The Crimson Campaign (65 page)
Taniel couldn’t stop laughing. “Oh,” he said. “That wasn’t me. You met Pole.”
Taniel tried to move. He still couldn’t.
Kresimir groped blindly for his mask. He returned it to his face and climbed to his feet, but did not approach Taniel again.
“Fetch the Adran traitor,” Kresimir said. There was fear in his voice. “Have him identify this spy.”
Taniel waited on his hands and knees, head sagged from exhaustion. Kresimir had sent his men out just thirty minutes ago.
“A traitor,” Kresimir had said. Who was it? Taniel had suspected all along that it might be Ket. She’d been too enthusiastic about ordering the retreats. Maybe Doravir.
Of course, it might be someone lower. A general’s aid, or even courier. Plenty of people had access to the kind of sensitive information that would give the Kez the edge.
Taniel had a feeling it wasn’t a lower-ranking officer, though. He suspected a colonel, or maybe even a general.
Kresimir paced slowly in one corner of the keep courtyard. Every few minutes he’d turn his one good eye toward Taniel.
Taniel stared back in defiance. He’d brought down this god. He’d put a bullet in Kresimir’s eye. He’d proved a god could feel pain.
He wouldn’t give Kresimir the satisfaction of watching him grovel.
Of course, Taniel knew he might think otherwise after a few days of torture. He had to be realistic. Ka-poel’s wards seemed to protect him from sorcery. Perhaps even from permanent physical damage. But he knew from experience that he could still feel pain.
Funny, that. Her protection might just be his undoing. The Kez could torture him indefinitely.
Footsteps approached from a hallway adjoining the courtyard. Taniel rocked back on his knees. He’d see this traitor and spit in his eye before he died.
“My lord, you summoned me?”
Taniel’s head jerked around.
The traitor was an older, heavyset man. He wore the epaulets of a general, and the left sleeve of his blue Adran uniform was pinned across the shoulder to make up for the missing arm.
General Hilanska.
“Who is this assassin?” Kresimir gestured toward Taniel.
“My lord?” Hilanska turned. His eyes grew wide at the sight of Taniel, and his mouth worked silently for a moment.
“You know him?”
“I do indeed, my lord. He is the very man you seek: the eye behind the flintlock. Taniel Two-Shot.”
“I feared…” The words came from Kresimir’s mouth as a whisper.
Taniel got to his feet. It was like trying to stand beneath the weight of the entire keep, his knees buckling beneath him, legs shaking from the effort.
“I’ll kill you,” he said to Hilanska.
“Was he sent here?” Kresimir asked.
The general seemed troubled. “No, my lord. He should be under arrest in the Wings of Adom camp right now.”
“Why?” Taniel demanded. “My father trusted you!” Everything that had happened: the arrest, the court-martial, the attack on Ka-poel. Had that all been Hilanska?
“He mentioned someone named Pole,” Kresimir said.
Hilanska frowned. “I don’t know anyone… ah. There is a girl named Ka-poel.”
“Is she a great sorcerer? Why did I not know of her?”
Taniel surged forward. The guards clustered around, menacing him with pikes and air rifles. “Not another word, Hilanska!”
“She’s just a child, practically. Two-Shot’s companion. A savage.”
“And a sorcerer?”
“A Bone-eye. A savage magician of some kind. Negligible powers.”
“Kill her.”
Taniel snarled wordlessly. He felt a pike blade catch his shoulder, tearing through his skin and flesh as he forced his way through the circle of Prielight Guards. One of the guards threw himself in front of Taniel. Barely even slowing down, Taniel snatched the guard by the throat and crushed his windpipe.
Hilanska turned to run, but he was too slow. Taniel leapt after him, fingers grasping, ready to crush the traitor’s skull between his palms.
And he would have, had Kresimir not stepped between them.
The god raised a hand, and Taniel felt that same sluggish weight fall upon him.
He tore through it, batting away Kresimir’s hand. His body didn’t feel like it was his own, and he gave in to the rage flowing through him.
Taniel expected his fists to strike steel when he touched the flesh of the god. Instead, Kresimir crumpled before him, crying out. Taniel’s knuckles cracked hard against Kresimir’s jaw, then his face. Kresimir’s mask clattered to the ground, and Taniel found himself straddling the god, pounding away.
Kresimir’s nose was a fountain of blood, and his teeth gave way to the beating.
Taniel’s fingers curled around the god’s throat when the Prielights pulled him away. He flailed about with his fists, sending several of the Prielights to the floor before he himself was beaten down.
“Don’t kill him!” Kresimir shrieked, scrambling to get to his feet. His face was crimson, his white robes soaked with blood. “Don’t kill him,” he said again. Kresimir returned the mask to his face and backed slowly away from Taniel. “Hang him high. I want the world to see what becomes of a man who thought he could kill God.”
The Prielights dragged Taniel across the hall. He kicked and screamed, throwing what punches he could. As he was pulled out of the hall, he could hear Kresimir speaking once again to Hilanska:
“Tomorrow I burn the Adran army.”
“Are you sure, my lord? What about Adom?”
“He will burn with the rest.”
Adamat spent the night in the arms of his wife and rose early to make his way to the riverfront.
It was only about seven o’clock, but a thin crowd had already turned out. By the blaze of the sun rising in the east over the abandoned Skyline Palace, Adamat could tell it would be a beautiful day. Few clouds hung above him. The sky was blue and gold.
He found a spot where the crumbling wall of the old city overlooked the Ad River as it came into Adopest but before it hooked around the bend and met up with the Adsea. Adamat sat on the wall and dangled his feet over the edge, eating a meat pie he’d bought from a vendor in the street. He still felt burdened by the loss of Josep. Perhaps Faye was right – the other children needed him now. He had to somehow protect them from this new threat.
He hoped that Josep would forgive him.
No sign of ships on the river to the north. Perhaps Ricard had oversold it. Surely the Trading Company merchantmen couldn’t sail all the way down the Ad River so quickly?
Yet still he waited. Ricard had not given an estimate of when Lord Claremonte’s ships would arrive, and Adamat did not want to miss it. He had no plans, no grand schemes to throw Lord Claremonte from his goals. Adamat could only watch. Something told him that this day would be one to live in his mind forever.
By eleven o’clock, the crowd had thickened to the point that carriages could no longer navigate the streets. Noise filled the air as people shouted among themselves. No one really seemed to know what was going on. Their only information came from the newspaper article that Ricard had run the night before.
There was certainly excitement in the streets, and the police were out in full force. More than one old veteran wore faded Adran blues and sported a fifty-year-old musket on his shoulder. Other men had brought their whole families out and were picnicking on the old city wall. Pastry bakers and meat pie vendors were hawking their snacks to the crowd.
Adamat bought a newspaper from a newsie lad and perused Ricard’s front-page article. It was a rousing speech that called the people out to defend their city against the oppressions of foreign invasion and tyranny. Adamat lowered the newspaper to watch a pair of children splashing in the muddy water of the Ad like it was a carnival day.
He flipped through the newspaper while he waited for Claremonte’s ships. Unsubstantiated rumors out of Kez that Field Marshal Tamas was still alive. Fresh news from Deliv that an Adran army was besieging one of their cities – preposterous.
The slow rise of shouts throughout the throng brought Adamat’s nose out of his newspaper.
Ships on the horizon.
They began as white dots slowly creeping down the river and steadily drew closer as the afternoon went on. They were moving at an almost reckless pace, especially for merchantmen navigating a freshwater river. They came on at full sail with the current, the wind at their backs.
It was two o’clock before the ships finally reached Adopest. Adamat had never sailed on an oceangoing vessel and had only been to ocean port cities a handful of times in his life. Most of his knowledge of them came from books, but he could tell the lead vessel was a fourth-rate ship of the line, and he counted twenty-three gun ports on just one side. It seemed to be the biggest of the ships, and it waved the green-and-white-striped flag, in the center of which was a laurel wreath, that was the emblem of the Brudania-Gurla Trading Company.
The ships furled their sails and drifted downriver. Adamat could see sailors rushing about the deck, and Brudanian infantry staring passively back at the crowd awaiting them in Adopest. The gun ports were open.
If Claremonte was invading, his ships could destroy most of the city without even disembarking crews and soldiers.
There was no motion among the longboats. The infantry seemed content to stand on the ships and do nothing, and the sailors were…
Adamat watched them carefully. What was going on? He cursed his limited knowledge of seafaring. Crossbeams were lowered, sails unhooked and stowed, and very soon it dawned on Adamat that they were taking down the mast.
He didn’t even know that ships could
do
that. It made sense, though. While the bridges along the northern Ad had been replaced for the passage of masted ships, the ones in downtown Adopest had not. If Claremonte wanted to get his fleet onto the Adsea, where it would be most effective, he’d have to drop the masts completely, float down the river, and reinstall them on the open water.
Adamat desperately wanted to do something. This immense crowd of people seemed to have no direction. Like him, they simply watched while the masts were lowered. What more could they do? The ships sat at anchor out in the river, and they were heavily armed. It would have taken the Adran army to stop them.
He was surprised at how quickly the masts were removed, and Adamat gave up his seat on the edge of the wall to walk with the ships as the anchors were raised and they headed downriver.
He was even more surprised when the ships weighed anchor once more between the bridges, coming to stop just a half mile from the outlet to the Adsea.
They’d stopped, he noted, next to the towering Kresim Cathedral in the new city.
Adamat descended the old city wall and fought his way through the throng to cross the bridge and head toward the Kresim Cathedral. He cast his gaze toward the ships every so often, but nothing had changed. Still a flurry of activity on board. Still no sign of lowering the longboats or firing the cannons.
Between the Kresim Cathedral and the Ad River was an amphitheater where the Diocels of the Church could address significant crowds. By the time Adamat reached it, the amphitheater was overflowing with people trying to get a better look at the tall ships.
It was a death trap. Adamat cursed everyone inside that amphitheater for their stupidity. Hundreds would die if Claremonte opened up with a single salvo.
Adamat thought he spied a familiar face nearby, and muscled his way toward the river. There was Ricard, surrounded by his assistants and the other union bosses, Fell at his side.
“Ricard, what the pit is going on?” Adamat demanded.
“No idea,” Ricard said. He seemed just as confused as the rest of the crowd, and regarded the ship with caution. “I’ve got my boys out in force, armed to the teeth with whatever they could find, but if Claremonte opens fire, there’s not a damn thing we can do about it. We can only stop him if he tries to come ashore.”
“And who would be stupid enough to do that?” Adamat asked.
“Look,” one of the union bosses said, “they’re lowering a longboat.”
Adamat peered toward the ship. Sailors scurried about the deck, and suddenly a longboat swung out and was lowered into the river. A rope ladder was dropped, and men began to descend onto it.
“Give me a looking glass,” Adamat said. Fell handed him hers.
He found the longboat and examined it for a few moments. There were a half-dozen Brudanian soldiers. Some rowers. A few men in top hats.
Adamat stopped and focused on one face in particular.
“He’s here,” Adamat said. “In the longboat.”
“Who?”
“Claremonte.”
“How the pit would you know?”
“I saw his likeness once. A small portrait at a Trading Company stock house, back before he rose to be head of the company.”
“Let him come, the bastard,” Ricard said. “We’ll be ready for him.”
Claremonte looked anything but worried. He laughed at something one of the rowers said, then clapped a soldier on the back. He was a striking man, with high cheekbones that contrasted with a body grown soft with age and wealth. His eyes were alive and happy, nothing like his late lackey, Lord Vetas.
The longboat rowed away from the ship, Lord Claremonte standing in the bow like a commander leading the invasion of a foreign land.
Which, unless Adamat was completely wrong, was what he was.
But where were his men? Why would he come to land practically alone, into the teeth of a waiting mob who’d been told he was coming to take their homes from them?
The longboat stopped about some distance from the shore and threw down an anchor. Lord Claremonte stood up straight, facing the amphitheater, and spread his hands.
“Citizens of Adopest,” he began, a smile on his face, the words booming inhumanly across the river.
