The Crimson Campaign

“Can you trust her? What’s to stop her from killing you and taking control of the union, if she’s so smart.”

Ricard said, “Loyalty. For the next thirty years of her life she belongs to me. It’s the price of schooling at the Fontain Academy. And reputation. If she were to turn on me in some way, the academy would kill her themselves.”

Adamat smoothed the front of his coat again. This was all too much. “That reminds me,” Adamat said. “I need to borrow money.”

“You still owe Palagyi money?” Ricard said, seemingly relieved to steer the conversation away from Fell. “I’m glad you finally got some sense into you. What the pit was that all about, refusing to let me pay him?”

“Palagyi is dead. And no, not that. I need fifty thousand krana. Now. In banknotes.”

Ricard blinked at him. “Fifty? I can write a check for fifty. I’d do it in a heartbeat for you.”

“It needs to be cash.”

“Can’t do it. No bank in Adro would let me take out fifty thousand all at once. I could have it for you in a couple of weeks.”

“That’s too long,” Adamat said. He rubbed his eyes. Ricard was his only hope of getting the money to pay Colonel Verundish to release Bo. How could he himself possibly come up with that sum in a week?

Well, perhaps Ricard wasn’t the only hope.

“You smell like the southbound end of a northbound ass,” Gavril said.

Tamas sat and watched his charger nibble on a bit of dry grass beside the road. The column had stopped for a short rest, and he was up near the vanguard.

In the distance Tamas could hear the crack of rifles. Another Kez scouting party close enough to engage. The Kez had been dogging their heels ever since Tamas’s meeting with General Beon. Their dragoons stayed close, traveling in groups of ten or twenty, flanking the rear guard and causing whatever mayhem they could.

Tamas was weary of it. He’d set a dozen traps, killed hundreds of Kez dragoons, but his men couldn’t even stop to scavenge or they risked finding themselves flanked by more than just a few squads.

Gavril sniffed at the wind, as if to punctuate his previous statement.

Tamas looked down at his uniform. The dark blue didn’t show stains badly, but the silver-and-gold trim had seen better days, and the linen shirt beneath the jacket was yellowed from sweat, the cuffs stained dark from powder burns and dirt. A thin crust of dirt covered his face and hands like a second skin, and he didn’t dare imagine how his feet might smell once he peeled off his boots.

“I smell fine,” he told his brother-in-law.

“First rule of bathing,” Gavril said. “If you can’t smell yourself anymore, it’s time to wash. We’re stopped for lunch. The last of the horsemeat is gone, so the least we can do is give the men an hour of rest. Follow that stream back there up a few hundred yards and there’s a waterfall. Might give you some privacy.”

“Are you going to give me your report?”

“After you bathe.”

Tamas examined Gavril for a few moments. He was a different man from the one Tamas had met so many years ago. Jakola of Pensbrook had been a svelte, dashing character with a clean-shaven chin and broad shoulders. Gavril had gained a lot of weight during his time at the Mountainwatch. He carried it well, but Gavril would still be here long after the rest of them had starved to death.

The morbid thought gave Tamas a chuckle.

“I’m serious,” Gavril said.

Tamas climbed to his feet. It couldn’t be helped. A sudden boyish impulse struck him and he flipped Gavril a rude gesture before heading down the column. Men lay about the road, their uniforms soaked with sweat. No one saluted him. Tamas didn’t make an issue of it. A ways down the resting column, two men broke out in a fistfight. Their sergeant broke it up quickly. People were growing hungry again, and tensions would only get higher.

He found the stream where a few dozen soldiers had stripped to nothing, washing themselves in the cold mountain water. Tamas passed them and headed upstream.

The stream cut through a gully, surrounded on either side by steep earthen walls. The trees rose even farther, towering hundreds of feet above him, giving Tamas the slight feeling of claustrophobia.

As the stream cut around a corner, Tamas could hear the rush of falling water. He stopped and examined the top of the gully. This was a horrible place to be. An army could come upon him, and he wouldn’t hear it over the sound of the waterfall.

Every stop had pickets out a quarter of a mile. No one would come upon him without warning.

Tamas rounded the bend to find Olem was there already, stripped down to his trousers, standing with his face up against the shower of falling water.

Tamas stepped toward him, and a word of greeting died on his lips.