Free The Crimson Campaign by Brian McClellan

especially not in such a public way. The key is that, like the governors, this new First Minister of the People will be replaced every three years. We’ve set the mechanism in place. It just needs to be carried out.”
    Taniel could easily tell where this was going. “And you intend to put yourself forward as a candidate.”
    “Of course.”
    “Why?”
    Ricard sucked hard on his cigar and let the smoke curl out through his nostrils. It reminded Taniel of the smoke of his mala pipe. He could feel the lure of that blissful smoke pulling at him.
    “The First Minister of the People will have little power of his own, but he’ll have the eyes of all the Nine directed at him. His name will go down in the history books forever.” Ricard sighed. “I don’t have any children. I’ve been left by” – he stopped to count – “six wives, and deserved it every time. All I have left is my name. And I want it taught to every Adran schoolchild for the rest of time.”
    Taniel drained the last of his ale. The dregs of the hops at the bottom of the glass were bitter. It reminded him of Fatrasta, of hunting down Kez Privileged in the wilds. “Where do I fit into all of this? I’m just a soldier who killed a god that no one believes even returned.”
    “You?” Ricard threw his head back and laughed. Taniel didn’t see what was so funny.
    “I’m sorry,” Ricard said as he wiped his eyes. “You’re Taniel Two-Shot! You’re the hero of two continents. A soldier who’s killed more Privileged than any man in the history of the Nine. The way the newspapers tell it, you held Shouldercrown Fortress against half a million Kez all by yourself.”
    “Wasn’t just me,” Taniel muttered, thinking of the men and women he’d watched die on that mountain.
    “But the common people think so. They adore you. They love you more than they love Tamas, and he’s been the darling of Adro since he single-handedly saved the Gurlish Campaign decades ago.”
    “So what do you want from me? A sponsorship?”
    “Pit, no,” Ricard said, passing his empty ale mug to the barkeep. “I want you to be my Second Minister. You’ll be one of the most famous men in the world.”

CHAPTER
    7

    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