The Crimson Campaign

Tamas watched Vlora almost disappear around a bend in the road. She made an abrupt stop as Olem rode into view. The bodyguard leaned over his horse, said something to her. She put her hand on his thigh. He pushed it away gently and gave a meaningful glance at Tamas.

Vlora grabbed Olem by the belt and pulled him off his horse, pushing him into the woods off the trail. Tamas swore under his breath and took two steps down the column.

Someone cleared their throat. Tamas looked around.

It was the soldier he’d sent for water. “Your canteen, sir.”

Tamas snatched the canteen. When he looked again, Olem and Vlora were gone.

He took several deep breaths and went back to his horse.

“Sir, you mind if I ask how long until we march again?” the soldier asked.

Tamas took a long draw of water. It was so frigid it seemed to burn his throat going down. It made his teeth hurt.

“Thirty minutes, damn it. Get some rest.”

Adamat rapped on the door of the foreman’s office in the textile mill. Below him, dozens of steam-powered looms thundered at full tilt throughout the day, creating a racket that drowned out all but the loudest shouts. Hundreds of workers tended the millworks, moving about the floor like so many insects.

Adamat let himself into the foreman’s office. Inside, the sound was greatly reduced.

“Margy,” he called.

The woman emerged from the back of the room and smiled when she saw Adamat. He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

She stepped back from him in shock. “What in all the Nine have you done to yourself?”

“Fell down the stairs,” Adamat said. His voice whined nasally, and his face still hurt as if the broken nose had happened only an hour ago.

Margy harrumphed. “Looks more like you got it punched in,” she said. “I alway told you putting your nose in other people’s business was going to get it broken.”

Adamat threw his hands up in mock surrender. “I’ve only got a moment, Margy. I just dropped by to see if you had a lead on that rug.”

“Fine, fine.” Margy moved over to the desk beside her microscope and began leafing through papers. “I sent Faye a letter last week,” she said.

“I’ll ask if she got it.” Adamat leaned against the doorpost and closed his eyes. His face hurt. His back hurt. His hands and his head hurt. Everything hurt, and he wasn’t getting enough sleep. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten more than toast and tea. He opened his eyes again when Margy pushed a piece of paper into his hand.

“That’s the buyer,” she said. “I couldn’t get a name, just the address from a check receipt.”

“Thanks, Margy.”

“Tell Faye to come visit soon, will you?”

“Of course.”

Adamat left the textile mill and didn’t look at the paper until he was outside. With no name, it would be more work for him to find out the owner of the address, and knowing the Proprietor, Adamat would have to go through several layers of fake names and addresses before he found the Proprietor’s identity.

He hailed a hackney cab and looked at the address.

He had to look again, blinking to be sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.

This was an address he knew.

The weather had grown overcast as the morning progressed, and Adamat stopped by his safe house in western Adopest to get an umbrella. He paused in the hallway. The door to the flat was open.

Part of him screamed to just turn and walk away. He might not survive the next run-in with Vetas’s goons.

He drew his pistol and checked to see if it was loaded before pushing gently on the door.

SouSmith sat on the sofa. His arms were folded over his stomach, his chin resting on his chest as he dozed. His shirt was covered in blood.

“SouSmith?”

The big boxer jerked awake. “Ah.”

“What happened?”

SouSmith cocked an eyebrow at him, as if it were strange of Adamat to ask after his bloody shirt. “What happened yourself? Someone break your nose?”

Adamat called for the landlady to put a kettle on, and closed the door behind him. “You’re soaked with blood.”

“None of it’s mine,” SouSmith said. “Least, not much. Nose?”

“One of Vetas’s goons was waiting at my old house. Hit me in the face with a cudgel. Now what’s this? You can’t be sitting in a man’s living room covered in someone else’s blood without an explanation.”

“Four o’ Vetas’s men came by my brother’s place,” SouSmith said. “Shot one of my nephews. Me and Daviel… we killed all four.”

“Pit, SouSmith. I’m sorry. Is your nephew…?”

“Kid was twelve. Daviel had just got it together to send ’im to school.” SouSmith stood up and stretched. The blood on his shirt was black and dry, probably hours old. His piggish eyes glinted with anger. “I’m in,” he said. “Proprietor or no, I’m ’a see Vetas burn. Then I’ve got to see to my family.”

Adamat was about to ask what they did with the bodies when he remembered SouSmith’s brother was a butcher. He probably did not want to know. He gave a wary nod.

Could he trust SouSmith? What if Vetas’s goons had turned him? What if, like Adamat, SouSmith’s family was being held by Vetas?