The Crimson Campaign (30 page)

The paper proclaiming the death of Field Marshal Tamas was a week old now.

“All of Adro has heard it,” Adamat said.

Ricard finally looked up. When he glimpsed Adamat’s face, he nearly fell out of his chair. “What the pit happened to you?”

Adamat would have snorted if it didn’t hurt so badly to do so. He imagined he looked far worse off than Ricard. Little sleep, his nose recently broken and reset, cuts and bruises all across his face. Adamat was a horror, and it was interfering with his work. No one liked being seen doing business with someone who’d had the piss beaten out of them.

“I’ve had a few run-ins lately,” Adamat said.

Ricard waited for an explanation. Adamat wasn’t about to give him one.

“Yes, well…” Ricard slowly tore his gaze from Adamat’s face. “The country is in an uproar. The Kez are pushing the southern front, and with Tamas gone a few royalists have come out of the woodwork. He was the glue holding this whole nation together.” Ricard ran his fingers through his hair. “Tamas’s remaining councillors… we’ve already started bickering among ourselves. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“Are you going ahead with the election?”

Ricard threw up his hands in exasperation. “We have no choice. We could declare martial law and delay the election, but the entire army is on the southern front trying to fight back the Kez.” Ricard rubbed his eyes. “Which brings me to why I asked you to come in: Lord Claremonte is making his move.”

Adamat sat up straighter. “And?”

Ricard spit on the floor, then seemed to immediately regret having done so. “He’s declared his intention to run for prime minister of Adro.”

“How could he?” Adamat breathed in disbelief. “He’s not even Adran!”

“Ah, but he is. Or at least that’s what the records he provided to the Ministerial Review Board says. Fell! Fell, get in here!”

The young woman Adamat had previously met slipped into the room. Her hair was done up in a braid that went over one shoulder, and she wore a frilled blouse loose about the neck. “Sir?”

“Fell, what have you got on Claremonte?”

“Nothing,” Fell said. “If his birth records are forgeries, they’re extremely good. We have people going over all the information we have on him. He’s never actually claimed to be Brudanian, and the Brudania-Gurla Trading Company doesn’t require Brudanian citizenship to become the head.”

Adamat found himself watching Fell, suddenly suspicious, and he wasn’t quite sure why. “Keep… keep talking,” Adamat said.

“Sir?” Fell asked.

“Have you found a stronger connection to Lord Vetas?” Adamat’s own knowledge about Vetas and Claremonte’s relationship came through the Proprietor’s eunuch, and through Vetas’s own admission. If he’d been misled in some way, it could derail his entire line of inquiry.

“None that we can find.”

“Why could he possibly want to be prime minister of Adro? Ricard, didn’t you tell me yourself that the prime minister will be a figurehead?”

Ricard shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “That is
my
vision of the prime minster, yes.”

“The truth is,” Fell said, without waiting for Ricard’s instruction, “the first prime minister will be the one to set the standard for every one to follow him. How much power the prime minister holds, and how he wields it, will depend entirely on how aggressive the first man to hold the office decides to be.”

Adamat smoothed the front of his jacket. What was bothering him so much about this woman? There was something about her mannerisms that he’d not noticed before… something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “So if Claremonte is elected, there is the potential for him to wield as much power in Adro as a king?”

“Not as much as a king,” Ricard said. “The design of the system has put parameters on that. However… quite a lot of power.”

“Pit,” Adamat said.

Fell crossed to Ricard’s side. “Sir, if I may…”

“That’s it!” Adamat stared at her.

“What?” Ricard asked.

Adamat reached in his pocket slowly, grasping the butt of his pistol. “You have the same way of speaking,” he said to Fell. “Some of the same cadence as he does. It’s not readily noticeable. Not like you’re family or anything, but as if you’ve been trained at the same finishing school.”

“As who?” Ricard asked.

“Lord Vetas.”

Ricard and Fell exchanged a look.

“This is bad,” Fell said.

Ricard agreed. “Very bad.”

Adamat’s gaze moved between the two. He found himself squeezing the butt of his pistol in one hand and the head of his cane with the other. He felt his jaw clench. What was going on here? What did they know that he didn’t?

Ricard said to Fell, “I’m going to tell him.”

“This isn’t common knowledge,” Fell said with a frown.

“What the pit are you two talking about?” Adamat asked.

Ricard leaned forward on his desk, leaning his chin on one hand. “Have you heard of the Fontain Academy in Starland?”

“No,” Adamat said. Neither Ricard nor Fell seemed unduly ready to leap at him, so he loosened his grip on his pistol and cane. “A finishing school?” he guessed.

“Of a sort,” Ricard said. “It’s a very exclusive place. Of every thousand students they have, only one graduates.”

“What makes it so difficult?” Adamat asked.

“The rigors,” Fell spoke up. “Eighteen hours of work every day for twenty years. Training of every sort: martial, sexual, memory retention, etiquette, mathematics, science, politics, philosophy. Exposure to every school of thought in the known world. No contact with friends or family for the rest of your life. The willingness to become beholden to one man or organization against bribery or threat of pain or death.”

“Sounds awful,” Adamat said. “I would have heard of such a place.”

“No,” Ricard said. “You wouldn’t have.”

Fell was looking at her fingernails. “Only prospective clients know about the Fontain Academy. It costs as much as thirty million krana to purchase a graduate.”

“Purchase? So it’s slavery?” Adamat rocked back in his chair. Thirty million krana. That was a kingly sum. There were less than fifty people in all the Nine with access to that much money, and he didn’t think Ricard was one of them.

Adamat wasn’t sure if he believed this. How could an organization like that exist? Certainly slavery was still openly practiced in the world, but in the Nine? Not for hundreds of years. “Are you asking me to believe that you and Lord Vetas are graduates of the Fontain Academy?”

“It appears that way,” Fell said. “I couldn’t confirm it for certain, but for you to make the observation you did transcends coincidence.”

“Then what can you tell me about him?”

“Every graduate has different specialties. But if he is a graduate, then he’s dangerous. He’ll be adept at blackmail and sabotage. He’ll be smarter than most of the people in this city, including you. Proficient with all weapons, but likely favoring knives and pistols.”

“What’s your specialty?” Adamat asked.

Fell gave him a thin smile but didn’t answer.

“Can we speak alone?” he asked Ricard.

Ricard nodded to Fell.

“Sir,” Fell said. “The Fontain Academy is not a secret, strictly, but we do not advertise ourselves. This information is to be kept private.”

“I’ll respect that,” Adamat said.

Fell left the room, leaving him alone with Ricard.

Adamat watched his friend for nearly a minute before he spoke. “You
purchased
a woman?”

“Adamat…”

“I didn’t think even you would stoop to that.”

“It’s not like that, I —”

“It’s not, is it?” Adamat raised his eyebrows.

“Well, maybe a little. But that’s not why I did it.”

“Then why?”

Ricard’s face grew grim. “I love this country. I love my union. I will not see either torn apart by the machinations of a foreigner. I’ll be the first prime minister if it kills me – or if I have to kill to do it.”

“When?”

“When what?”

“When did you… purchase… her?”

“I finalized it over the summer. She arrived four weeks ago.”

“And where the pit did you get thirty million krana?”

“She was ten million,” Ricard said. “About half my fortune. She’s only had ten years of schooling at the academy – it’s normally twenty years.”

Adamat shook his head. “Ten million for that girl. What were you thinking?”

“She runs my organization better than I can,” Ricard said quietly. “In one month – just one – she’s made me fifty thousand krana. She’s straightened my ministerial campaign. Before her I had some good ideas, but now I have a serious chance at being the prime minister of Adro. She’s worth every penny I spent on her.”

“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.

Vlora stood under the waterfall with Olem. She was completely nude, her uniform discarded with the rest of her gear on the bank of the stream. Olem had his hands in her dark hair, pulling them through the knots and tangles. She said something and Olem laughed, and then she turned toward him. She pushed her body up against Olem’s. She opened her mouth, and Olem tilted his head down toward hers.

Her eyes flickered open. She stepped smoothly past Olem and turned her body away from Tamas. Olem said something, then stole a furtive glance at Tamas. He was suddenly washing his own hair vigorously.

“What’s wrong?” A hand thumped Tamas’s shoulder. “Haven’t seen a naked woman before?” Gavril passed Tamas, heading toward the waterfall, already stripping off his shirt.