The Crimson Campaign

A man crossed the marble floor toward them. He wore a white smoking jacket, a cigar clenched between his teeth. He looked to be about forty years old, with a hairline receding well past the middle of his head. He wore a long beard in the Fatrastan style, and the grin on his face reached his ears and even touched his eyes.

“Taniel Two-Shot,” the man said, holding out his hand. “Ricard Tumblar. I’m a great admirer of yours.”

Taniel took his hand with hesitation.

“Mr. Tumblar.”

“Mister? Bah, call me Ricard. I’m at your service. And this must be your ever-present companion. The Dynize. My lady?” Ricard swept into a deep bow and took Ka-poel’s hand in his, bending to kiss it gently. Despite his forward nature, he eyed her as one might something pretty but far from tame, something that might bite at any moment.

Ka-poel didn’t seem to know how to react to this.

“I’d heard you were a handsome woman,” Ricard said, “but the stories didn’t do you justice.” He broke away from them and crossed to the bar. “Drink?”

“What do you have?” Taniel felt his mood brighten a little.

“Anything,” Ricard said.

Taniel doubted that. “Fatrastan ale, then.”

Ricard nodded to the barman. “Two, please. For the lady?”

Ka-poel flashed three fingers.

“Make that three,” Ricard said to the barman. A moment later, he handed Taniel a mug.

“Son of a bitch,” Taniel said after a sip. “You really do have Fatrastan ale.”

“I did say anything. Can we take a seat?”

He led them toward the far end of the room. Taniel blamed his mala-addled mind for not noticing earlier that they weren’t alone. A dozen men and half again as many women lounged on divans, drinking and smoking, talking quietly among themselves.

Ricard spoke as they approached the group. “Oh, I had a question for you, Taniel. How much black powder does the army use?”

Taniel rubbed his eyes. His head hurt, and he didn’t come here to meet Ricard’s cronies. “Quite a lot, I’d imagine. I’m not a quartermaster. Why do you ask?”

“Been getting more and more powder orders from the General Staff,” Ricard said, waving his hand like it was a trifle. “I just thought it strange. It almost seems as if their requisitions double every week. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure.”

The talking died down when Taniel reached the group at the end of the room, and he felt suddenly uncomfortable.

“I thought this was going to be a private meeting,” Taniel said quietly, stopping Ricard with a hand to his arm.

Ricard didn’t even glance down at the hand Taniel laid on him. “Give me a moment to make introductions and we’ll get down to business.”

He went around the room, giving names that Taniel immediately forgot, and titles that Taniel took no great note of. These men and women were the heads of the various factions within the unions: bakers, steelworkers, millers, ironsmiths, blacksmiths, and goldsmiths.

True to his word, when the introductions were finished, Ricard led them toward a quiet corner of the vast room, where they were joined by just one other woman. She was one of the first Ricard had introduced, and Taniel couldn’t remember her name.

“Cigarette?” Ricard offered as they took their seats. A man in a jacket matching the barman’s brought them a silver tray lined with cigarettes, cigars, and pipes. Taniel noticed a mala pipe among the recreation. His fingers twitched to take it, but he fought down the urge and waved away the servant.

“Your secretary said you wanted to meet with me,” Taniel said, realizing with a start that Fell had disappeared. “She didn’t say why. I’d like to know.”

“I have a proposition.”

Taniel looked at the woman again. She was older, with an air of disdain particular to the very wealthy. What was her name? And who did she represent? The bakers? No. Goldsmiths?

“I’m not interested,” Taniel said.

“I haven’t even told you what it is,” Ricard said.

“Look,” Taniel said. “I came because your undersecretary made it clear that she’d make me come even if I didn’t want to. I’ve been polite. I’ve come. Now I’d like to go.” He stood.

“Is this what you brought me here for, Ricard?” the woman said, looking down her nose at Taniel. “To see a mala-drunk soldier piss on your hospitality? I fear for this country, Ricard. We’ve handed it over to the uneducated soldiers. They don’t know anything but vice and killing.”

Taniel clenched his fists and felt his lip curl. “You don’t know me, madam. You don’t know who the pit I am or what I’ve seen. Don’t pretend to understand soldiers when you’ve never looked into another man’s eyes and seen that one of you would die.”

Ricard leaned back on his divan and relit his cigar with a matchstick. He had the air of a man at the boxing ring. Had he expected this?

The woman fairly bristled. “I know soldiers,” she said. “Sick, stupid brutes. You rape and steal, and you kill when you can’t do that. I’ve known many soldiers and I don’t have to kill a man to know you’re nothing more than a churlish brigand in a uniform.”

Ricard sighed. “Please, Cheris, not now.”