl.”
Taniel whirled. He’d had enough. His rage piqued, he advanced toward Cheris, one hand held in the air.
“Strike me!” she said, leaning forward to offer a cheek. “It’ll show how much of a man you are.”
Taniel froze. Had he just been ready to hit her? “I killed a god,” he fumed. “I put a bullet through his eye and watched him die to save this country!”
“Lies,” Cheris said. “You lie to me to my face? You think I believe this tripe about Kresimir returning?”
Taniel would have let his hand fly right then if Ka-poel hadn’t slipped around him. She faced Cheris, eyes narrowed. Taniel suddenly felt fear. As much as he wanted to hurt this woman, he knew what Ka-poel was capable of.
“Pole,” he said.
“Out of my face, you savage whore,” Cheris said, getting to her feet.
Ka-poel’s fist connected with her nose hard enough to send Cheris tumbling over the back of the divan. Cheris screamed. Ricard shot to his feet. The group of union bosses still speaking quietly on the other side of the room fell silent, and stared, shocked, toward them.
Cheris climbed to her feet, pushing away Ricard’s attempt to help. Without a look back, she fled the room, blood streaming from her nose.
Ricard turned to Taniel, his expression caught somewhere between horror and amusement.
“I won’t apologize,” Taniel said. “Neither for me nor for Pole.” Ka-poel took a place at his side, arms crossed.
“She was my guest,” Ricard said. He paused, examined his cigar. “More ale,” he called to the barkeep. “But you are my guests as well. She’s going to make me pay for that later. I’d hoped she would be an ally in the coming months, but it appears that is not the case.”
Taniel looked to Ricard, then to the main door, where Cheris was demanding her coachman.
“I should go,” Taniel said.
“No, no. Ale!” Ricard shouted again, though Taniel could see the barkeep heading toward them. “You’re more important than she is.”
Taniel slowly lowered himself back into his seat. “I killed Kresimir,” he said. Part
of him wanted to be proud of it, but saying it aloud made him feel ill.
“That’s what Tamas told me,” Ricard said.
“You don’t believe me.”
The barkeep arrived and changed Taniel’s mug for another one, though he’d only finished half. New mugs all around and the man disappeared. Ricard drank deeply of his before he began to speak.
“I’m a practical man,” Ricard said. “I know that sorcery exists, though I am not a Privileged or a Knacked or a Marked. Two months ago, if you’d told me that Kresimir would return, I would have wondered what asylum you’d escaped from.
“But I was there when the Barbers tried to kill Mihali. I saw your father – a man twice as pragmatic as I – go ghost white. He felt something from the chef and —”
“I’m sorry,” Taniel interrupted. “Mihali?”
Ricard tapped the ash from the end of his cigar. “Oh. You’re very much out of the loop, aren’t you? Mihali is Adom reborn. Kresimir’s brother, here in the flesh.”
Taniel felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Another god? Kresimir’s own brother?
“What I’m trying to get at,” Ricard went on, “is that your father believes that Mihali is Adom reborn. And if Adom has returned, why not Kresimir? So, yes. I believe you shot Kresimir. Is it possible to kill a god? I don’t know.”
He scowled into his mug. “As for the newspapers and the people, they are skeptical. Rumors fly. People are taking sides. Right now it all comes down to a matter of faith, and we have only your word and the word of a few Mountainwatchers that Kresimir returned and took a bullet in the eye.”
Taniel felt his strength leave him. To be thought a fraud after all he went through? It was the final blow. He pointed to the door. “How do they explain South Pike? The entire mountain collapsed.” He heard his voice rise with anger.
“You won’t change anyone’s mind by shouting,” Ricard said. “Believe me. I’m the head of the union. I’ve tried.”
“Then what can I do?”
“Convince them. Show them what kind of a man you are and then, only when they trust you, tell them the truth.”
“That seems… dishonest.”
Ricard spread his hands. “That’s up to your own moral judgment. But me, I think a man who sees it like that is a fool.”
Taniel clenched his fists. How could they not believe him? How could they not know what happened up there? Hadn’t Tamas told the newspapers? Did even Tamas not believe what had happened? Taniel didn’t know where Tamas was. Budwiel, according to the soldiers who had been watching him when he awoke. Was Tamas even still there?
“Do you know where Bo is?” Taniel asked.
“Bo?”
“Privileged Borbador. Is he still alive?”
Ricard spread his hands. “I can’t help you.”
“You’re not much good, Tumblar, are you?” Taniel wanted to punch something. He leapt to his feet and stalked back and forth the length of the room. No friends. No family. What could he do now? “Who was that woman?” he asked.
“Cheris? The head of the bankers’ union.”
“I thought you were the head of the union.”
“The Noble Warriors of Labor has many subdivisions. I speak for the group as a whole, but each trade has their own union boss.”
“You said I was more important than her.”
Ricard nodded. “I did.”
“How so?”
“How much do you know about politics in Adro?” Ricard countered with his own question.
“The power used to be with the king. Now?” Taniel shrugged. “No idea.”
“No one knows where the power is now,” Ricard said. “The people assume it’s with Tamas. Tamas thinks it’s with his council when in fact the council is all but fractured. Lady Winceslav is in seclusion after her scandal with a traitorous brigadier, the Arch Diocel has been arrested, and Prime Lektor is in the east, studying the remains of South Pike for some sign of the god Kresimir.”
“So who is running Adro?”
Ricard chuckled. “That leaves myself, the Proprietor, and Ondraus the Reeve. Not exactly a noble group. The truth is, Adro is doing fine for now. Tamas and his men keep the peace. But that will only last so long. We need to continue with our plans. Since the beginning of all this, the council decided that as soon as Manhouch was out of the way, we’d set up a democracy: a system of government that was voted upon by the people. The country would be divided into principalities, each with its own elected governor, and those men would meet in Adro and vote upon policy for the country.”
“Much like a ministry without the king at the head.”
“Indeed,” Ricard said. “Of course there must be someone to stand as the king.”
Taniel narrowed his eyes. “I can’t imagine Tamas taking that well.”
“We won’t call him a king, of course. And he would have little real power. He would serve as a figurehead. A single man the country can look to for leadership and guidance, even if the policy is determined by the governors – we are going to call him the First Minister of the People.”
“I remember Tamas striking down an idea just like this that the royalists presented him with.”
“Tamas approved this,” Ricard said. “Believe me. None of us on the council has any interest in crossing him, especially not in such a public way. The key is that, like the governors, this new First Minister of the People will be replaced every three years. We’ve set the mechanism in place. It just needs to be carried out.”
Taniel could easily tell where this was going. “And you intend to put yourself forward as a candidate.”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
Ricard sucked hard on his cigar and let the smoke curl out through his nostrils. It reminded Taniel of the smoke of his mala pipe. He could feel the lure of that blissful smoke pulling at him.
“The First Minister of the People will have little power of his own, but he’ll have the eyes of all the Nine directed at him. His name will go down in the history books forever.” Ricard sighed. “I don’t have any children. I’ve been left by” – he stopped to count – “six wives, and deserved it every time. All I have left is my name. And I want it taught to every Adran schoolchild for the rest of time.”
Taniel drained the last of his ale. The dregs of the hops at the bottom of the glass were bitter. It reminded him of Fatrasta, of hunting down Kez Privileged in the wilds. “Where do I fit into all of this? I’m just a soldier who killed a god that no one believes even returned.”
“You?” Ricard threw his head back and laughed. Taniel didn’t see what was so funny.
“I’m sorry,” Ricard said as he wiped his eyes. “You’re Taniel Two-Shot! You’re the hero of two continents. A soldier who’s killed more Privileged than any man in the history of the Nine. The way the newspapers tell it, you held Shouldercrown Fortress against half a million Kez all by yourself.”
“Wasn’t just me,” Taniel muttered, thinking of the men and women he’d watched die on that mountain.
“But the common people think so. They adore you. They love you more than they love Tamas, and he’s been the darling of Adro since he single-handedly saved the Gurlish Campaign decades ago.”
“So what do you want from me? A sponsorship?”
“Pit, no,” Ricard said, passing his empty ale mug to the barkeep. “I want you to be my Second Minister. You’ll be one of the most famous men in the world.”
CHAPTER
7
In northeastern Adopest there was a small section of the Samalian District that hadn’t been burned when Field Marshal Tamas allowed the pillage of the nobility’s property after Manhouch’s execution. It was a commercial area, filled with goods and service shops that catered to the nobility. Rumor had it that during the riots the owners of these shops set up their own barricades and held off the rioters themselves.
Now, five months after the riots, the former emporium of the rich had been transformed into a mark
etplace for the middle class. Prices had been lowered, but not quality, and people traveled halfway across the city to wait in line for cobblers, tailors, bakers, and jewelers.
Adamat came early in the morning, before the larger crowds arrived, and found the tailor who had purchased Vetas’s warehouse. Adamat sat down in a small café across the street from the tailor’s and ordered breakfast, keeping an eye out for expected company. It wasn’t long until he spotted it.
Adamat rose from his seat and crossed the street. He discreetly sidled up beside SouSmith and said, “Were you followed?”
To his credit, SouSmith barely started. “Bloody pit,” SouSmith said. “Didn’t recognize ya.”
“That’s the idea.” Adamat had dyed his hair gray. A dry dusting of powder on his face made his skin appear cracked, making him look twenty years older, and he affected a limp. He leaned heavily on a new, silver-headed cane. His jacket and pants were the finest money could by – he’d had to call in favors just to procure them. But he needed to look the part of a wealthy gentleman.
SouSmith shook his head. “Wasn’t followed,” he said. “Been staying low.”
“Good,” Adamat said. “How do you feel?”
“Like pit. Bloody healing Knacked.”
Despite what he said, SouSmith looked better. Just five weeks ago he’d been shot twice and stabbed, and had barely made it through alive. It would have been a long recovery without Ricard’s largesse.
“Go to that café over there,” Adamat said, “and get breakfast. Take a seat facing that store there.” He indicated the tailor’s shop. “I’m going in to make some inquiries.”
As much as he wanted SouSmith to come inside the tailor shop with him in case it was merely a front for Vetas and Vetas had men stationed inside, SouSmith was too memorable of a man, and there was no disguising a boxer of his size. No sense in bringing him in until needed.
Adamat crossed the street and entered the shop. A quick perusal told him that this tailor specialized in high-end jackets. Mannequins were placed around the edges of the room, wearing everything from smoking and evening jackets to the kind a duke might wear to a ball. The shop smelled strongly of peppermint oil that the owner used to mask the scent of stored cloth.
The Crimson Campaign Page 6