The Crimson Campaign

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.