The Crimson Campaign полностью

“I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten all day.”

“I did.”

“I talked to Fanish.”

She was lying to him, and now she knew that he knew. “Oh.”

“You have to keep up your strength.”

“Why?” She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

“For the children. For me. For yourself.”

Faye didn’t say anything. Adamat could see tears rolling down her cheeks, her eyes squeezed closed. He put a hand gently on her arm. Didn’t she know she was safe now? Couldn’t she tell that the children needed her more than ever? That he needed her?

“I’m going to find Josep,” he said.

Her eyes opened. “You know where he is?”

“I have a lead.”

“What is it?”

Adamat patted her arm and stood. “Nothing to worry about. I’ll be back late tonight, though.”

There was a knock on the door downstairs, and Faye shifted around in the bed, her movements jerking, her eyes wide and wild.

“It’s just SouSmith,” Adamat said, trying to calm her. “He’s going with me.”

“What is this lead? Where is my boy?” Faye demanded.

“It’s nothing to — ”

She grabbed him by the arm, her grip vice-like. “Tell me.”

Adamat sank back onto the bed. He didn’t want to worry her, but it seemed it couldn’t be helped. “Vetas sold him to Kez slavers. Supposedly, Josep is a powder mage. I’m going to go meet with the slavers and try to get him back.”

“No,” Faye said, surprising Adamat with the force of the word. “You’ll do no such thing. You’ve already scraped through so much danger. I’ll not wait here for word of your death.”

“I’ve dealt with worse than slavers,” Adamat said.

“I know the type of men Vetas did… business with.” Faye spat the word. There was panic in her eyes. Adamat could see that her desire to get her son back was warring with the need to protect her husband and her remaining children.

“I have to get Josep back. I won’t leave him to the Kez.”

Faye squeezed his arm tighter. “Be careful.”

“I will.” Adamat extricated himself from Faye’s grip as gently as he could. Tears were streaming down her face as he left the room and headed down the stairs. SouSmith stood in the front hall, coat buttoned tight, smiling at the children playing in the living room.

The boxer nodded to Adamat. “Ready?”

“Yes.” Adamat glanced up the stairs to his bedroom and took his cane from beside the door. “Fanish, check on your mother in a half hour or so.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Good girl. SouSmith, let’s go.”

“Everything OK?” SouSmith asked as they took a hackney cab away from Adamat’s home. The evening air was warm and windy. Adamat decided there would be a storm tomorrow.

“Fine,” Adamat said.

SouSmith didn’t seem to believe him, cocking an eyebrow.

“Fine!” Adamat said, louder.

SouSmith nodded to himself and settled against the side of the hackney cab.

Adamat looked out the window and watched the people going about their nightly errands. There was a small boy on the corner, trying to sell the last of his newspapers, and an older couple out for a stroll before it turned dark. Adamat wondered if they had any inkling of what was going on in their city. The chaos. The war.

He wondered if they cared.

Night was falling when the hackney cab dropped Adamat and SouSmith off two blocks from the dockside pub called The Salty Maiden. Adamat could see the beaten sign, rocking in the wind from its post. What a stupid name. The Adsea wasn’t salt water.

He checked the snub-nosed pistols in his pocket while SouSmith did the same. The boxer frowned during their preperations, not looking at Adamat.

“Sorry,” Adamat said when he was ready to go.

“Eh?”

“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” Adamat said. “You’re a good man. A good friend, for coming with me to do this. It could be very dangerous.”

SouSmith grunted. “You still paying me, ain’t you?”

“Yes.”

The boxer nodded, as if it were a matter of course that he’d come with, but his frown dissolved.

They headed toward the pub, and Adamat listened to the click of his cane on the cobbles, then on the wood as they entered the boardwalk. This pub was out on the pier — a bad location. Only one exit, though no doubt smugglers had a boat hidden underneath for a quick getaway.

Not the ideal place to confront slavers.

Adamat pushed the door open and was met with silence.

A half-dozen sailors lounged around the dimly lit, one-room building. Not a mean-looking lot. Most of them were young men in their prime wearing white cotton shirts, open at the chest, and knee-length trousers. They all blinked at Adamat as if he were a three-eyed fish.

Acting inconspicuous was out of the question.

Adamat sidled up to the bar, while SouSmith leaned up against the door frame, taking in the sailors with his piggish eyes. Adamat slid a fifty-krana note across the bar. “I’m looking for Doles,” he said.

The barkeep’s expression didn’t change. “I’m Doles. What’ll you have?”

“Brudanian whiskey, if you have it,” he said.