“We must attack, sir,” said a major whose name Tamas couldn’t recall.
Tamas whirled to his officers when he heard mutters of agreement.
“It’s suicide,” he said. His voice cracked. “Budwiel is lost.”
“We could salvage the day,” another voice said.
Tamas ground his teeth. He agreed with them. By god, he agreed with them. “Perhaps,” he said. “Maybe we would be able to rout the tail end of the Kez army. We could destroy the reserves and set fire to the Kez camp. But then we’d be caught out on the empty plain, easily surrounded, and cut off from reinforcement.”
Silence. These officers were brave, but they weren’t fools. They could see he was right.
“Then what do we do?”
Tamas heard a boom echo out from Budwiel. Smoke and dust erupted from the base of the West Pillar. He yelled for a scout to check the tunnels, but already knew what had happened. The catacombs. Someone had set off an explosion inside of them, cutting off Tamas’s entry back into Budwiel.
“I’ve been betrayed again,” he whispered. More loudly, “We keep our backs to the mountain.” He tried to think of the closest Mountainwatch pass into Adro. It would be a nightmare to move ten thousand men over any of the passes. “We march toward the pass at Alvation. Tell your men.”
General Cethal of the Ninth Brigade caught Tamas’s arm.
“Alvation?” he asked. “That will take over a month of hard marching.”
“Maybe two,” Tamas said. “And we’ll be pursued.” He eyed Budwiel. Smoke rose from the city. “We have no choice.”
His stomach turned. Many of his men had family in the city, camp followers of the army. The Kez would put the city to the torch. The same fear techniques they’d used in Gurla. His men would hate him for marching away while the city burned, but it was their only hope for survival. He swore to get them back to Adro – to deliver them their vengeance.
CHAPTER
8
Adamat waited just a few shops down from the tailor’s. He sat on a stoop, a newspaper in his hands. His disguise today was younger, with black hair neatly greased to one side of his head in the latest style of coffee shop owners. He wore pressed brown trousers and a dress shirt with cuffs rolled up to his elbows. A matching brown jacket lay across his knee. Before he’d left that morning a quick application of Dortmoth whale ointment had given his skin a youthful glow. A false black mustache and tinted spectacles hid his face.
Adamat watched over the top of his newspaper as traffic moved through the street between shops and cafés. For two days he’d watched Haime’s shop. It was nearly three o’clock on the third day and he had yet to lay eyes on Lord Vetas.
His position gave him the perfect view of Haime’s shop. He could see not only the exit and approach clearly but through the front window and nearly everything that went on inside as well. Men came and went from the shop. There were very few women. At around two thirty a trio of big, hard-looking men entered the shop. Adamat was sure they were Vetas’s goons, but when they exited just a few minutes later, he could still see Vetas’s jacket still hanging on the mannequin.
Adamat half read the articles in the newspaper. The standoff in Budwiel continued, though since the news was three or four days old, anything could have happened.
The paper reported that a sudden loss of income had caused Lady Winceslav to disband two of the eight brigades of the Wings of Adom. That could only bode ill for the war effort. Four more brigades held position north of Budwiel, while the last two stood guard at the smoldering remains of South Pike, should the Kez army try a crossing of the volcanic wasteland.
As Adamat began to read through a story on the effect of the war on Adran economics, the movement of Haime’s door across the street caught his eye. He looked up in time to see a dress disappear through the door. A moment later a woman appeared in the window and began to speak with Haime.
She was a young woman with auburn curls. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen and, though young, she wouldn’t be mistaken for a mere girl. She had a confident bearing with a straight back and raised chin, and the red evening dress she wore looked tailored for her figure.
Haime turned to Vetas’s jacket and gestured. He waved his hand up and down the jacket and then motioned to the bottom corner, where Adamat had noticed the repaired rip. The woman nodded and Haime took the jacket down and wrapped it carefully in tissue paper.
The woman emerged a moment later with a brown box under her arm. She looked both ways, and Adamat resisted the urge to duck behind his newspaper. Look casual, he reminded himself. He didn’t know her face. She most certainly did not know his.
She headed west down the street. Adamat climbed to his feet, folding the newspaper and tucking it under his arm, and picking up his cane.
He followed her at a respectable distance. The key to trailing someone was to stay far enough back not to be noticed but close enough that he wouldn’t lose her if she deviated from her course suddenly. It helped to know whether she suspected that she was being followed. Adamat thought not, but one could never be too careful.
Adamat expected her to take a carriage within a block or two. She was dressed like a lady in that evening dress, and her heeled boots were not meant for long walks. But she stayed in the street and veered northwest, picking her way along slowly. She stopped by a street vendor’s stall once to purchase a fruit tart, then continued on her way.
She turned down a quiet street in the Routs. It was a wealthy part of town, predominantly known for the banking district at its center. The street itself had less foot traffic, which worried Adamat. At some point he would become noticeable, and that would be the last thing he wanted.
He fell back another forty feet before turning onto the same street. He was just in time to see the woman disappear into a large three-story townhouse.
The house had a broad front that came all the way up to the street. The walls were white brick, and the shutters blue. It was quite large, of the type built to house several families of the growing middle class. If it involved anyone else but Vetas, Adamat would have passed the house by as being too out in the open and ordinary.
As it was, he wondered if perhaps he’d made a mistake. Maybe the jacket did not belong to Vetas. Maybe he’d been watching the wrong jacket through the window of Haime’s shop. Perhaps the woman had noticed him following her and had come here to give him the slip.
Adamat cursed under his breath. There were too many variables.
He walked down the street at a slow pace, taking long, casual steps as if admiring the houses. He drew close to the house and made a mental note as to the number and street name, and let his eyes wander past each of the windows. Surely, Vetas would have a man keeping watch if this was his headquarters.
Nothing. Adamat tried not to dwell on disappointment, but there was absolutely nothing to mark this house as belonging to Vetas. He would have to check the property records.
Just as Adamat was passing by the last window, he caught sight of a face. It was a boy of six, watching as the traffic passed his home. He waved to Adamat.
Adamat waved back.
No. This couldn’t be Lord Vetas’s house. What use could he possibly have for a small boy?
Unless Lord Vetas had a son. That seemed unlikely. The boy shared nothing of Vetas’s facial structure. A ward? No. Vetas was a spy for Lord Claremonte. He wouldn’t keep a ward. Perhaps another hostage? That did seem a possibility.
Adamat continued down the street. He’d take the next carriage and come back and stake out the house. It was his only lead at this point.
He climbed into a carriage and took his seat, only to find someone else climb in behind him. It was a street sweeper, his face and clothes grimy from a long day at work in the sun.
“Pardon me,” Adamat started to say, when he saw the pistol in the street sweeper’s hand.
He felt a cold bead of sweat trickle down the small of his back.
“What’s th
is all about?” Adamat said.
“Your pocketbook,” the man said, his voice a growl.
Relief swept over Adamat. A mugging. That’s all this was. Not one of Vetas’s men, having recognized him going past. Adamat slowly removed his pocketbook from his vest and handed it to the thief. It wouldn’t do the man much good. Only fifty krana in banknotes inside. No checks or identification.
The man flipped through the pocketbook with one hand, sure to keep the pistol on Adamat. A few moments and the man would exit the carriage and disappear into the afternoon crowds.
But then, this was the Routs. Who had the stones to pull a mugging on a residential street in the Routs in the middle of the afternoon? Adamat opened his mouth.
That’s when he recognized the child in the window.
That boy was the son of Duke Eldaminse. The royalists had fought a small war with Tamas in the city center with the goal of putting him on the throne after Manhouch’s execution. Adamat remembered the boy from a job he did for the Eldaminse family almost a year ago.
The thief looked up at Adamat. “Not good enough,” he said.
“What?”
The thief flipped the pistol around in his hand, and the last thing Adamat saw was the butt of the weapon coming at his face.
When Taniel awoke, Fell was sitting next to his hammock.
They were back in Kin’s mala den. Smoke curled through the air, but it wasn’t mala. Cherry tobacco, by the smell. He could see Fell out of the corner of his eye, a short-stemmed pipe hanging from the corner of her mouth.
A woman smoking a pipe. Not something Taniel had seen often. Most of the women he knew preferred Fatrastan cigarettes.
The union undersecretary was a handsome woman. Far too severe for Taniel. With her hair back and thin face she reminded him of a governess he’d once had. He watched her for several moments through half-closed eyes, wondering what she was thinking. She didn’t seem to notice that Taniel was awake. She was staring across the room. Taniel shifted in his hammock to see what Fell was looking at.
Ka-poel. Of course. She sat next to the stairs, forming a wax figurine with her fingers. Her satchel sat on her lap. She glanced up at the undersecretary every so often. She was making a doll. Of Fell.
Taniel wondered if the undersecretary seemed enough of a threat to her to warrant a doll, or if she had just started making one for every person they met. She was going to run out of room in her satchel if the latter proved to be the case.
The last four days were a blur. Taniel reached into his memory, but the only thing he found was mala smoke and the ceiling of Kin’s mala den. Before that…
Ricard Tumblar wanted Taniel to run for the First Ministry with him.
That meant politics.
Taniel hated politics. He had witnessed firsthand the power grabs of the mercantile elite in Fatrasta as their war for independence marched toward success; the backstabbing, the conniving. Ricard claimed that none of that was to happen. Ricard claimed that these would be elections, open and fair to the public; that the government would be chosen by the people.
Ricard, like most politicians, couldn’t be trusted.
But that didn’t seem enough for a four-day mala binge. Why would Taniel come back to this hole and —
Oh yes. Ricard had mentioned something about informing Field Marshal Tamas that Taniel was awake and doing well. Ricard, no matter what Taniel had said, did not seem to understand that Tamas would demand Taniel’s immediate presence on the front lines.
That was a good thing, Taniel tried to tell himself. He was useful. He could get back there and help defend his country.
By killing. The one thing Taniel seemed to be any good at. Pit, he’d even killed a god. Not that anyone believed it.
He shifted in his hammock, reaching for his mala pipe and the enormous ball of the sticky substance Kin had left him.
The mala was gone.
“Awake?” Fell said, her attention leaving Ka-poel.
Taniel pushed himself up. He checked his coat pocket – he still had a coat, that was good – then his trousers and the lip of the hammock.
“What are you looking for?” Fell asked. By her expression, she knew exactly what Taniel was looking for.
“Where’s my mala?”
“From what Kin said, you smoked it all. You ran out sometime last night.” Fell tossed something into her mouth and crunched. “Cashews?” she asked, holding out a paper bag made from an old newspaper toward Taniel.
Taniel shook his head. He checked the mala pipe. Nothing left. Then the floor. “That thieving Gurlish must have taken the rest of the ball. I got enough to last me weeks.”
“I know the rate you were smoking that stuff,” Fell said. “I don’t think Kin gypped you. He knows where the money came from.”
Taniel frowned. Where had the money come from? He looked up at Fell. Ah, that’s right. Ricard.
“You know,” Fell said, “Ricard’s mala den has much better quality mala. The mats are silk, and the entertainment is better than Kin’s daughter.”
Taniel felt his stomach lurch. He fell back into his hammock. Kin’s daughter. Taniel didn’t remember anything. “Did I…?”
Fell shrugged and looked to Ka-poel. Ka-poel gave a slight shake of her head.
Taniel let out a small sigh. The last thing he needed to do right now was bed a Gurlish mala-den owner’s daughter.
“What do you want?” he asked Fell.
Fell tapped her pipe out on her shoe and put it in her pocket, then tossed more cashews into her mouth. “We got word from your father today.”
Taniel sat up straight. “And?”
“A few things of note to report. The Kez were preparing to attack the next day. That would be three days ago. He was planning on leading a counteroffensive with his best men.”
“How many Kez soldiers?”
“Rumors say a million. Tamas didn’t say.”
His best soldiers meant the Seventh and Ninth brigades. And rumors of a million? That was twice the size of the army at the Battle of Shouldercrown. Even if it were exaggerated ten times, Tamas was still leading ten thousand men against a hundred thousand. Bloody brash fool.
It somehow made it worse that Tamas would probably win.
“Oh,” Fell added, as if as an afterthought. “He asked after you.”
Taniel sniffed. “‘Where’s my damned useless son? I need him on the line.’ Something like that?”
“He asked if you’d made any recovery and if the doctors thought his presence would help in any way.”
“Now I know you’re lying,” Taniel said. “Tamas wouldn’t leave a battlefield for anyone.” Not even me. Especially not me.
“He’s been very worried. We sent word that you seemed better, but who knows if it reached him before the battle.” Fell reached into her paper bag for another cashew, a small smile on her lips.
“But you didn’t tell him I’m awake?”
“No. Ricard thought that perhaps you’d like some time to recover.”
So Taniel’s entreaties to keep his father in the dark had done some good.
“More like he’s worried that Tamas will send for me the minute he knows I’m not laid out.”
“That too,” Fell admitted.
“Of course.” Taniel fell back into his hammock and sighed. He felt tired and used. What was he, other than a tool for others? “That old bastard Tamas —”
He was cut off by the sound of a door upstairs banging open. The stairs into the den shook, and a young man burst into the room. Fell got to her feet.
“What is it?” she said.
The messenger looked around wildly at the den. His chest heaved from hard running. “Ricard wants you at the People’s Court immediately.”
Fell crumpled up the empty cashew bag and tossed it to the floor. “What has happened?”
The messenger looked at Taniel, then at Ka-poel, and back to Fell. He seemed on the verge of collapse.
“We’ve word from Budwiel. The c
ity has fallen, put to the torch. Field Marshal Tamas is dead.”
Nila sat beside the window, the curtains only slightly parted, and watched the world stroll by in top hats and coats, canes clicking on the cobbles, women tipping their bonnets back to enjoy the sun on their faces. The summer heat bore down on Adro, but no one seemed to notice. The weather was far too nice to care.
She wished she was out there enjoying it. Her room was too stuffy, and Vetas’s men had nailed shut all the windows in the house. The air was thick and humid, stifling, and moment to moment she felt as if she was going to faint. Vetas had sent her on errands just yesterday, and the freedom of the sun on her face had felt so wonderful she’d almost left the city, forgetting Vetas and Jakob and all the terrible memories of the last few months.
Her heart leapt into her throat at the sound of the bedroom door opening, but she forced herself not to react outwardly. It wasn’t Vetas. He came in from the hallway. Not from the door to the nursery, where Jakob played quietly with a small army of wooden horses and complained frequently about the warmth.
“Nila,” a voice said. “You must get dressed.”
Nila glanced at the dress laid out on her bed. One of Vetas’s goons had brought it up for her an hour ago. It was a long chemise dress of white muslin with a high waistline. The trim was crimson, giving it a flair of color at the hem and the bust, and the ends of the short sleeves. It looked incredibly comfortable, and much cooler than the evening dress he’d told her to wear during her errands yesterday.
There was a silver chain on her bedside table with a single pearl the size of a musket ball, and in a box a pair of new black knee-high boots that she could tell with a glance would fit her perfectly. Three more outfits, each more expensive than the last, hung in the closet.
Presents from Lord Vetas. She’d never owned such fine clothing. The dress was plain enough, nothing gaudy, but the lines were absolutely perfect. A glance inside the hem had shown her the initials D.H. – Madame Dellehart, the finest seamstress in Adopest. The dress cost more than any regular laundress would earn in a year.
The Crimson Campaign Page 8