The Crimson Campaign

  Beon’s helmet was gone. His breastplate hung off him by one strap, and the side of his cheek had been laid open. He favored one arm. Beside him the last of his bodyguards was run through and thrown to the ground. Beon stepped back, hair soaked with blood and sweat, and threw down his sword.

  “I surrender,” he said loudly. “We surrender.”

  One of the Adran soldiers stepped forward. He cocked his rifle back and aimed his bayonet at Beon’s neck.

  Tamas could stand it no more. The blood. The neglect of mercy. He dashed forward and grabbed the soldier’s rifle by the hot muzzle and thrust it aside.

  “He said,” Tamas proclaimed loudly, “that he surrenders.”

  Adamat lurched forward, a curse on his lips, only to stop when Vetas pressed the stiletto against Faye’s neck.

  “I promised you pain tenfold,” Vetas said. “I want you to remember that.” His forearm flexed, and Adamat closed his eyes, unwilling to watch Faye’s life blood spill from her throat.

  “Step away from him.”

  Adamat opened his eyes. Vetas looked slightly confused. His forearm strained, but the stiletto got no closer to Faye’s throat.

  “Please,” Bo said, coming around the corner, “just step off to one side.”

  Adamat snatched Faye, pulling her away from Vetas. Lord Vetas’s nostrils flared, eyes flashing anger, but it was clear he couldn’t move.

  Bo’s fingers twitched. Invisible sorcery tossed Vetas across the room, slamming him into the wall beside the impaled Privileged. Bo walked up beside Vetas and took the man’s chin in hand roughly, turning his head to see the dead Privileged.

  “She was good,” Bo said. “Real worthy of cabal membership. That’s what I did to her. The other one – your backup – he wasn’t that skilled. It only took a moment. And you.” Bo tapped a gloved finger beneath Vetas’s chin. “I don’t like you. I saw that room you keep in the cellar. I’ve known men like that in the cabal. I was overjoyed to hear that Tamas had slaughtered them.”

  Bo stepped back and looked at Vetas thoughtfully. Vetas was still pinned to the wall by Bo’s sorcery. Bo said, “I bet you were the type of child who tortured animals for fun. Tell me, did you ever pull the wings off of insects?”

  Vetas didn’t respond.

  “Answer me!” Bo bellowed.

  Vetas flinched. “Yes.”

  “That’s what I thought. How does it feel?”

  A single twitch of Bo’s finger. That’s all it took and Vetas’s right arm was ripped off by invisible forces. Adamat didn’t know who screamed louder: Vetas, from the pain, or Faye from the shock. Adamat clutched Faye to his chest, worried he’d fall at any moment, and his stomach felt like it might turn inside out.

  Bo’s finger twitched again. Vetas’s other arm dropped to the ground beside him. There was a flare of fire at his shoulders.

  “We’ll cauterize those wounds,” Bo said. “Wouldn’t want you to die too quickly. That’s the point among you types, isn’t it? To keep them alive as long as possible?” Bo smacked Vetas once, then again. “Isn’t it? Tell me! Isn’t it?”

  Adamat lurched forward and grabbed Bo’s arm. Bo whirled on him, hands raised, fire in his eyes. Adamat did his best not to shy away. “That’s enough, man! Enough!” He couldn’t believe himself. Dashing forward to spare Vetas. An hour ago, Adamat was ready to do every pain in the world to Vetas. Now, he just felt ill.

  Bo lowered his hands, nodding, muttering to himself. “Take them,” he said, pointing to Faye and the boy. “Vetas isn’t going anywhere. Get them out of here.”

  Adamat put an arm around Faye’s waist, letting her take the weight off her ankle as he led her out of the smoldering ruin of a building.

  The street was filled with people. Onlookers stood well back, a hundred paces at least, their curiosity warring with their fear of the sorcery. Immediately in front of the building, the eunuch’s men had gathered with their wounded and prisoners, and some were heading inside now that the fire and smoke were gone. Adamat saw Sergeant Oldrich and Riplas, moving among them, giving orders.

  Adamat gestured Riplas over. “The eunuch is dead,” he said quietly.

  The eunuch’s second-in-command rocked back a step, eyes wide. “What? How?”

  “It was Lord Vetas. He must have gotten away from Fell. Speaking of which…”

  Fell emerged from the groups of onlookers. She held her arm carefully to one side, her body covered in cuts. She limped over to him.

  “Vetas, he…”

  “He’s inside,” Adamat said, choking back anger. Fell had told him she could hold Vetas. She had obviously been overpowered. Oldrich’s soldiers had probably been killed as well. He didn’t trust himself to say more.

  When Fell returned, her cold demeanor was somewhat sobered.

  “What are you going to do with him?”

  “I want to know what he did with my boy… other than that, I don’t care.”

  Fell and Riplas seemed to size each other up for a moment. “You’re the eunuch’s second in command?” Fell asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s talk.” Fell jerked her head, and the two women moved aside for a private conference.

  Adamat squeezed Faye, as if to reassure himself that she was still there. She nestled against his chest, her eyes closed, her face wet with tears.

  “The children?” she asked suddenly.

  “Safe,” Adamat said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner.”

  “You came. That’s all that matters.”

  Adamat fell to his knees beside her, pressing her hand to his lips. “I could die now. I have you back.”

  “Please,” Faye said. “Not yet. My ankle hurts quite a lot.”

  CHAPTER

  26

  Taniel found Major Doravir in the Wine’s End, an upper-class gentleman’s club that had been appropriated for use by the army as an officers’ mess hall. The room was lined with rich crimson damask and smelled heavily of cigar smoke. The armchairs scattered throughout the club had been upholstered with the furs of big cats from the Gurlish continent. In one corner, a sergeant was playing a grand piano. The conversation was somber and muted, though a few officers seemed to note Taniel’s entrance.

  Taniel paused in the doorway and adjusted the collar of his dress uniform – a gift from Mihali. Most of his possessions had been lost when South Pike collapsed, including his various uniforms. Somehow the fat chef had gotten Taniel’s measurements and had had a new one made for him. It even had the proper silver buttons with powder kegs on them.

  He examined the room slowly, hat tucked under his arm, and tried not to think about the provosts waiting outside for him. If he failed to apologize, he imagined they’d take him straight back to his quarters.

  Taniel spotted Major Doravir near the bar, playing cards with an older officer of about fifty and two other majors. He took a deep breath and crossed the room, weaving his way through the chairs, giving a small nod to the few men who called out to him.

  Major Doravir, her back to the wall, couldn’t possibly have missed his presence, but she didn’t bother to look up when Taniel stopped beside her table.

  The older officer – a colonel by his uniform, though Taniel couldn’t place the face – was speaking.

  “And I said to them, it’s the lack of noble blood. I understand Tamas’s cull was a political thing, but there’s no arguing that the lack of nobility among his officers has cheapened the whole army. By Kresimir, if he couldn’t…” The old officer paused, frowning at Taniel. “Ah, Captain. Fetch me another beer. Now, where was I? If he couldn’t… get to it, Captain, I’m thirsty.”

  Taniel ignored the colonel. “Major Doravir,” Taniel said.

  Doravir glanced up from her cards. “You’re being rude to Colonel Bertthur.”

  Bertthur? Where did he know that name from? “My apologies, Colonel” – Taniel didn’t look at the man – “but I must speak with Major Doravir.”

  “It’s ‘Colonel’ now,” Doravir s
aid, touching the bars at her collar. “And whatever you have to say to me” – she set her cards facedown on the table and leaned back in her chair – ”can be said in public.”

  Taniel swallowed a mouthful of bile. “Congratulations on your promotion, Colonel.”

  “I say,” Bertthur stood up.

  “Sit down, sir,” Taniel snapped. “This has nothing to do with you. Colonel Doravir, I’d like to offer my deepest apologies for any” – Taniel rolled the sentence around in his head, trying not to spit it out – ”insult I may have given you with my recent conduct.”

  Taniel couldn’t help but notice that the murmur of conversation had completely disappeared. It felt as if a hundred sets of eyes were staring at him. They probably were.

  “Colonel Bertthur is my husband,” Doravir said. “Apologize to him.”

  Husband? The man must have been twenty years her senior.

  “I did,” Taniel said. “And I apologized to you. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Taniel turned on his heel.

  He paused when Bertthur cleared his throat. “Was that Taniel? Tamas’s brat?”

  Keep walking, Taniel told himself.

  “Two-Shot,” Bertthur said. “Come back here this instant. Colonel Etan!”

  Taniel froze. Etan was here?

  “Colonel, isn’t this the man who got you crippled?”

  “He’s the man who saved my life,” Etan’s voice returned.

  “He saved my life, too!” someone shouted.

  “And mine!”

  “Bah. I remember you now, Two-Shot,” Bertthur said. “It must have been five, six years ago. A whiny little bastard. A piss-poor soldier. You’d rather run off with that dark-haired whore of yours, neglecting your training. I never saw anything in you. Huh. Looks like she didn’t either.”

  A whore? Vlora? He might have wanted to call her that and worse when he’d caught her with that fop at the university, but Taniel would be damned if he’d let some fool officer go on about his love life. He balled his hands into fists and slowly took a breath to calm himself. He didn’t have to listen to this. He could just walk away.

  “Bertthur, I think you’ve had enough,” Etan’s voice said. “Perhaps it’s time to retire for the evening.”

  “Go to the pit, Etan,” Bertthur went on. “Taniel, I can see that things haven’t changed. No respect for authority. No military decorum. You’ve just traded one whore for another.”

  “Bertthur!” Etan’s voice held some warning.

  “But now it’s a savage whore! What will he think of next? I bet your father is rolling over in his grave every time you bed that bitch.”

  Taniel’s whole body shook. The fury threatened to overwhelm him. He forced himself to remain calm. Slowly, he turned around.

  “Bertthur,” Taniel said. “I don’t remember a Colonel Bertthur. I remember a Captain Bertthur. An ass of a man who held his rank only because he was the bastard son of a duke. Field Marshal Tamas swore that man would never hold a higher rank as long as he was left alive.”

  Bertthur turned red. “That’s a week in the stocks for you, Two-Shot.”

  “You’re a braggart and a fool, Bertthur. You’re a disgrace to the uniform.”

  “Two weeks!”

  Taniel charged toward Bertthur and the officer shrank back, as if expecting to be punched. Taniel gripped the colonel’s bars on his collar and ripped them off, tossing them to the side.

  “A month!” Bertthur roared.

  Something soared through the air and struck Bertthur in the side of the face. It looked like mashed potatoes.

  “Who did that?” Doravir demanded.

  A dinner roll hit Bertthur on the nose. He reeled back, suddenly under assault from every manner of dinner food. Someone flung a whole dish of sauce on him, staining his uniform.

  “You’re not a free man anymore, Two-Shot!” Bertthur fumed. “Your father is dead. You’ll see two months in the stocks, and I’ll hand your little savage whore over to my men!”

  Taniel took a step forward and plowed his fist into Bertthur’s chin, sending the older man to the ground. He could hear the crack of the bastard’s jaw breaking.

  “Provosts!” Doravir shouted.

  Damn this. Damn them all. Taniel righted Berrthur’s chair with his foot and leapt up on it.

  “Friends,” he shouted, raising his arms for quiet. The officers’ mess suddenly calmed, and to Taniel’s surprise, he had silence within moments. “The General Staff has deceived us all,” Taniel said. “Field Marshal Tamas is not dead. He hasn’t even been captured. He’s leading the Seventh and Ninth through Kez as we speak.”

  “A lie!” Doravir shouted.

  Tamas raised his voice to drown her out. “Haven’t you wondered where the Kez cavalry are? They’re chasing Tamas!”

  Taniel was shoved off the chair by a provost. The man had no sooner laid his hands on Taniel than a major tackled him to the floor. Taniel got to his feet. “We only have to hold these Kez bastards for a few more months! Fall will be here soon and then winter, and Field Marshal Tamas with it!”

  A musket butt slammed Taniel in the stomach. He doubled over in pain, but forced himself up. “No retreat! No surrender!”

  The officers’ mess erupted in a roar of cheering. Food was flying everywhere. Taniel was forced to the floor by the back of his neck, his face ground into the carpet.

  “You’re finished, Two-Shot,” Doravir hissed. “You’re a dead man!”

  Taniel didn’t care. The officers would all tell their men, and their men would hold the line. They’d do it for Taniel. They’d do it for Tamas.

  Nila felt a sense of dread grow in the pit of her stomach as she neared Vetas’s manor. Black smoke billowed above the street, and men’s screams carried on the wind. The sound of fighting grew more distinct as she drew closer, and above it all a sound that she’d only heard once or twice in her life but was unmistakable – the thump of sorcery.

  It had to be Privileged Dourford. She could see the tall Privileged in her mind’s eye, laughing gleefully as he slung sorcery at unknown attackers, burning men to a crisp with the flick of his fingers.

  The sorcery seemed to have an echo. There’d be a thump, and then another one just as loud if not louder almost immediately after. The combat was still going on as she rounded the corner of the next street over and approached the manor from the rear. Smoke poured from the windows on all three stories of the manor. Flames licked the smoke, curling like fingers around the window frames. A crash, and then another.

  No, this wasn’t any echo.

  Sorcery fought sorcery inside the building.

  Nila ran toward the manor, her dress gathered in both hands. She remembered hearing the kitchen staff say that Lord Vetas had called a second Privileged from somewhere down south. She was supposed to have arrived this morning. Was that woman fighting Dourford?

  There was a great whump and Nila felt her ears pop. She staggered to one side of the street, trying to keep her feet. The flames had disappeared from the manor. Another whump, and the smoke burst from the windows as if propelled by a giant bellows, and no more followed it out.

  Nila froze in her tracks, more frightened by the sudden silence than she had been by the sorcery. Who had won? Who had even been fighting? Was Vetas in there? Was he still alive? Could Jakob have survived all of that?

  She didn’t know if she could make herself go inside. She took several deep breaths, gathering her courage.

  A crack split the air, throwing Nila off her feet. She landed on the street hard enough to scrape the skin off her palm.

  One side of the house collapsed, crashing in on itself. She stared, openmouthed, as the walls crumpled and part of the roof slid off one side, clay shingles falling into the alley with a sound like a thousand wind chimes in a hurricane.

  Nila climbed to her feet and was running toward the house before she could think. Her palm throbbed, her dress bloody, but she didn’t care about that. Jakob was still inside, up on the second floor. His
nursery faced the other street, and even at this angle she could tell that if he was inside, he’d been crushed. But maybe he was lucky. Maybe he’d been under the bed, or protected by the door frame, or…

  The back wall of the manor suddenly blew outward, sending plaster, furniture, and bits of what looked to have once been a human out into the street.

  A man stood in the wreckage. He was of medium height, with ruddy muttonchops on an otherwise clean-shaven face and loose pants and matching jacket that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a street in the bankers’ quarter. He wasn’t particularly handsome, nor was he ugly, but Nila felt a jolt when she first saw him.

  He held his hands high, fingers poised in white Privileged’s gloves as he looked down on the mess he’d just made all over the thoroughfare. The gathering crowd pulled back in fear. A woman fainted when she realized what the juicy red meat scattered in the street was. A man vomited.

  The Privileged surveyed the gathered crowd and lowered his hands. He turned and disappeared inside the wreckage of the house. Before he did, however, Nila caught sight of something on his gloves: the symbol of the Adran Mountains with the teardrop of the Adsea beneath them.

  This wasn’t just any Privileged. This was a member of the Adran royal cabal.

  Something told Nila that Dourford hadn’t stood a chance.

  Nila picked her way through the wreckage and ducked beneath a beam, entering the house as close as she could get to the servants’ stairs.

  The sitting room was completely crushed. She could hear a man calling for help, and another moaning. A body lay in the mangled timber, covered in plaster dust, unmoving. She heard someone speaking from the other room. It sounded like Lord Vetas.

  Nila moved slowly into the kitchen. It remained almost completely untouched by the collapse, but it seemed that the servants’ stairs had taken the worst of it. She wouldn’t be climbing up to the second floor that way.

  She stepped over to the door to the dining room and listened. Silence, but she could hear someone moving. She looked through a crack in the door. She heard herself gasp at the sight of a woman, body hanging limply from dripping shards of ice, nailed to the back wall of the dining room. She wore Privileged’s gloves. Vetas’s other Privileged?