The Crimson Campaign

“No. Ricard thought that perhaps you’d like some time to recover.”

So Taniel’s entreaties to keep his father in the dark had done some good.

“More like he’s worried that Tamas will send for me the minute he knows I’m not laid out.”

“That too,” Fell admitted.

“Of course.” Taniel fell back into his hammock and sighed. He felt tired and used. What was he, other than a tool for others? “That old bastard Tamas — ”

He was cut off by the sound of a door upstairs banging open. The stairs into the den shook, and a young man burst into the room. Fell got to her feet.

“What is it?” she said.

The messenger looked around wildly at the den. His chest heaved from hard running. “Ricard wants you at the People’s Court immediately.”

Fell crumpled up the empty cashew bag and tossed it to the floor. “What has happened?”

The messenger looked at Taniel, then at Ka-poel, and back to Fell. He seemed on the verge of collapse.

“We’ve word from Budwiel. The city has fallen, put to the torch. Field Marshal Tamas is dead.”

Nila sat beside the window, the curtains only slightly parted, and watched the world stroll by in top hats and coats, canes clicking on the cobbles, women tipping their bonnets back to enjoy the sun on their faces. The summer heat bore down on Adro, but no one seemed to notice. The weather was far too nice to care.

She wished she was out there enjoying it. Her room was too stuffy, and Vetas’s men had nailed shut all the windows in the house. The air was thick and humid, stifling, and moment to moment she felt as if she was going to faint. Vetas had sent her on errands just yesterday, and the freedom of the sun on her face had felt so wonderful she’d almost left the city, forgetting Vetas and Jakob and all the terrible memories of the last few months.

Her heart leapt into her throat at the sound of the bedroom door opening, but she forced herself not to react outwardly. It wasn’t Vetas. He came in from the hallway. Not from the door to the nursery, where Jakob played quietly with a small army of wooden horses and complained frequently about the warmth.

“Nila,” a voice said. “You must get dressed.”

Nila glanced at the dress laid out on her bed. One of Vetas’s goons had brought it up for her an hour ago. It was a long chemise dress of white muslin with a high waistline. The trim was crimson, giving it a flair of color at the hem and the bust, and the ends of the short sleeves. It looked incredibly comfortable, and much cooler than the evening dress he’d told her to wear during her errands yesterday.

There was a silver chain on her bedside table with a single pearl the size of a musket ball, and in a box a pair of new black knee-high boots that she could tell with a glance would fit her perfectly. Three more outfits, each more expensive than the last, hung in the closet.

Presents from Lord Vetas. She’d never owned such fine clothing. The dress was plain enough, nothing gaudy, but the lines were absolutely perfect. A glance inside the hem had shown her the initials D.H. — Madame Dellehart, the finest seamstress in Adopest. The dress cost more than any regular laundress would earn in a year.

“Nila,” the voice insisted. “Get dressed.”

The expensive clothes and the jewelry made Nila sick to her stomach. She might as well accept presents from a demon as from Lord Vetas. She knew they came with a price.

“I’m not going to,” Nila said.

Footsteps creaked across the floorboards. Faye knelt in front of Nila and took her hand.

They’d been cooped up in this manor together for six days and Nila still didn’t know much about the woman. She knew that Faye’s son was being held as a prisoner in the basement, and that she had other children elsewhere, also prisoners of Lord Vetas. She also knew that Faye would kill Vetas, given the opportunity.

At least, she’d try. Nila was beginning to wonder whether Vetas could be killed. He didn’t seem human; he barely ate, he didn’t sleep, and he didn’t get drunk no matter how much wine he consumed.

Faye tugged at Nila’s hand. “Up,” she said. “Get dressed.”

“You’re not my mother,” Nila said. The words came out as a snarl.

“She’d tell you the same thing if she were here.”

Nila leaned forward. “She’s dead. I never knew her, and neither did you. Maybe she’d tell me to break this window and cut my own wrists rather than give in to Vetas’s demands.”

Faye stood up. The kindly entreaty written across her face seemed to disappear and her expression hardened. “Maybe,” she said. “If so, she was a fool.” Faye began to pace the room.