The Crimson Campaign

“You aren’t…” Adamat said, but Ricard was already racing out of his office. Adamat stood there for a moment, dumbfounded. Ricard shouted to his footmen and assistants, giving orders like a line commander. He was in full swing now, and he wouldn’t stop until he’d organized a defense of the city.

The office was suddenly quiet and cold, and Adamat looked around for a glass to pour himself some whiskey. Finding none, he took a sip from the bottle.

“Sir,” Fell said, breaking the silence.

“Hmm?”

She stood with her hands behind her back, chin up. “I never apologized, sir. I want to do that now.”

“For what?” Adamat felt his anger stir. He knew for what: for almost getting his wife killed. For not containing Lord Vetas like she said she would.

“Lord Vetas,” she said. “He got the best of me. I should have taken more men.”

Adamat fought down his anger, forced himself to remain calm. Another swig of whiskey helped. “He was good at what he did. He got the best of me far too many times.” As he said the words, he felt something shift in the back of his mind. He frowned.

“Sir?” Fell asked when he’d been silent for several moments.

He held up a hand for quiet. He needed to think. Vetas had gotten the better of him on many occasions. All evidence said that he was a genius planner with no heart for remorse and no hesitation considering lives lost.

“Is he dead?” Adamat asked.

“Vetas? Yes. He died two weeks ago. Bo got rid of the body.”

“And where is Bo?”

“He’s disappeared,” Fell said. “Ricard even offered him a job, but he wouldn’t take it.”

Adamat smoothed the front of his jacket. He’d told Bo about his reservations over Vetas. That perhaps Vetas hadn’t told them the entire truth, or even led them astray. He even…

“Damn!” Adamat said. “Vetas. He knew everything. He got the better of us one last time. Not even Bo could get it out of him.”

“How do you know?” Fell asked.

“The pier.” Adamat shook his head. She wouldn’t know what he was talking about. “I asked Vetas for a way to track down my boy, and he sent me to the slavers that Josep was sold to. He told me who to ask for, and the passwords to use. But he gave me the wrong password! The slavers attacked me. I barely got out with my life, and I was so intent on getting Josep back that it didn’t occur to me until now.”

Adamat slumped against the wall. There was nothing he could do about it now. Vetas was dead. There’d be no reckoning, no confrontation. What little advantage Adamat thought they may have gained over Claremonte was gone — if that wasn’t made apparent enough by Claremonte’s sailing his fleet over the Charwood Pile Mountains.

“What information did you get from Vetas?” Adamat asked.

Fell frowned. “Reports. His master’s plans.”

“What plans?”

“Campaign plans for the ministerial election. His platform for reformation within the city.”

“They’re all trash,” Adamat said.

“But there was good information there. We found other hideouts. More of his men in the city.”

“He wants us to think we have some kind of advantage. We don’t. Everything we learned from Vetas is suspect.”

Adamat took his hat from the peg beside the door and gathered his cane. He felt so very tired.

“What are you doing?” Fell asked.

Their only hope was Ricard’s ability to rouse the city. Otherwise it would be in Claremonte’s hands by tomorrow night.

“Going home. I’m going home to my wife. I’ll see you at the north gate of the city tomorrow morning.”

CHAPTER 38

Midway Keep was a historical monument, a castle of vanity built not for comfort or even defense but to look imposing. Its walls were tall but easily scaled, the indefensible number of entrances brimming with fortifications. The keep towered over the Addown River and menaced the main highway. To the peasants it may have been breathtaking.

To anyone skilled in warfare it was a joke.

It had been built some three hundred years ago by a juvenile king who considered himself an architect. To Taniel, it seemed the perfect place to house a mad god.

Taniel watched the keep from the shadow of a sprawling oak standing solitary in the middle of the Kez army. He could hear the soft sounds of a snoring infantryman nearby. Otherwise, the night was still.

He checked that last thought when he realized he could also hear Field Marshal Goutlit’s unsteady, terrified breaths. The Kez officer crouched beside him, still smelling faintly of piss, and fidgeted with the collar of his jacket. Taniel watched him out of the corner of his eye. A wrong move here, a suspicious noise, and Taniel was a dead man.

Of course, he’d be sure to take Goutlit with him.

“Where’s the servants’ entrance?” Taniel whispered.

“I don’t know.”

Taniel drew his belt knife.

“I, uh, think it’s over there. To the right.”

Taniel pushed the knife back in its sheath. “Is it guarded?”

Goutlit swallowed hard and eyed Taniel, as if afraid to say he didn’t know.