The Crimson Campaign (36 page)

“No, it’s not,” Tamas admitted.

A clamor of voices went up. Tamas sighed. On a normal day these were his best officers. Not one of them would have interrupted him. Today was not a normal day.

He raised his hand. A few moments passed, but the hubbub died down.

“A panicked crossing of the river on hastily made rafts will leave our army fractured and in disarray. Beon’s dragoon commanders would not hesitate to attack en masse the moment they arrived. So we’re going to wait, and make a panicked crossing of the river tomorrow afternoon.”

His officers stared back at him, uncomprehending. No one said a word until Colonel Arbor flexed his jaw and popped his false teeth into one hand.

“You’re setting a trap,” Arbor said.

“Precisely.”

“How can we set a trap for half again our number of cavalry?” protested General Cethal of the Ninth Brigade. He was a stout man of medium height. He had a particular wariness for cavalry, since a flanking maneuver by Gurlish cavalry had cost him two regiments and his left eye ten years ago.

“By making ourselves a ripe target.” Tamas picked up a straight stick and cleared away some of the tall grass so he could draw in the sandy dirt of the floodplain.

“But we
are
a ripe target,” General Cethal said.

Tamas ignored him. “Here is our position.” He drew a line to represent the river, and then chevrons for the mountains. “The smaller division of heavy cavalry will come from the west. The larger number of dragoons, from the south. General Cethal, what is the first thing we teach prospective officers at the academy?”

“Terrain is key.”

“Indeed.”

“But sir,” General Cethal insisted, “you’ve put us on a flat floodplain with almost seventeen thousand cavalry bearing down on us. I can’t think of many worse situations.”

“We have our backs to the river,” Tamas said. “And we have significant manpower. The terrain will be very different tomorrow.”

“You mean to shape the terrain to your needs?” General Cethal shook his head. “It can’t be done. We’d need a week to prepare.”

Tamas stared hard at General Cethal. “Expecting defeat will surely bring it,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Cethal said.

Tamas took a moment to look each officer in the eye before going on. “The ancient Deliv, back before the Time of Kresimir, were foreigners to the Nine. Our own ancestors were just some of the barbarians the Deliv faced. The Deliv had barely a fraction of the fighting men, but they were better organized. A Deliv legion could march thirty miles and create an entire fortification to camp all in one day. They survived because they had the discipline and the will. We shall do the same.”

As he spoke, Tamas had been drawing lines in the dirt with his stick. He pointed at one line. “The soil is somewhat rocky, but the dirt is loose and easy to dig.” He pointed to a series of Xs. “Hune Dora Forest has an abundance of wood.”

Colonel Arbor squatted beside the crude drawing and examined it for a moment. He suddenly laughed. “It might work. Should I get my boys digging?”

“Your battalion has the first rest. We’ll be working all night, so it’ll be done in shifts. Then you’ll chop trees. General Cethal, your men will be digging.”

“My men? The Ninth?”

“Yes. All of them.”

“Do you intend to create a palisade?” General Cethal asked.

“Not quite,” Tamas said. “Get digging. I’ll come around in an hour and give each company specific instructions.” He made a shooing gesture with his stick. “Get to work.”

Tamas watched his officers head off toward their men. It was going to be a long night. He hoped that when morning came, and battle was joined, his efforts would be worth it. Otherwise he would have exhausted all of his men for nothing.

“Mihali,” he whispered to himself, “if you’re still with us… I need some help.”

It was the closest thing to a prayer he’d ever spoken.

Adamat and SouSmith watched the abandoned manor where Privileged Borbador was being kept. The street was empty, the air silent. Dark clouds threatened on the southern horizon, and the wind was beginning to pick up. They were in for a stormy night.

There were no signs of Verundish’s soldiers in the manor. Adamat wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not. He’d left the money yesterday at an address the Deliv colonel had given him. He couldn’t help but think of all the things that could go wrong, or wonder whether she had taken the money and simply changed where they were hiding Bo.

Adamat headed down the hill and navigated the ruin until he found the servants’ quarters. Bedding was gone, debris picked up. The only sign soldiers had ever been there was warm ashes in one of the fireplaces. Adamat grew more nervous with each step. Was it all for naught, blackmailing the Proprietor and gathering the money?

The door to the room where they’d kept Bo was closed. He turned the knob and stepped inside.

Privileged Borbador was gone. The chair, the bed, even the stand and the book were still there, but Bo was gone.

“Bloody pit!” Adamat kicked over the book stand. “That bloody…” He dropped into the chair, head in his hands. She’d just taken the money and left, just like that. And with her, Privileged Borbador, and any hope Adamat had of getting his wife back.

SouSmith leaned in the doorway, watching Adamat with a frown. “What’ll you do?” he asked.

Adamat wanted to gouge his own eyes out. What could he do? He thought he’d known despair, but this…

The hall floorboards creaked. SouSmith turned. Adamat pulled the pistol from his pocket. If that was Verundish, he’d shoot her without a second thought.

Bo stepped past SouSmith and into the room. His hair was brushed back, his lapels straightened, and his beard shaved and styled into thick muttonchops.

Adamat felt the strength go from his limbs. He slumped back in the chair and stared at the Privileged.

“I thought you looked beat up the last time we spoke,” Bo said. “What happened to your nose?”

“I’m going to hit the next person who asks me that.” As long as they weren’t a Privileged, Adamat added silently.

Bo gave a thin smile. “Thank you,” he said, “for getting me released. They treated me well enough, but no one likes being tied up like that, not even able to move my hands.” He flexed his fingers. “So stiff.”

“You’re welcome,” Adamat said. “Now you’ll hold up your part of the bargain?”

“I have some things to do.” Bo stepped to the window and looked out.

Adamat felt his chest tighten. Things to do? “I need you now.”

“You’ll have me tomorrow.”

“You’re not going anywhere without me,” Adamat said. “I need to make sure I have your help.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I can’t afford to,” Adamat said.

“If I decide to ignore our deal, you wouldn’t be able to stop me.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement.

“Probably not,” Adamat agreed.

They locked gaze for a few moments, and Adamat had to remind himself how young Bo really was. Twenty? Maybe twenty-two? His eyes were so much older, like a man who’d seen more than his share of suffering and lived to talk about it.

“Suit yourself,” Bo said.

“You’ll only need one night?”

“Yes.”

“SouSmith,” Adamat said, “go to Sergeant Oldrich, and then the eunuch. Tell them I plan on acting tomorrow, then meet me at the safe house.”

The big boxer nodded and left.

Adamat followed Bo out into the street. The Privileged walked with a purpose, like he had things to do, his head held high and his eyes alert. They had to walk for half an hour before they found a carriage. Bo gave the driver directions and they got inside.

“The eunuch,” Bo said, taking his hands out of his pockets. Adamat realized he wasn’t wearing Privileged’s gloves. “As in ‘the Proprietor’s eunuch’?”

Adamat smoothed the front of his coat. “Indeed.”

“That’s a dangerous friend you have. The cabal tried to kill him a couple times. Failed, obviously.”

“The Proprietor or the eunuch?”

“The eunuch,” Bo said. “The Proprietor had an uneasy truce with the cabal, but Zakary never liked the eunuch. Didn’t try to kill him again after a Privileged he sent after the eunuch wound up dead.”

“The eunuch killed a Privileged?”

“It’s not common knowledge,” Bo said, “but yes.” The Privileged fell silent for the rest of their trip, looking out the window and fingering something beneath his jacket.

The demon’s carbuncle, Adamat guessed. The jewel around his neck that would eventually kill him if he didn’t avenge the death of Manhouch.

“We’re here,” Bo suddenly said.

They climbed out of the carriage in the middle of Bakerstown. The air smelled of hot bread and meat pies, making Adamat’s mouth water. “I’m going to get something to eat,” he said, stopping beside a pie vendor.

“Get me one too,” Bo replied, “then come upstairs.” He disappeared inside a squat brick building sandwiched between two bakeries.

Adamat paid for two meat pies and followed Bo inside. When he reached the top of the stairs, he found himself in a one-room flat. There was a table and a bed, with an old mattress stuffed with straw, and one window looking out into an alley behind the bakery.

Bo stood on a chair in the middle of the room, pressing his fingers gently against the ceiling.

“What are you doing?”

Bo didn’t answer him, but hit the ceiling once, hard. The plaster gave way and a box suddenly dropped into the room, hitting the floor with a crash.

Adamat waved plaster dust away from his face as Bo opened the box. Inside was a pair of Privileged’s gloves and what appeared to be thousands of crisp banknotes, bundled together by silk ribbon.

“I would have expected something a little more… magical,” Adamat said.

Bo pulled on the Privileged’s gloves and flexed his fingers, then began setting stacks of banknotes on the floor next to the box. “I wasn’t raised as a Privileged,” Bo said. “Not like most of the others. I came off the streets originally.”

“So… a box in the ceiling?”

“I’m not stupid. The wards on this box will blow anyone that’s not me halfway across the room if they touch it.”

“Ah.”

“How much did you pay Verundish to let me go?”

“Why?”

“How much?”

“Seventy-five thousand,” Adamat said.

Bo handed him two stacks of banknotes. “Here’s a hundred.”

“I can’t take these,” Adamat said, trying to give them back. “I still need your help, I…”

Bo rolled his eyes. “Take them. I’ll still help you. I don’t care how you got the money, but it couldn’t have been easy. I pay my debts back double, when I can.”

Adamat only put the banknotes in his pockets when he realized Bo wasn’t going to take no for an answer. At a quick guess, Bo had over a million krana in that box. It was a mind-boggling number for a man like Adamat. But to a man like Bo, who’d been a member of the royal cabal, it was probably a trifle.

The Privileged bundled it all up in brown paper and wrapped it with a bow like it was one big package he’d just acquired at the store, keeping back four stacks of krana and secreting them about his person. When he was finished, he stood and nodded to Adamat. “Let’s go.”

Bo wouldn’t let Adamat come with him inside the next time they stopped, nor the time after that. It was the fourth stop, well after dark, when Adamat finally got curious enough to follow him.

They were in one of the more pleasant parts of town, where the growing middle class lived in smart, two-story houses and walked the line between the nobility and the poor. It was not unlike where Adamat himself lived, if a little more crowded.

Bo left the carriage and headed down a long alley between two tenement buildings of spacious flats. Adamat waited for a moment before slipping out after him.

He paused by the edge of the alley, watching around the corner, as Bo knocked on a door. A moment later he was admitted inside.

Adamat inched his way down the alley until he reached a window looking into the flat.

Inside, he could see a pair of children playing next to a large fireplace. A boy and a girl, maybe eight and ten years of age. The window was open to take advantage of the stiff evening winds. Adamat moved to the next window that looked into a kitchen.

A man with a long mustache and burly shoulders stood next to the kitchen table, frowning at Bo. The woman sat at the table, busy with her knitting.

“Just ten minutes of your time,” Bo was saying. He drew a stack of banknotes from his pocket and tossed it on the table.

The woman dropped her knitting needles and held a hand to her mouth. The man sputtered over the amount. Bo drew another stack and added it to the first.

“Whatever you say,” the man said. “Just let me get my coat.”

The door opened, and Adamat was forced to press himself against the wall, hoping the darkness would conceal him from Bo’s eyes.

Bo followed the man out into the alleyway and gestured for him to come down farther. They weren’t ten feet from Adamat when they stopped.

“Now what’s this all about?” the man asked.

Bo lifted his gloved fingers in the air and snapped them.

The man’s head twisted around a hundred and eighty degrees. Bo deftly stepped out of the way as the body staggered and fell. He seemed to regard the dead man for a few moments before he turned and headed back toward the carriage.

Adamat couldn’t help himself. He’d seen gruesome murders in his time, and bad men do terrible things, but the abruptness… He stepped from the darkness. “What the pit is the meaning of this?” he hissed.

“Keep walking.” Bo grabbed him by the arm in a surprisingly firm grip and spun him about, pushing him toward the carriage.

Adamat had no choice but to allow himself to be dragged along. The carriage was soon heading down the street, and Adamat struggled to find a voice to express what he’d just seen. The murder had been quick and cold. A trained assassin couldn’t have done it better.

“Here,” Bo said. He grasped something beneath his shirt and yanked, then tossed it into Adamat’s lap. “Take this. I don’t want the bloody thing anymore.”

Adamat stared down at the ruby-red jewel sitting in his lap. “Is that the demon’s carbuncle?” He wasn’t sure if he wanted to touch it.