The Crimson Campaign (9 page)

7

In northeastern Adopest there was a small section of the Samalian District that hadn’t been burned when Field Marshal Tamas allowed the pillage of the nobility’s property after Manhouch’s execution. It was a commercial area, filled with goods and service shops that catered to the nobility. Rumor had it that during the riots the owners of these shops set up their own barricades and held off the rioters themselves.

Now, five months after the riots, the former emporium of the rich had been transformed into a marketplace for the middle class. Prices had been lowered, but not quality, and people traveled halfway across the city to wait in line for cobblers, tailors, bakers, and jewelers.

Adamat came early in the morning, before the larger crowds arrived, and found the tailor who had purchased Vetas’s warehouse. Adamat sat down in a small café across the street from the tailor’s and ordered breakfast, keeping an eye out for expected company. It wasn’t long until he spotted it.

Adamat rose from his seat and crossed the street. He discreetly sidled up beside SouSmith and said, “Were you followed?”

To his credit, SouSmith barely started. “Bloody pit,” SouSmith said. “Didn’t recognize ya.”

“That’s the idea.” Adamat had dyed his hair gray. A dry dusting of powder on his face made his skin appear cracked, making him look twenty years older, and he affected a limp. He leaned heavily on a new, silver-headed cane. His jacket and pants were the finest money could by – he’d had to call in favors just to procure them. But he needed to look the part of a wealthy gentleman.

SouSmith shook his head. “Wasn’t followed,” he said. “Been staying low.”

“Good,” Adamat said. “How do you feel?”

“Like pit. Bloody healing Knacked.”

Despite what he said, SouSmith looked better. Just five weeks ago he’d been shot twice and stabbed, and had barely made it through alive. It would have been a long recovery without Ricard’s largesse.

“Go to that café over there,” Adamat said, “and get breakfast. Take a seat facing that store there.” He indicated the tailor’s shop. “I’m going in to make some inquiries.”

As much as he wanted SouSmith to come inside the tailor shop with him in case it was merely a front for Vetas and Vetas had men stationed inside, SouSmith was too memorable of a man, and there was no disguising a boxer of his size. No sense in bringing him in until needed.

Adamat crossed the street and entered the shop. A quick perusal told him that this tailor specialized in high-end jackets. Mannequins were placed around the edges of the room, wearing everything from smoking and evening jackets to the kind a duke might wear to a ball. The shop smelled strongly of peppermint oil that the owner used to mask the scent of stored cloth.

“May I help you?”

The tailor came in from the back room. He was a dark-skinned Deliv; a small man with long, steady fingers. He wore a pair of thin-rimmed spectacles and a vest with protruding lapels stuck through with a variety of needles and pins.

“Haime?” Adamat said, affecting an accent common in Adopest’s southern suburbs.

“I am he,” the tailor said with a short bow. “Jackets and suits. May I take your measurements for a new jacket today?”

“I haven’t come in search of clothing,” Adamat said. He looked down the end of his nose and made a show of perusing the mannequins. “At least, not today.”

Haime clasped his hands behind his back. “Some other business?”

Adamat pulled a piece of paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it. “My employers are looking to purchase a piece of property,” he said. “Records show that you are the owner.”

Haime seemed genuinely puzzled. “I don’t own any property.”

“You did not buy a warehouse on Donavi Street in the factory district two years ago?”

“No, I…” Haime suddenly stopped and tapped his chin with one finger. “I did. That’s right. One of my clients asked me to make a purchase and then transfer the title into his name. He wanted to keep the affair quiet. Something about not wanting the newspapers getting wind of his employer’s purchases.”

Adamat felt his heart jump. There were very few organizations that could make the news with a simple purchase of property. One of them was the Brudania-Gurla Trading Company. And their head was Lord Claremonte, Vetas’s employer.

“Could I get his name, please?” Adamat said. He pulled a fountain pen from his pocket and poised it above his piece of paper.

Haime gave him an apologetic look. “I’m very sorry, but my client requested I keep that information in confidence.”

“My employer would very much like to purchase that building,” Adamat said. “I’m sure that something could be arranged…” He removed a checkbook from his pocket.

“No, no,” Haime said. “I’m sorry, it’s not a matter of money. I’m a man of my word.”

Adamat gave a long-suffering sigh. “I’m sure.” He put away the checkbook and pen and gathered his hat and cane. He paused, making a show of looking around the mannequins once more with an admiring eye. His gaze stopped on one and he almost choked.

It was the same jacket Lord Vetas had been wearing the last time they spoke.

“I see you’ve a fine eye,” Haime said, slipping over toward the mannequin. “This jacket is discerning and subtle. It would look fantastic on you.”

Adamat felt his heart begin to beat faster. Vetas must have been the same client to purchase that warehouse and the jacket. If Haime knew that he knew, the tailor might become suspicious.

“No, I don’t think it’s my style.”

“Nonsense,” Haime said. “The jacket has a slimming effect and draws the eyes up to your face. I could make an entire suit to match.”

Adamat pretended to think on this for several moments. The jacket was obviously tailored. He could see a slight discoloration at the waist, where a rip had been patched, and he realized that this might be the actual jacket Lord Vetas had been wearing. “This looks like the right size. Can you tailor it for me now?”

“Unfortunately, no. This particular jacket belongs to someone. He’s picking it up in a few days. I could have a new one made up for you in…” He paused to think. “A week. Just let me take your measurements.”

Adamat patted his pockets. “I seem to have left my own checks at home. I only have my employers’. I will not be able to make a payment today.”

“You’re obviously a gentleman, sir,” Haime said. “You may just give me your address.”

Adamat didn’t have an address to give to him. He didn’t want to risk any word of this reaching Vetas. That risk was already high, as Haime might mention the attempted purchase to Vetas just as a matter of course. Adamat withdrew his pocket watch. “I have an appointment in less than an hour,” he said. “I must make it. Let me come back early next week for measurements.”

Haime’s face fell. A good salesman never let a mark go out the door without a commitment to buy. “If that works best for you.”

“It does,” Adamat said. “I’ll be back, don’t worry.”

Adamat hurried across the street and found SouSmith waiting at the café.

“Any sign of Vetas or any of his eyes?”

SouSmith shook his head.

“Let’s go,” Adamat said.

“Breakfast still coming.”

Adamat checked to make sure the tailor wasn’t watching him through the window of his shop before taking a seat next to SouSmith. “The tailor isn’t involved directly,” Adamat said. “He bought and sold the property for one of his clients: I think it’s Vetas. I saw the same jacket Vetas was wearing the last time I saw him, all the way down to the tailoring.”

“You sure?”

“I don’t forget, remember?” Adamat tapped the side of his head. “I could tell that the lines of that jacket matched perfectly. Unfortunately, the tailor wouldn’t give me Vetas’s name or address.”

“Dead end.”

“No. Vetas – or, more likely, one of his men – is coming to pick up that jacket in the next few days. It was being mended. I’m going to stake out the tailor and watch for who picks up the jacket. I’ll follow them and find out where Vetas lives.”

“Where you want me?” SouSmith’s breakfast arrived: four poached eggs with Novi goat cheese. He grinned as it was set in front of him and set about eating quickly.

“Nowhere,” Adamat said. “I can’t risk you being recognized. I can wear a disguise. You, however, can’t.”

SouSmith sniffed. Through a mouthful of egg, he said, “Can’t leave you to follow him alone.”

Adamat knew the risks. If Vetas or his man was good enough to mark Adamat, he could very well be a dead man. But SouSmith was a liability in this kind of work. He was easily recognized, and even if he wasn’t, his size made him less than ideal for following someone.

“I’ll do it alone,” Adamat said.

Tamas lay in the tall grass of a knoll beneath the Adran Mountains and watched through his looking glass as the Kez army prepared to assault Budwiel.

Morning dew soaked his combat uniform. The cloud cover was low on this day and a rolling fog clung to plains outside of Budwiel. The air was heavy with moisture. He knew it would foul guns on both sides, but when Tamas looked toward Budwiel, he noted a ray of sunshine peeking through the clouds to bathe the city and clear the air.

No doubt Mihali’s indirect participation in the battle.

And they would need every bit of his help. Tamas swung his looking glass back toward the Kez. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of their army. Rank upon rank of tan uniforms with green trim stretched for what seemed like forever. Long experience let him count their ranks with only a cursory glance.

One hundred and twenty thousand at least. And that was just their infantry.

They would send their recruits first to act as so much cannon fodder in order to test Budwiel’s defenses. Five, maybe ten thousand of them would pour out across the fields, tramping down the wet grass and receiving the full brunt of grapeshot. They’d be followed quickly by the more experienced men, who’d form a strong backbone to the main assault and push the recruits on hard in front of them, even at the tip of their bayonets. Sorcery-warped Wardens would accompany the front of the second wave.

It was a foolish method of attack, in Tamas’s opinion, but the Kez commanders had always favored a massed rush – no matter the cost in lives – above guile.

And it just might work. The key to throwing back the Kez assault would be to break the resolve of their second wave. To kill the Wardens and send the veterans running for cover. It would be hard to break such a sizable force.

But not impossible.

Which is where the Seventh and the Ninth came in. Once the Kez committed the main body, Tamas would order his men over the knoll at a dead charge into the Kez flank.

No matter the size of a crowd, they’d run if panic seized them.

The Kez cannon had been moved forward before dawn. They pounded away at Budwiel’s fortifications, answered in turn by Hilanska’s heavy artillery.

Tamas watched as the Kez infantry fell into rank a few hundred yards behind their artillery. He felt his stomach lurch.

“That’s a lot of men, sir,” Olem said from beside him.

“A great many,” Tamas agreed. Was that unease in Olem’s voice? Tamas couldn’t blame him if it was. That many soldiers would make anyone nervous.

“Think we can break them?”

“We’d better. The cavalry will help.”

“We’ve only two hundred, though,” Olem said.

“All we need is the illusion of a brigade of cavalry. We’re here to cause panic, and then slaughter. Not the other way around.”

During the night, they’d had enough time to bring two hundred cavalry through the caverns. It was a testament to Tamas’s engineers that they’d managed to get the caverns wide enough to accommodate the passage of ten thousand men plus a platoon of horse in just one night.

The real victory of the night, however, had been six field guns. Small, firing six-pound balls, and with five-foot wheels that would allow them to be moved easily, they were just enough to give the impression of an entire army on the Kez flank.

Tamas let his mind wander to the aftermath of the battle. They could rout the Kez, but they wouldn’t be able to pursue for long. Tens of thousands would be dead, but to the Kez that was just another number. They would still have hundreds of thousands left. This battle would be to break the morale of their army. The Kez couldn’t afford another loss on the psychological level of the Battle of Shouldercrown.

Tamas’s spies already reported that there were grumblings in Ipille’s ministry. Given enough of a spark, the army might even turn on Ipille, though that seemed too much to even hope.

“Sir,” Olem said. “The columns are advancing.”

Tamas pulled himself back to the present. It was bad luck to think of victory as the battle started. He had plans in place. If triumph came, then it would be time to implement them. Not now.

“Signal the men to get ready.”

Vlora crawled onto the knoll next to Tamas as Olem hurried away.

“Are your men in place?” Tamas asked.

“You mean Andriya’s men, sir?”

Tamas could hear the bitterness in her voice. He’d given Andriya command of the powder cabal for this battle, and it irked her. Tamas fought down his own annoyance. When would she learn that, skilled though she was, she did not have the experience to be in command?