The Crimson Campaign

Could he even afford to ask these questions? Adamat needed every man he could get on his side.

“Get cleaned up,” Adamat said. “You left some clothes here.”

“We going somewhere?”

“I have to see a man about fifty thousand krana.”

Adamat stepped out of the carriage in the Routs — the very best part of town, filled with large brick bankers’ houses. The streets were wide, paved with flat cobbles, and lined with towering elms. Adamat tilted his hat up and looked for the house he wanted.

There — in between two of the immense city townhouses owned by the wealthy bankers sat a small, austere house with a well-kept garden. Adamat headed up the walk to the house, followed closely by SouSmith.

“The Reeve, right?” SouSmith asked.

“Yes.” Ondraus the Reeve. One of Tamas’s councillors, and an architect of the coup that overthrew Manhouch. He was a sour, unfriendly old man. Adamat did not relish a second meeting. He pounded on the door.

He pounded for ten minutes before he finally heard the latch inside move, and the door opened a crack.

“For a wealthy man,” Adamat said, “I’m surprised you answer the door yourself.”

Ondraus the Reeve glared at Adamat through narrowed eyes. “Get off my front step, or I’ll have you jailed for harassment.” Ondraus was wearing a robe and slippers. His hair was unkempt.

“I need money,” Adamat said. “Your accountants told me I’ve been cut off.”

Ondraus sneered at him. “Tamas is dead. Whatever access to funds he promised you is gone. I’d suggest you find employment elsewhere.”

“See, that’s a problem. May I come in?”

“No.”

Adamat leaned on the door. Ondraus started, reeling back into his tiny foyer.

“Wait out here, please,” Adamat said to SouSmith. The boxer nodded.

Ondraus stormed toward his office. Adamat drew the pistol from his pocket and cleared his throat.

The Reeve froze when he saw the pistol. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

Adamat drew his eyes across the room. It had changed little in the months since Adamat’s last visit. The mantel had been dusted, the fireplace cleaned, but the carpet showed no more wear and the smells were exactly the same. The house seemed almost unused.

“I can see through the open door to your office there,” Adamat said, “a bell cord. Hardly worth noticing on my last visit, but I find myself wondering, in a house with three rooms and no servants, why you have a bell cord.” Adamat motioned toward the only chair beside the fireplace. Ondraus took a seat.

“Are you here to rob me?” Ondraus said. “All my money is in investments. As you can see, there’s nothing of worth here. I don’t even keep a checkbook in my home.”

“See,” Adamat continued without acknowledging the interruption, “my guess is that bell cord leads to a system of rooms beneath your house, and in one of those rooms you have a permanent staff of four large, dangerous men ready to come to your defense if you need it. And off of those rooms leads a tunnel, likely going to one of these nearby manors that you own under a false name. You don’t live in it, of course. You just use it to conceal your comings and goings under your other name.”

Ondraus watched Adamat from the chair, saying nothing. His glare was less angry now and more… calculating. For some reason the change made him far more frightening.

“You haven’t yet told me that I’m a dead man,” Adamat said. He considered Ondraus for a moment. “I suppose you’re not the type.”

“What is your insurance?” Ondraus asked.

“Letters. Sent to certain friends I have in the police force.”

“Telling them that I am the Proprietor?”

It was a thrill to hear Ondraus say it out loud. No denial. No admission. A simple statement, and it made the hair on the back of Adamat’s neck stand up. “No, of course not. Telling them that if I disappear, my body can be found beneath your house. No one wants to investigate the Proprietor. But my friends on the force will have no problem combing through the affairs of one accountant. You’re known as a shut-in. Shut-ins are always interesting. My friends might even find it fun. And when they find out about the rooms beneath your house, and the bodyguards, and the manor and the huge amounts of money in your portfolio, they will become extremely interested indeed.”

Ondraus scoffed. “You think that will save you?”

“Yes, I do.” Adamat felt a crack in his confidence. What if Ondraus just didn’t care? A man with his connections could just disappear if an investigation started on him. “I think that my life is a trivial thing to spare, if it will save you even a few months’ worth of scrutiny and trouble.

“If that is not the case,” Adamat added, “I have sent another letter to a friend in the publishing business, telling him I know who the Proprietor is. If I wind up dead, and he hears of an investigation of my death involving you, he’ll draw conclusions and, let me say, he’s not a very smart man. He values headlines far more than his own life.”

Ondraus began to chuckle. It was a dry sound, and for a moment Adamat thought he was coughing. “Very clever,” he said.