The Crimson Campaign (26 page)
“Blood?” Taniel asked, his throat dry.
She nodded.
“Kresimir’s blood?”
Another nod.
“I’ll never get close enough.”
She mouthed a word.
Try.
“You want me to throw myself at a god, hoping I can draw his blood?”
Ka-poel swung her legs around to the edge of the bed. She took the bayonet out of his hands and set it on the bedside table. She lowered herself into his lap, legs straddling his own.
“Pole, I don’t…”
She put a finger to his lips. He remembered the mala den back in Adopest. With her pressed firmly against him in the hammock, her face so close. He shuddered.
Ka-poel put two fingers to her lips, then pushed them against his forehead. She mouthed a word.
It wasn’t spoken, but still seemed to echo in his mind.
Sleep.
Sleep.
He felt his back hit the bed and his eyelids shut, suddenly weighty as millstones.
Sleep.
“Why are you courting Lady Winceslav?” Nila asked.
The centerpiece of the dining room of Lord Vetas’s city manor was a long ironwood table that could seat sixteen. Vetas sat at the head of the table, his plate empty, a glass of red wine in his right hand, his left lying flat on the table with fingers spread. Nila sat on his right. Jakob sat on his left, and Faye sat beside Nila.
When Nila was a girl, she used to dream of attending fine dinner parties, admiring her reflection in the polished silverware and drinking from a wineglass rimmed with gold. She never imagined that dream would turn into a nightmare.
For ten days now they’d been eating with Vetas every evening. Despite the normal bustle and the number of men around the house – upward of sixty some days – dinnertime was always quiet. He used the time to instruct Nila in proper dining etiquette, and to shower Jakob with compliments, praise, and gifts. Nila hated every minute of it. Vetas filled every moment with mundane chatter, going on with some instruction or asking them all questions about themselves.
Nila knew better than to take this as some kind of friendliness. Vetas was prying. Finding out new things about them and filing them away in that insidious mind of his.
He never let anything slip about himself, of course. He was a master at deflecting questions. Which was why Nila was surprised when he answered hers.
“Lady Winceslav,” he said, “owns the Wings of Adom mercenary company. You’ve heard of them, I trust?”
“Everyone has,” Nila said. She glanced at Faye. The housewife sat stiff in her chair, staring at the empty place setting beside Jakob. Each of the last ten nights, that place had been occupied by her son, Josep, a boy of fifteen or sixteen, who was missing the ring finger of his right hand. Tonight that chair was empty.
“Most everyone, yes,” Vetas said. “Right now they are employed against the Kez army. I’d like to employ them elsewhere.”
Nila moved the food around on her porcelain plate. She didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to look at Vetas’s soulless face anymore. “And that’s it? They’re mercenaries. Can’t you just… hire them?”
“That’s it,” Vetas said. He gave her a tight smile.
That wasn’t it, of course. There was some other reason why he was courting the Lady. Perhaps he wanted to hire the mercenaries as well, but his plans couldn’t be that simple. Nila didn’t care. She just wanted dinner to be over. It wouldn’t be, though. Not until Vetas said it was.
“You want to use her,” Nila said.
“Hmm?” Vetas lifted his wineglass to his lips.
“For whatever all this is about.” Nila gestured down the table. Aside from the place settings here at one end, the table was covered with papers – correspondence, receipts, lists; everything involved with Lord Vetas’s affairs. She’d read a few, when she’d gotten the chance. None of them seemed to mean anything.
Vetas smiled at Jakob. “The Lady Winceslav is an eligible widow and a very intelligent woman. She’d make a wonderful wife.”
“A wife?” The word came out in a burst of laughter. Nila covered her mouth, petrified at the outburst.
“Yes,” Vetas said, as if he’d not heard the disbelief in her voice. “A wife.” He leaned toward Jakob. “You understand that every lord needs a good wife, and it’s important to marry someone with connections.”
“Yes, Uncle Vetas.”
“Good child.”
“Uncle Vetas, I thought that the nobility of Adro no longer existed.”
Vetas gave the boy a nod. “The nobility of Adro is in hiding, my boy. Remember, you’re heir to the crown. Someday the nobility will return, and when it does, you will be at their head.”
Nila ceased moving the fork around her plate. This was the first she’d heard Vetas say anything about the nobility. She’d always assumed that Jakob, in his capacity as next in line for the crown, fit into Vetas’s plans somehow, but he’d never spoken of it.
She waited for Vetas to go on. Instead, Vetas took a sip of his wine.
Faye was still staring at the empty place setting across from her. She’d begun to rock back and forth slightly, her mouth hanging open, her forehead wrinkled.
“You’re just using everyone,” Nila said. “Me. Jakob. Lady Winceslav.”
What is your plan?
Nila wanted to shout.
Why are you in Adopest?
Vetas looked slightly surprised. “Of course I am. That’s what nobles do. But,” he said, reaching over and patting Jakob affectionately on one hand, “it’s all for your protection. The duty of the nobility is to protect the people, no matter what kind of distasteful things they have to do.”
Nila slammed her hand down on the table, making Jakob jump. “Don’t!” she said. She gripped the lip of the table to keep herself from shaking.
“Don’t what?” Vetas asked innocently.
“Nila,” Jakob said, “why are you shouting at Uncle Vetas?”
Vetas gave Nila that tight smile again.
She would have snatched up her knife and leapt at Vetas then and there if Faye hadn’t spoken.
“Where is my son?”
Vetas’s fingers drummed once on the table. His attention shifted from Nila to Faye. “Nila,” he said without looking at her, “I think that you should take Jakob to his room, now.”
“Isn’t there dessert, Uncle Vetas?” Jakob asked.
“Of course, my child. I’ll have some brought up to you. Run along.”
Nila still wanted to grab that knife and leap at him. She waited, contemplating, wondering if she could move fast enough. “Jakob,” she said, getting up from her chair and holding out her hand. “Come along.”
She took Jakob upstairs and put him in his room, helping him get out a number of toys before going into her own room and rushing out into the hallway, stepping carefully to avoid the creakiest boards, until she reached the servants’ stairs that descended into the kitchens. She descended halfway down the stairs and pressed her ear to the wall.
“… was burned down,” Vetas was saying calmly, his voice muddled through the plaster. “There were eleven graves. Seems the fire took them all in their beds. The townspeople claimed there was nothing but bone and ash left.”
A loud sob startled Nila. It was followed by the low sound of crying. Faye.
Vetas went on as if he hadn’t noticed Faye’s reaction. “I won’t have time to go up and investigate it myself, but it seems as if your children are all dead.”
“Where is my son?” Faye demanded. The crying dried up, followed by a few sniffs.
“I’ve also received reliable word that your husband has been imprisoned by Tamas. It seems that he confessed to being blackmailed, and the field marshal plans on having him executed for treason.” Vetas’s voice droned on, as if he were talking about the weather. “My contacts within Sablethorn are few enough, but I should have better information within a week or so.”
“Where” – the table rattled as if someone had pounded it with a fist – “is my son?”
Vetas said, “With your husband arrested, you and your son are of no use to me anymore. I’ll keep you around for another couple of weeks, but I’ve sold your son to the Kez. He’ll be smuggled —”
There was a sudden scream and then a crash. The walls rattled once, and then there was silence. Nila held her breath. Had Faye attacked Vetas? Had she succeeded?
The silence dragged on. Nila thought she could hear the labored sound of heavy breathing coming from the dining room.
“That,” Vetas said, “was not very smart.” The dining room door opened, and Vetas spoke to one of his men. “Take her downstairs. I’ll join you shortly.”
Heavy footsteps entered the dining room. The sound of a struggle resumed.
“I’ll kill you, bastard!” Faye said. “I’ll take your eyes! I’ll take your tongue! There won’t be anything left when I’m done!” A slew of curses and screams followed Faye out of the dining room and soon became muffled as she was carried into the basement.
Nila listened for several minutes before hearing Vetas leave the dining room. His soft, measured footfalls traveled down the hall, and the basement door opened. Nila counted to one hundred before she descended the servants’ stairs into the kitchen.
She looked around quickly. The kitchen had been rearranged since she was last here. She brought a stool over to the washbasin and got on it, rummaging around in the high cupboards. Nothing. She swore under her breath and got back down. There, under the sink. Back in reach of children.
She snatched the large jar of lye and set it on the kitchen table. It didn’t take long to find an empty spice pot. She blew the leaves of spices out of the bottom and poured half a cup of lye into it.
“What are you doing?”
Nila nearly dropped the lye jar. She looked up.
Privileged Dourford stood in the doorway. His height and Privileged’s gloves made him imposing, and all the house staff knew his temper.
“Just getting some lye, my lord,” Nila said.
“For what?”
“Some of the sauce got on my sleeve from dinner.” She pinched one sleeve of her dress, hoping he wouldn’t actually look closely. “I want to wash it before it stains.”
“I thought Lord Vetas made it clear you’re not to be doing any of the laundry anymore.”
“It’s just a small stain, my lord.” Nila smiled in a way she hoped would be shy and tucked her shoulders forward, squeezing her breasts together to accent her cleavage. “I didn’t want to bother any of the house staff.”
Dourford’s eyes lingered on her bust. “All right. But make sure that boy is asleep. That damned harpy is going to get what’s coming to her tonight, and it’ll be hard to keep her quiet.” Dourford rummaged in the cupboards until he found half a loaf of bread and left the room, chewing thoughtfully.
Nila put the large lye jar back and tucked the spice pot into her dress pocket. She returned to her room, wondering how hard it would be to poison both Vetas and Dourford at the same time.
Adamat was wary as his hackney cab pulled onto the long suburban street that led to his house.
He hadn’t been there for almost two months – not since the day he told Vetas that Field Marshal Tamas was on his way to arrest Arch-Diocel Charlemund. Adamat had been forced to trick Vetas and still almost gotten Tamas killed. Vetas would want Adamat back – either dead or alive.
Adamat was willing to bet that Vetas was having the house watched.
He kept an eye on the street on the approach to the house. No suspicious men, no figures lurking in windows with an undue interest in his home. Foot traffic was minimal in this part of town, just a family heading to the market and a single old man strolling briskly in the sun.
The carriage rolled to a stop three houses down from his own. Adamat checked the snub-nosed pistol in his pocket. Loaded and primed.
He flipped the collar of his jacket up around his face, pulled his hat low, and stepped into the street. Handing a few krana to the driver, Adamat headed warily toward his house, his cane held firmly in one hand.
The shutters were closed, the blinds drawn as he’d left them. Adamat searched the front of the house for any sign that things had been touched or tampered with. Nothing.
Adamat opened the gate to the alleyway between houses and went back to his garden. Another short inspection showed him nothing out of order. He waited for several minutes, examining the house again and again. No new scratches on the lock, no footprints in the garden.
It slowly began to dawn on him that perhaps he wasn’t as important to Vetas as he thought. Lord Vetas was playing some kind of larger game on behalf of his master, Lord Claremonte. Did Adamat matter anymore? After all, as far as Vetas knew, Tamas had had Adamat quietly executed for treason. What if Vetas had written Adamat off entirely? Maybe Faye and Josep were already dead, buried in a shallow grave somewhere.
Adamat clenched and unclenched his fists. No. He couldn’t think like that. Faye was alive. Vetas still held her. And Adamat was going to get her back.
Adamat unlocked the back door and stepped into the house. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The rooms were warm and stuffy with the windows closed up, but it still smelled like old wood, books, dust, and a slight hint of lavender from the incense Faye used to burn. He drew his pistol and carefully searched each of the rooms.